rdfs:comment
| - Fingers, tongues, and hearts of those reanimated by necromancy were once difficult to come by. Unscrupulous apothecary owners would often resort to digging up the dead, slicing up the parts, and dumping the rest for the dogs to chew on. But any alchemist worth their salt will tell you the reanimated dead have a different smell to them: still unpleasant, but a sweeter, more sickly odor. My master also orders tests on each and every appendage that is bartered here to ensure any grave robbers are run out of wayrest.
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abstract
| - Fingers, tongues, and hearts of those reanimated by necromancy were once difficult to come by. Unscrupulous apothecary owners would often resort to digging up the dead, slicing up the parts, and dumping the rest for the dogs to chew on. But any alchemist worth their salt will tell you the reanimated dead have a different smell to them: still unpleasant, but a sweeter, more sickly odor. My master also orders tests on each and every appendage that is bartered here to ensure any grave robbers are run out of wayrest. But now, after the recent upheavals in Cyrodiil, our shelves sag under the weight of those slain by adventuring sorts and presented for payment: Expect to be disappointed at the reward received; the bottom has fallen out of the market. We have so many fingers, I've been arranging them in attractive piles based on nail length, color, and putrefaction. Mort flesh is already rotten, and our methods of preservation allow these appendages to last for months before turning skeletal, which decreases our need for further fingers. To ready mort flesh for sale, the chosen part of the corpse is severed, its quality noted, and it is place in a jar away from ingredients that might spoil or otherwise become contaminated. Careful handing is necessary, as every zombie I've had to dismember has been carrying a variety of unpleasant and potentially fatal diseases: Ataxia. Helljoint. Witbane. I've caught them all. So I am fortunate to work in a place where remedies are plentiful.
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