Morte pauses and allows The Nameless One to overtake him.  Then he follows behind.

He can ignore the sting unless it begins to impede his motion. He keeps up his run, moving in the direction of greater density of people, trying to put several blocks between him and the mortuary, glancing behind him for Morte every after every turn he makes.

Morte seems fully able to match The Nameless One for speed, and lets slip no sound betraying effort or exertion.  He occasionally slows down to do a quick 360 degree spin, then speeds up to close the gap between them.

Once they've been moving 5 minutes or so, he slows his pace and works to control his breathing.  He feels his heart rate pounding with the effort.

His plan is to walk unobtrusively for a few blocks and then enter the first alley he encounters that appears deserted.

This one goes back maybe sixty yards and ends in a brick wall.

One side is the solid stone wall of a building.  The other is more like a series of wooden shacks, stacked end to end with occasional small gaps between them. 

There are some barrels stacked along the stone wall, and the alley looks wide enough to just barely accommodate The Nameless One standing with his arms spread, without touching either side.

He discards his robe behind the barrels and beckons Morte to join him, out of sight.

“All right. Health check. Are you injured? Fatigued?”

He reaches his hand behind his back and begins to feel gingerly for the place he was stung.

“My legs are a bit sore from all the running, but the fresh air’s sure a nice change of scene.”

He brings his hand back to find it wet with blood, though he felt no pain from the touch.

He spits into his hand and returns it behind his back, trying to size the contours of the wound.  He turns to the barrels to see if they happen to contain potable water.

“I am going to interpret that to mean you are less tired than I am.  How far were we followed?”

"That'll leave a scar.  Err.  I mean, thanks for taking the hit, chief."

And then, a few moments later. “Hold up.  You’ve got a regular sermon written on you.  Have you seen your backside?”

He attempts to look but can make out only the corner of a long paragraph of text near his hips from around his shoulder.  “Tattoos?”

“I’ll say.  Someone has given you a full list of instructions.   At least I think it’s written to you.  Hold still.  It's small.  

It says:

"I know you’re feeling lost and afraid right now, but you need to keep your head about you or else we’ll be halfway up the Styx with no paddle.  First things first, find your journal.  You'll see that your fingers remember how to open it, even if your mind has forgotten.  And if all else fails, find Pharod.  There's a lot that isn’t safe to be written here, but here’s the gist.  First, you are immortal.  No power I know of can fully destroy your body.  Second, while you need not fear death, nevertheless you are not safe.  You are being hunted by an enemy that can reliably find you and cause you immense harm.  Beware of shadows.  There are fates worse than death.  Sleep in no place beyond one day’s time.  Compel honesty where you can.  Move swiftly, and good luck."

"Well. That's something."

Immortal.

That's…That's without a doubt the wildest yarn he has ever heard.

So what is the purpose of that being written in a tattoo?  On his own backside.

He twists his neck, straining to see more of his lower back, and he confirms that the visible words match what Morte said.

Immortal?

He brings his hand back to where he felt the blood.  He moves his fingers more aggressively now, attempting to dig fingernails into flesh, to push until he feels pain and locates the wound.

But there is nothing.

Immortal.

Could he really have escaped death?  When all of his memories attest to a man desperately fixated on survival, paranoid and cautious and ruthless?

And can it be proven? Without intentionally taking his own life?

 And if so, the fact that the message exists at all is also hugely suggestive.

“The words sounds like they could have come from me… Words I might have chosen, I mean, though I do not remember having them inked. The Styx line feels off, but perhaps off in the sense that it might contain a hidden meaning. 

And it does imply that whatever happened to me was not unprecedented, or at least not unpredicted.”

He raises a hand to his chin and gazes at the ground.

"And the positioning of the tattoo.  Something I couldn’t find out about unless I had an ally with me, or was in a place of enough safety and leisure to see myself within a looking glass.”

“I am going to strip naked. I want you to tell me if there is any other text on my body.”

He drops his loincloth to the ground and steps out of it. He makes a thorough inspection of his own body from feet to shoulders, rotating each of his limbs sequentially.

The body as a whole is almost supernaturally well developed, maybe a wrestler or a circus strong man's body.  It is heavily scarred but has no current bruises or visible cuts. The forearms and chest appear to have suffered scores of attacks and injuries.

There are tattoos on the chest and upper arms, all of a single color, jet black, and invoking stylistic renditions of predators, felines and one image which his mind labels as “thunder bird” without eliciting any further details.  There are some runes that vaguely suggest the components of enchantment spells, though he's not confident that he was the one who designed or executed them.  

“I see the runes ‘here’ and ‘here’ and ‘here’.  Do you see anything else?”

“Let's see.  

“No other words.  There are some symbols in the left armpit and upper back, like the ones on the chest.”

"How likely do you think it is that I am immortal?"

"Uhhh. Truly immortal?

"Like you could take the Lady of Pain in an all out fight? Or walk the planes of fire and spit in Hades' face and walk away with your life?  Not a chance.  But you certainly look like someone who's been killed.  Lots of times."

He gives a half smile to that.

He picks up the loincloth and systematically examines it, looking for anything out of place. The note seems to suggest the journal is some kind of puzzle box. But if it were a thing of the Art, it might conceivably be even smaller than a pocketbook, perhaps a key tied to some trans-dimensional space.

He runs his finger over the bone studs of the belt. He lets his fingers absently move about each nodule, hoping to produce some effect.

But there is nothing. After a few minutes he gives up and puts the loincloth back on.

“I had hoped to find the journal spoken of on the tattoo. You told me that you have perfect recall. Tell me everything about the men and the cart. What they were wearing, what they were carrying. Tell me if any of them had any expensive pieces of clothing or jewelry since the last time you saw them. Tell me any items that were on the cart apart from the other bodies.”

Morte goes perfectly still for a few seconds.

"First man - grey haired, with whiskers. Had a cloth cap with a front brim, vest and sleeves.  No watch chain or kerchief.  Trousers dirty but without any tears.  Boots.  The vest I'd seen on him before, not the shirt.  Trousers hard to tell.

"Second man - wide brimmed hat, never seen before, but worn looking.  Age thirty-five to fifty.  Dark hair.  Bearded.  Thick cotton sleeves.  Tunic inside.  Trousers torn.  Partial tattoo visible on wrist.  No jewelry.  Looks like a roughneck.

"The cart had a bell.  I didn't see any gear on it."

"In the last thirty days, how many corpses did you witness being brought to the morgue and prepared in the manner I observed?"

"Twenty-six."

How many in the last six months?

"189. And a half"

"Explain."