After my recent travails, I was relieved to bump into my old mucker Death. But my cheery greeting died on my lips - or where I used to keep my lips, anyway - when he gave me some frankly horrific news. He expects me to journey through the poos of the Ancient Dead. And to think I just had my boots Brasso'd.
Slight confusion. Apparently it's the POOLS of the Ancient Dead. That's much better - I suppose. But I'll tell you this for nothing: 100 years festering in a box does nothing for your hearing.
I don't believe the cheek of the bloke! I'm running errands for Death, now. I thought he had tiny elves for that sort of thing! He says he'll take me to the Haunted Ruins if I can collect up the pieces of his recently exploded robot mortality-monger and free his impounded boat.
After all that faffing about, Death's done the dirty on me. Apparently, thanks to Zarok, the Haunted Ruins are now encircled with lava so there's no point going. Didn't want to go in his stupid boat anyway.
Luckily, Al, a.k.a. The Voice From The Socket, may have come up with an idea, for once - instead of his usual stream of half-remembered Middle Eastern claptrap and jokes about dromedaries. He says that the Dragon King on Dragon Island may have a set of magical fireproof armour.
Oh cheers, Death. Instead of lending a hand after I worked my fingers to the bone for him, he blithely announces he'll wait upstream for us, on the off-chance we get back with the retardant suit. Way to go, Charlie Hustle.