You 'wake up' with a filthy sheet covering you. After brushing away this sheet, you notice that you are in a dank, windowless room. You squint until your eyes adjust to the torchlight, and you notice others like you, sitting up on slabs. You don't *know* who they are, but somehow their faces are familiar….
Then it dawns on you; you don't know who *you* are. You try to rise, but you are struck by a wave of nausea and confusion. You realize that you have a pounding headache, and your whole body feels like it was beaten by an ogre.
Through the haze of pain, you notice something on your arm. It's some kind of tattoo, written in a tongue (?) you don't know, but somehow you can read it. There is also 3 long lines beside the writing. You don't know whbut you know that this tattoo shouldn't be there.
Without warning, a flood of emotions, memories, and sensations hit you like a hot, blinding light. But they're confusing and disorganized. 'ARE these actual memories?' you wonder. It's a chaotic mess, and you can't make sense of any of it. There is no coherent order to or connections between these thoughts, and you resign yourself that you can't make sense (used this phrase already) of it – yet. You come to the frightening conclusion that you have no idea who you are, where you came from, or why you are here.
You look around at the other faces in the room. You have a nagging feeling that you know these people, but, like an itch you can't scratch, that memory eludes you. It's like it is hidden by a fog in your mind, just out of reach of your consciousness. You struggle to get up – your body feels just as pulverized as your mind – always keeping your eye on the other occupants of the room.
Out of the shadows, a floating skull drifts towards you. A floating skull?! Before you have time to process that, the skull speaks. "Whoa! I was sure you were deaders for sure! All of you, waking up in here, at the same time? It's weird. Are you guys having a convention or something?". 'Weird?' you think, 'you mean, like a TALKING SKULL??'
If a player asks Morte where they are, say "Uh, the Mortuary. In Sigil. You know, the City of Doors." He pauses. "The crossroads of the planes? You REALLY don't remember??" He chuckles, "Oh boy, you're in for a surprise."
