The Undertaker followed the swordsman's hand up to the mark on his face. Never one to be hindered by such concepts as 'propriety' or 'personal space', he too reached out and ran a nail, long and painted black, over the scar.

"What a fine scar," he cooed. The Undertaker himself had many, carefully stitched back together after they had been made. He thought they were quite lovely. Little peeks inside of a body filled with blood and bone and life.

"This jar isn't very portable, though," he told the other man, almost as an afterthought. "If I cannot display it, I will simply burn the remains and scatter them. It can return to nature and begin anew." There was an edge of disappointment in his voice, as if it was distasteful to dispose of the creature without properly memorializing it.