[W]hat rabid god decocted out of the smoking lobes of hydrophobia could have devised a keeping place for souls so poor as in this flesh. This mawky wormbent tabernacle.
Sometimes the dead don’t just fall. Flesh does strange things, and us blackguards and scavengers make more dead than most. What happens after the deathblow? Roll d10.
1: Collapses into a pile of leaves.
2: Turns to a cloud of blackflies.
3: Falls into a clatter of painted woods and wires, a marionette unstrung.
4: Acrid smoke billows from rent wounds; moments later, the corpse is consumed from within by brilliant fire.
5: Arms and legs detach and slither off, ophidian and fat.
6: With a thunderclap, it disappears.
7: Before the body even falls, it liquefies and runs off underfoot. Stinks something fierce, too.
8: As the corpse cools, parasites make their way out. A lengthy tapeworm emerges from an orifice, curling tight. Other critters from nose and ears.
9: Spores—looking for all the world like dust—puff from the wounds. They sift down through the air, emergent life in a blossoming of mushrooms.
10: The corpse just lies there. You are sad.