Morg winced as the roving blade’s sword severed his hand at the wrist. He grunted in concentration and the flow of blood slowed, stopping completely after several moments.
There was a thud as the tip of the sword hit the stone floor. Its wielder’s mouth agog. The people watching them were equally confused. The screaming began after Morg’s purple, bulbous, clawed hand emerged from his cloak to retrieve his severed one from the ground.
The appearance of the arm broke the elf from his trance of confusion. He raised his sword again. “Are you a demon?” he demanded, voice shaking.