STUMPS
There were never any mages about when you needed them. Or warrior witches. Hell, Henry would even put up with a healer at the moment. He was in desperate need of some magic now. Not yesterday. Or tomorrow. Or whenever the hell those sorcery types got around to it. Shoot, he’d put in the request last week, when the Oracle had sent him a memo about the upcoming dragon encounter. He would have settled for a priestess’ apprentice to come by and bless his sword. But he got nothing. So he sat there. Staring at his torn-off leg stumps. Waiting.
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