text: [Themes: fantasy, war]
  
  You doubt you will be of much use as a combatant, so you may as well make yourself useful in some other fashion.
  
  You grab your severed arm and wing it as hard you can toward the trolls. The troll feasting on Bowie ignores the bloody mess of flesh, but Jon's troll clambers after it on all fours. A deep sadness seeps into your bones as you hear the troll crunch your arm in its jaws. Heroes are not supposed to be eaten.
  
  Jon slices the back of the trolls' knees, and the troll howls in agony as its legs buckle. Jon leaps onto its back and cleaves the head clean off with one swipe with your arm still clenched between its teeth.
  
  "Go Jon," Samwellington cheers. The fat coward is still cowering behind wreckage from the wagon.
  
  "Why don't you try and help?" you snarl.
  
  "I am helping. I'm providing emotional support."
  
  You roll your eyes and look back in time to see Jon finish off the second troll.
  
  "Wow, that was fast," you say.
  
  Jon shrugs. "A little emotional support can go a long way. Nice job yourself. You didn't even need to have your sword arm attached to the rest of your body for it to be useful. Try dodging next time though."
  
  "I don't know if there will be a next time. How can I fight without a sword arm?"
  
  Jon winks. "I know a guy: magic fellow and what not. He should be able to do something for you." Jon raises his hand. "Hold on one second. I'll be right back."
  
  Jon darts into the forest and you hear the lovely sound of steel biting into flesh and the accompanying screams.
  
  "Sam, why don't you go back to the hamlet and draft the report," says Jon, emerging from the forest, "add five dead bandits to it. I'll take our buddy here to the hedge wizard."
  
  With that, you and Jon part ways with Samwellington and enjoy a relatively droll venture to the hedge wizard's hut. You understand why he is only a hedge wizard. The hut is a ramshackle smattering of twigs and leaves that appear to be held together by nothing but mud and bird poop. The entire place smells worse than a popcorn fart. This may not have been the best idea, but before you can raise your concerns with Jon, he hollers out.
  
  "Hey, Osprey, get out here. I need a favor."
  
  "Is that you Jon?" You hear weird pops and bangs from inside the bird poop hut. "Just a second."
  
  "Take your time," says Jon. "No hurry."
  
  After a few minutes, a bent white-bearded man with smoldering eyebrows and a staff teeters out of the hut amidst a cloud of smoke. The smoke shrouds Osprey and follows him around. It smells of rancid cheese and burning bird shit.
  
  "Whew," Jon attempts to wave the stink away, "what were you doing in there?"
  
  Osprey's eyes light up. His lips twist into a smirk as he cackles. "Wizard things."
  
  "Oh, Dear God."
  
  Osprey's smile vanishes as he notices you and totters over. He grabs your head in both hands, lifts your chin, peers into your eyes, and prods your chest with a bony finger. A chill courses through your bones. He proceeds to violate your personal space for several minutes while you do your best to avoid suffocating in the smoke.
  
  "Mmhmmm," he says to himself. "Just as I thought. The boy is missing an arm."
  
  You roll your eyes. "How observant."
  
  Osprey whacks you upside the head with the staff. "Mind your manners, boy, or I'll turn you into a leprechaun." He shakes his head. "Ain't nothing sadder than a leprechaun."
  
  "Not even a smelly old man living in a bird shit hut?"
  
  Osprey clobbers you with the staff again. "I'll have respect from you boy. This is no joking matter. You ever see a leprechaun you give that poor bastard nothing but your sincerest sympathies." He smacks you with the staff one more time for good measure. "Now about that arm. I can fix you right up. Get you a brand new ethereal arm. Those things are sweet: impervious to physical damage. Magic will fuck you up though."
  
  Osprey begins nodding his head and drawing weird symbols in the ground with his staff while mumbling to himself.
  
  "Jon," you whisper, "I really don't think this is a good idea. This guy is cracked."
  
  Jon scoffs. "Posh. You want to be a knight, right? Well, a knight needs both arms."
  
  > continue as a cripple.
  There is no way you are about to let this bird-brained lunatic work any form of magic on you. Somehow, someway, you will adapt to your crippled state.
  
  "It's just not happening, Jon," you say and walk away.
  
  "Hey, get back here, kid!"
  
  "Let him go, Jon," you hear Osprey say. "He'll come back. They always do."
  
  You ignore them and keep walking. Left, right, left, you allow your mind to wander and just let your feet carry you where they will. How could this have happened? You are supposed to be a hero! A young knight in training, you had such a promising future...
  
  Time passes and the sky darkens as you continue to roam without purpose. Self-wallowing will certainly help you in your quest for glory. You meander deeper into the forest, down into a dell. A coyote's howl jars you back to reality. You slump against a rock beside a bubbling stream and bury your head into your hand.
  
  "Everything I ever dreamed," you scream, "ripped apart and devoured by some beast from hell."
  
  "Oh, do tell," whispers a soft voice from behind. "I love stories about fallen heroes." The voice giggles. "Or, would-be heroes."
  
  Slippery wet fingers trace your cheeks and run through your hair. A veil of mist seeps into the dell. Queer sensations stir in the pit of your gut. You think you are being enchanted, and you are not sure if that is necessarily a bad thing.
  
  "Who are you?"
  
  "I have many names," sings the sweet voice. Her fingers caress your body. You feel at ease in her arms, as if all the aches in your body and pains in your mind wash away at her command. "But you may call me Organa Mel Fy."
  
  "What are you?"
  
  "Ah, now that is a better question, but still not the right one." You feel her teeth nibble at your neck. "I am an angel to some: demon to others. Last question my sweetness, make it count."
  
  > say "What happens next?"
  "What happens next?"
  
  "Now that, that is the question of the hour, isn't it?" sings the sweet voice.
  
  The mysterious creature's slick fingers trace their way into your breeches and tickle your Johnson. An overwhelming sensation of euphoria courses through your veins. Blood surges through your body. You feel... invigorated, as if you have more energy than the sun itself.
  
  "I get ever so lonely here by myself," the voice sings. "Won't you... play with me?"
  
  > Sexytime!
  You have never felt so amazing in your life. How could you possibly let this sensation escape? You make sweet tender love to the mysterious creature. She looks human enough, except for the fact she can transform into water at will, which only serves to enhance the awesomeness of the experience. It just feels soooo damn good.
  
  A little too good. Blinded by euphoria, ecstasy, magic, hormones, and a fatal condition I like to call "being a goddamned idiot," you fail to notice your lover drag you down into the deceptively deep depths of the stream where you drown in the throes of love-making. Oh, those pesky water sprites!