Izalith was awoken, as she often was these days, by Sword.

<Today is a good day to slay evil,> it said, voice a gentle but insistent sound in her mind. Every day was a good day to slay evil, according to the Sword.

Izalith eased herself up, swinging her legs off the side of the bed and putting her head in her hand. The sun was already high enough that it wasn’t directly in her eyes, but it was still bright enough that it made her hiss, the light an icy dagger jamming itself right into her groggy brain. Her arm was missing, and she’d need to find it. But what she really needed was some water.

It wasn’t the only thing missing, considering not only could she not remember where she put her arm, she couldn’t remember where she was, how she got here, or anything from the last…—she chanced a glance at the room and regretted it—twelve hours or so. She groaned, and stumbled out of the bed, keenly aware of the sword’s position hanging on the wall. Arm was still unaccounted for. It was harder to find it when she kept her hand over her eyes.

She took stock of everything as she lurched forward. The sheets were wet, and sticky. She was naked and missing a prosthetic. Dry mouth, headache, a bit sore, loss of memory. Izalith had never experienced a hangover before, but working in a bar since she was thirteen she knew the symptoms, academically at least. The glimpses of the room were clearly of an inn, but not the Prancing Pig, which was reasonable considering how far she’d traveled to get away from her old life in the last year.

Something stirred in the bed behind her, startling Izalith and causing her to kick the discarded wooden arm. She winced in pain and, blinking, looked over at the bed where an attractive and naked half-elf woman lay. She was well endowed in a way that stirred both jealousy and excitement, and she had to have been a good foot taller than Izalith herself. She blushed, and it’s good the woman on the bed was asleep, it spared Izalith from being seen as her face twisted up through various dumbfounded goofy expressions.

Whoever her companion for the night had been, she was sleeping peacefully. Should she leave some silvers on the nightstand? Izalith always preferred if someone did. A tip for good service on top of what was already paid. But not remembering the night, she couldn’t remember the context of their arrangement, and if Izalith hadn’t paid for the night, some of the more prudish women might be offended at the implication.

The half-elf shifted again, stretching out and yawning and murmuring something lyrical. It sounded like a lullaby, though mostly it was just humming. It was familiar, but Izalith shuddered.

<There’s evil to be slain,> the sword again, infuriatingly sober. It was so damned cheerful. There was always evil to be slain. Couldn’t it wait until Izalith’s headache was gone?

She bent down and picked up her arm, trying to remember the night. Instead she thought about the Prancing Pig. It was a nice arm, and she’d always been grateful for Emma for getting it for her. Thinking about that made her feel a pang of guilt. But what option was there other than running away?

One Year Ago…

“And after he looses the quarrel he picks up the sending stone ‘okay, apothecary, I’m definitely sure ‘e’s dead now’!” the large, rough dwarf said, to a round of mostly feigned disapproval mixed with laughter that couldn’t be held back. He bathed in the groans, reaching for a pint on the tray that Izalith was carrying past.

She pulled it out of the way before he could get it, and slapped his hand away. “You tell the worst stories, Billy Butcherson,” she said with good natured cheer, setting the tankard and a plate of fried kipper down in front of Colm Cooper, who gave her a smile and passed her two silver pieces, which certainly made her smile.

“What about you, lass?” said one of the human men she didn’t know after a companion nudged him in the ribs. “Been wond’rin how you lost that arm of yours.”

“Yeah, come on, Izzy,” came a laugh from the crowd she couldn’t see, “how’d you lose it this time?”

It was a question she’d gotten used to over the years, and swapping scar stories was a favourite past time of adventurers, so it always made her feel included. Of course, the real story wasn’t as exciting as the ones these travelers told. But she’d gotten very good at coming up with more interesting alternatives to reality.

Izalith got a smirk, and thought for a bit, raising it up to show it off. It was a deep red wood with hard to notice dark bands, intricately carved into the shape of a humanoid arm with ball jointed elbow, wrist and fingers. Hidden inside were wires and pulleys, and the whole thing was animated by a little bit of cantrip magic. It went all the way up to her shoulder and from beneath the wide, low cut of her collar it stood out on her lighter tawny skin. It was probably the most expensive thing Izalith owned.

“You vagabonds want to know how I got this arm?” she said with a flair, pulling up the sleeve of her blouse making sure the metal filigree at the edges made it shine like gold in the light of flickering candles and glowing motes tucked into the ceiling.

A cheer came out, half drunken. Some of the older patrons knew what was going on, but not all of the travelers had been this way before. Some were fresh faced, others seasoned. But most had been liquored up to the point that they wanted to know what had everyone else cheering, so they were interested to hear this tale. Tankards and bottles and forks were raised and waved about, often resulting in spills Izalith herself would be mopping up, if not Emma.