He missed it more than he expected. The arm.
It was his favorite one, after all. Now that he thought about it, it was usually the one holding the chopper.
Not to say he hadn't realized this crucial fact before. He was willing to admit to himself that he had. But said cruciality had dimmed in the heat of the moment. After all, he remembered some small part of him saying to himself, he had the other one, with just as many grippers. A lot of orcs weren't so lucky as to have all their grippers.
And anyway, sure he was thankful to have his health. He could've kept the arm but then he'd be dead. Then again, wasn't dying supposed to be a good thing? Well, dying in battle. You're supposed to try to do that. And he would've been a zombie. That's no good.
And now he was properly maimed so they'd have a way to tell him apart from the other ancestors when they wove him into the tapestries. That's the important thing.
Finally, he came back to the present, where he was staring into the withered face of yet another sad zombie. He felt a gleeful feeling rising in his chest as he raised his weapon to put the creature down...oh right no arm. Grrrrrrgggh.
He could still feel it. There wasn't a moment he wasn't sure it was still there, gripping something, gripping so hard it hurt. At least he'd always have that. Yes. The pain reassured him. It was proof he hadn't joined their ranks.
What was it gripping? An axe?
No. He pointed his stump at the dead man, imagined his arm entering its chest, gripping its heart, and crushing it. The savage glee began to return.
The thing didn't die, of course. You have to hit them in the head. He raised the other arm and did so.
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