"I heard it's for some newly invented Magic, one that needs fresh, strong thigh bones or tendons or something?" the young man chimed in, his tone devoid of sympathy. "Hey, if it sells for more, it's a good thing. Uncle Scar, will this knife do? Judging by his build, his bones probably aren't that hard."
"Who cares if they're hard? You think they're harder than my blade?" Uncle Scar spat. He hefted the knife and walked to the stone table. The dim, yellow light from the oil lamp cast his shadow on the wall—twisted and immense.
He took aim at one of the boy's thighs on the stone table, his eyes betraying no emotion.
"Hold him down over there. Don't let him thrash around, though I doubt he can move," Uncle Scar ordered. He then raised the knife high, aimed for the top of the thigh, and brought it down with a vicious chop!
The expected resistance never came.
PUFF!
