“WHAT... IS WRONG... WITH MY ARM...”
Hydreigon waved his bandaged arm around in front of Golurk. It was in absolute agony, and it smelled rotten, necrotic. With shaking hands, the golem slowly unwound the bandage, eliciting a hum of concern. Hydreigon, on the other hand, cried out and stared at his arm in the low sunlight.
The arm looked wizened and half-decomposed. The flesh had gone black and green, and looked dry and wrinkled. The skin on his hand had been sloughing off, and shiny white bone surrounded by reddish-black chunks of flesh were visible. Both of the hand’s eyes seemed to have fallen out.
“WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT... WHAT IS THIS? GOLURK! WHY IS MY ARM DECOMPOSING?”
Golurk just shook his head. Gangrene.
Hydreigon had no idea what Golurk was thinking, but he could tell it was serious. “WHAT... WHAT DO I DO? WHAT DO WE DO TO FIX IT?”
Golurk just looked up, before bringing his arm down on his other arm. It’s got to go.
Hydreigon snarled. “WHAT IF I KEEP IT?”
Golurk just let his arm drop. It’ll just fall off by itself. This way is easier. He reached into his burlap sack, retrieving a thick, heavy machete.
“NO...” Hydreigon drifted backwards, his one good arm raised warding off the slowly advancing Golurk. “STAY BACK. I COMMAND YOU. STAY AWAY FROM ME!” Golurk just kept coming, the blade raised in the air.
“DON’T! DON’T TAKE MY ARM!”