At that, with a faint smirk, he held up his four-fingered left hand. "Look more closely. This was intentionally done. Part of a ritual - my coming-of-age in my Brotheroood. An oath that cannot be forgotten."

And there was no lie. The wound, old as it was, was clean, well-tended, well healed. There had been no infection, no raggedness of the scar. It had been done neatly, quickly, and had healed as well as such an amputation could ever be. And he was far from shy about it. Why hide it, after all, when it was on such a public part of his body.