The old crone froze for a heartbeat, stunned that Ethan had so effortlessly deflected her attack. But rage drowned out her hesitation. Snarling, she reached behind her head and yanked.
With a wet, sickening crunch, she tore a spinal column from her own back. It dripped with slick, viscous fluid, utterly revolting.
Ethan stared, wide-eyed. "Ormund… what in the blazes is she? And what kind of trick is that?"
A spine. She had just pulled out her own spine—yet she was still moving as if nothing nothing had happened.
"Looks like… a Desert Wormfolk?" Ormund said, though he sounded far from sure.
Ethan blinked. "Wormfolk? Don't they, you know… not have spines?"
"Then it's a deformity," Ormund offered, fumbling for an explanation. "So… pulling it out doesn't really matter?"
"Seriously?" Ethan muttered. This was the first time he'd seen a beast-folk wield a weapon, and this one chose that—a whip made from her own spine.
