He shaved two inches off the man's stump and fixed the replacement limb to the exposed flesh and bone, stitching together the nerves and arteries. Of course, so loosely attached, the arm was liable to pop off the second the man tried to lift anything, so he peeled the human skin away from the upper arms and pectorals and layered the hot mephit skin over the muscles to anchor it all in place long enough to heal together.

The man blushed as he lifted his tender, ruby red chest with both hands. He flexed his new fingers.

"What's the catch?" he muttered darkly.

"No catch."

"Don't you want my firstborn or something?"

"Just the firewood," replied Vivian.

The man returned shortly with a log tucked under his human arm. The man looked down at the remaining skin floating in the jar and bit his lip.

"What are you going to do with the rest of it? Seems a shame to waste it..."

Later, as the sun was setting, Vivian watched a fortune in fat mephit ass wiggle its way out of his wagon. He cleaned and put away the surgical tools, loaded the stove with firewood, and tucked himself into bed, cuddling a jar of orc lungs for a teddy bear.

Most of the merchandise made it through the cold night. In the morning, there came a knock at the wagon door. He found half the village eagerly queuing in the snow outside.

"The wife and I have always wanted children, but she's always been squeamish about carrying them herself," said the blacksmith's husband at the front of the line. "But then we heard that there's a graftsman in town and..."