Pick one or more items from this list - it just sounded so much like the sort of things you'd think up that I HAD to share... http://howlingguardian.tumblr.com/post/133493640614/
(post reproduced below in case of link failure)Talk fantasy prosthetics to me.
An elf maiden dances on feet of living wood sung into shape, planted in soil and watered when she takes them off. Every year she plants the old ones and sings a new pair. (Incidentally, the pair of peach saplings from three years ago have produced an excellent crop- She makes preserves from them, and despite the inevitable jokes about “toe-jam”, they are appreciated.)
A dwarf king has a metal fist, all tiny gears and fine wires, kept wound by a mischievous mine-spirit bound to the spring as punishment- the more it struggles, the tighter the spring.
An orc chieftaness is regularly asked for the story of how she earned the name Wyrmthrottler- she boasts of how she strangled the dragon that ate her arm, and had her shaman make a new arm from its bones, with its fangs as the fingers.
A necromancer simply re-attached his old leg bones- Sacrificing a few mice each day keeps it going.
A pirate captain lost her arm to a shark attack: a passing selkie saved her, and gave her tattoos of kraken blood. Now she has an arm made of salt-water, that grows and wanes with the tides, and swings a cutlass as well as the original. (She doesn’t sail as far these days though: she doesn’t want her wife to worry.)
A wandering swordsman was broken at the waist- his ancestral armour allows him to walk again, as long as he keeps it polished, and burns incense to the ancestors regularly.
A high priestess has an eye made from a crystal ball- to predict the future, all she has to do is wink.
A bard was struck deaf by illness- he struck a deal with the god of music. Now he wears hearing-trumpets made from his old pipes, and dedicates his every song to the god of music- the better he plays, the better his hearing. (It is said his music could make statues weep, and he can hear a mouse fart at 60 paces.)
A princess has the arm of a golem, enchanted clay with mystic words carved in- her music tutor despairs of how her harp playing has become even worse, but her calligraphy tutor is ecstatic over her handwriting.
A goblin pickpocket has an arm made of whatever he steals- no-one feels his fingers, and even if they did, they couldn’t find their possessions amongst all the rest.
A witch has eyes made from shadow and starlight, given to her in a game with a demon. Nobody dares to ask what she wagered- they aren’t even sure she won.
A warg was born deaf and blind- his people learned of his power when the nearest birds started staring at them, and dogs pricked up their ears as he walked past. -- Anon Guest
[AN: I'm only gonna pick one because there's practically a book's worth, here.]
They called her Treesinger, and she had a grove of fruit trees. Once a year, she would dance her last dance with her seedling feet before adding to her grove. She had all kinds of fruit in her grove. Apples. Pears. Oranges. Plums. Every kind of fruit that fell from a branch. She sang and danced among them, singing them into bountiful blossom.
And then, her head haloed with bees, she planted her feet in the rich soil and sang them into taking root. A new pair of seedlings are sung into shape and become her feet for another year.
Centuries ago, they said, a conqueror had hewn her feet off at the shin for refusing to dance in celebration of his bloodbath battles. The vines had strangled him and his armies. Who still fertilised her grove to this day.
The olives she grew her first feet from mark the passing years.
None dare to cross her. Not after they see her grove.
She only keeps what she needs of her crops. Sells the rest to the markets. Jams and jellies and preserves and, of course, olive oil and pots upon pots of honey.
They line up for miles for a chance to purchase one small jar of anything.
Treesinger has not much use for gold. She has her plants and she has her friends. She had enough jewellery to satisfy her needs. The rest of her income goes to those in need.
And sometimes, those in need come to her. To beg her to sing them a limb. Plucked from her trees and bound to their soul. She matches the wood to their personality, and many walk away happy.
She could easily sing her feet from the plants she has in abundance, but she loves having saplings. They're better to dance with.
(Muse food remaining: 25. Submit a Prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories! Or comment below!)