“Those are my legs,” said the weary traveler. “Of the group of us, I am the only person with a freshly torn wound at my waist.”

The traveler was doing it again, the old man was quick to point out. “You search endlessly to discover that which makes us different,” the old man said. “Why not instead ponder on how we are alike.”

The traveler was pained greatly by these words because he knew them to be true. Taking the wise words to heart, the bloody traveler adjusted his bloody nub on the dirt ground until he was comfortable enough. He looked up at the old man and the woman admiring the qualities in them that reminded the traveler of his own mother and father. It was uncanny because he knew those traits were undoubtedly embedded in him.

As the monster chewed on the traveler’s legs, tattoos of all the traveler’s life-adventures began to appear on the minster’s skin.