I was swearing, and yanking, and a skull mouth snapped in close to the hilt and the guard. I didn’t pull back. You weren’t wearing gloves. And it bit your damn thumb off.

Again, let me say: sorry. It was not my thumb to let them bite off. I admit completely that this was my bad, but these motherfuckers had a hunger that only thumbs could satisfy. It didn’t matter—I was yelling, and trying to grab the damn sword away anyway, and I saw it eat your thumb—these details are important, so keep up with me—and your thumb was back in the next half minute. I watched it grow. The gushing stump grew a full bone, and then the meat grew up around it in the next breath, and then it all closed over in fresh skin and thumbnail. I set it back around the hilt and it worked like it had not just been chewed up by a wasp ghoul.

Harrow the Ninth - Act Five, Chapter Forty-Six