This one is The Prodigal Doll, a once-lost returnee.
A broken and repaired mismatch of various parts.
Walking in the wide world as a ronin, the master-less combat doll of legend.
Formerly in the employ of a slew of evil gods and sorcerers,
This one is now free.
The tale of how this one came to be and how this one arrived in the present state is long and torturous, but I pray thee to hearken unto the tale, that this one might be long remembered in the hearts of men, even after it crumbles into the dust of the earth from whence it came.
Once there was a witch, evil and hollow,
Her daughter in her footsteps did follow,
though she tried to run to the mountain,
to a tavern by the lake with a beer fountain,
wherein she met a wandering paladin,
he swept her up like he was Aladin,
she'd had a few drinks and fell upon his sword,
forced to return to the witch of her own accord.
The paladin awaited her return, but she never did,
snared in the witch-mother's trap, her heart died.
From her feeling for the paladin, the witch severed,
placed it in a doll of clay. made a small ceramic servant.
Placing the love of a girl in the clay form of a boy,
such hideous cruelty is that, though about it she is coy.
The form of the doll was like that of the maiden-loved man,
though the love of the maiden was contained in the clay man.
The maiden became a witch, incapable of love, resentful,
hateful of her own heart, gazing daggers at the doll spiteful,
though all the doll contained inside, was the love of the maiden.
It tried to comfort the hurts of its original body, to no avail.
The young witch took jobs at taverns and pubs, seeking a male,
trying to fill the hole left by the paladin she couldn't remember,
she eventually met a male she liked, a southern necromancer.
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