Mayhem smelled the air with glee, elated for the violence and by death spurred. Novalis heard her loud and clear, the metallic laughter in his head as he pulled his steel from the girallon’s body and whipped the blood against the beast’s fur.

He looked up and Sorrow took Mainhem place. Sir Michael was in pain. A pain Novalis couldn’t feel himself, so many times had he seen riders mourn their horses. But what was there to be expected: battle, futile death. no longer he rode beasts to battles, for their were only shadows.

And when convulsive throes denied my breath
The faintest utterance to my fading thought,
To thee—to thee—e’en in the gasp of death
My spirit turned, oh! oftener than it ought.

He motioned to Michael, he knew the custom of the lady of the dead and rising the hilt of his sword offered a little prayer.

So it is the way Istus draws the threads of life for creatures to follow the path of We Jas.
And what takes the guise of misfortune be in fact the blessing of bliss.

Then he sheathed his sword and added.

Would you like to take the time to offer proper burial? I suspect the smell of blood will soon draw swarms.