The blood of the hydra an the blood of Novalis mixed under the falling rain, his wounds were great, his bones broken, exposed through the shadow armor as they broke through the illusion.

The good war-king first drew
his sword, the old heirloom,
with its edges not blunt; terror was with each
of the hostile two from the other.
Sorrow chanted.

Novalis regained his foot leaning on Telrayel hand and then on his old heirloom: An ancestral sword, humble of shape but of reliable steel. Then he approached the multiheaded beast.

I must have cleft its heart with my piercing beauty. He spurted as his sole answer, and the effort tinted his teeth with blood from within.

I may need some rest. If the agenda can be delayed. I had heard the woods here were deadly, Now I know they weren't exaggerating. I can't take no loot nor treasure, whether stone or gold.