Nova Peak blutbefleckt

as wylla turned and reluctantly tore herself from his side to speed off, mahler thrust his body against the spruce-trunk again, inwardly demanding that he be allowed remain sentient until she returned. 
the shade again; mahler blinked, but it did not disappear, and through his pallid-toned mind he found her name. marigold. komm noch, nicht her. 
had that been her voice? mahler could scarce remember it; he was ashamed to remember her face at all, not with wylla dashing about in the rainstorm for his pharmacy. and so mahler waved the thought and the spectre away, descending shakily into a denser air that seemed to press upon him.
he lay down gingerly beneath the branches, blinking at their clutches of needles and the round brown pinecones that clustered proudly in their palms. es wäre nicht so schlimm, jetzt zu sterben, his mind clucked sleepily to itself. but the amethyst stare, drained as it was, remained open, searching quietly for the small figure of wylla returning. nicht jetzt.
arrive she did; mahler managed a grateful smile, lying his heavy crown upon the wet ground to expose the grisly mangling of his neck. it would scar terribly, the man knew, simply by toting it from the cliffs back to sagtannet. "the little vhite flowers," he murmured, his usual deep baritone hushed beneath the sound of the rain, "if there are any. chew them, put them ... in the vound." eyelids drooped; he forced himself awake again. "moss, any moss, even fresh, atop the flowers ... the green leaves next, chewed into a ... paste." yarrow, for clotting. moss to pack the wound. comfrey with its sticky touch to tug the edges of the torn skin together — but mahler found his tongue had grown clumsy, and sighed into the verdant grass, relieved that if these were to be his ending moments, there was a sweetness that they would be spent with wylla.