The fell beast's shred of flesh slid, then fell from the red-bathed metal of the pole-arm where it had clung to. Moments later, its limp body dropped to the ground like a rotten fruit. Under the dim light of the night, there stood the figure of a man dressed in hood and cloak. Sighing quietly, he straightened his stance and rested the pole of his weapon over his shoulder, the blood flowing down its blade warm still.

The man rotated his head to look over to the distance, beyond the sea of trees surrounding him. In one particular direction, dim light and smoke had begun cascading upwards, and into the night-time sky. Both direction and distance was about right. Not quite Izumo, thought the man. But not quite far, either. He quickly pieced together what had happened, and wondered what would've become of him right now had he'd put effort into reaching his destination at the earliest possible time. He'd actually enjoyed the night's air, after all. 

The man swiped his pole-arm in a circular arc, cleaning the blade of the blood. He held it so it stood in front of him, blade digging into the grass. The man relaxed his hold, and with the slide of a finger, the weapon began to revert back to a more convenient shape. With a low-sounding hum, both the pole that held the blade and the portion on the other end of the pole-arm sunk into the middle portion. The hooded man pulled his hand back under the cover of his clothing, the now-shorter weapon with it. 
 
"...I should hurry." thought the man. "It shouldn't have escalated to this. At best, someone just decided to burn the midnight candles where their magic mattered. Still..."

He was still a knight of Zenterr, and the Sect of Maxwell was still its ally.

Inhaling, he began stepping forward again, within moments evolving into a quick trek through the silhouette of the trees, leaving behind him thirty different carcasses.

They still failed at staining his clothes.