There is the smell of madness here. Of grief and death. Of blood and sacrifice. The thing that would have been the Binder Fria, sniffed the gory mud and snarled. Frustration rippled across the inky surface as the barely held chaos roiled within the form. The Golden had already come, and he/she/it was too late. There was nothing left to bind.

The vengeful howl trailed off into an angry scream, sending the window coverings shuddering in town. It was answered by a half-dozen canine rebukes, and then the ringing bellow of the Golden.