Guthrin stumbled again, his shoulder connecting with a charred elm; agony stabbed through his arm, cramped from its awkward position around his unwieldy bundle. A miasma of pain accompanied him on his weaving voyage; somewhere in his mind he was aware that he was not thinking with any rationality. Some grim humour within him laughed that he had at least not lost his bearings, never having been in possession of them…
Voices jolted him from his self-absorption. He stopped moving on impulse and tried to quell the noise of his ragged breathing. He was unsuccessful in his attempt, for the voices ceased their low converse, and the forest went still around him. He began to shake in fear and retreated until his back was against a tree. He half placed, half dropped his bundle of armour and sodden clothing to the ground and drew his discoloured blade from the sheath, although it did not come smoothly and a dull shriek emanated, quite distinctly.
A low sob came unbidden from his throat as he saw two dark shapes moving steadily towards him through the smoke-riddled trees. He could discern not whether he faced friend or foe.
[ September 09, 2002: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]
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