Brynjar ran on through the dark forest, his ragged breath leaving a misty trail in his wake and his heart pounding in his chest. Unable to go any further without rest he slumped against a tree and slid slowly to the snowy ground. Looking up at the stars he prayed to the Nine for just a moment of respite. Forcing himself to slow his breathing he listened carefully for sounds of pursuit. There was nothing but the wind in the branches and the sound of his own heart. It seemed his prayer had been answered but that wouldn’t last for long. He had painted his armour a dull black and fitted greased leather to the spaces between the plates to deaden the sound. It made him very hard to spot in the dark and almost impossible to hear and he had been quite pleased with the result at the time. Such a pity that the trail of blood and footprints he was now leaving through the snow was so easy to follow.
Gingerly he felt his left side just above the kidney where the feathered shaft of an arrow was sticking out, it had slipped between the plates in his armour. There was no option, it would have to come out. He felt around until he found a small stick lying on the ground, picked it up, brushed off the snow and bit down on it. He then gripped the shaft with his left hand, counted to three and pulled. His teeth sank into the wood as bit down trying not to cry out and he felt tears sting his cheeks in the freezing cold. Letting the stick fall into his lap he waited for the the pain to subside. He should have been able to use a simple healing spell to at least close the wound but he just didn’t seem to be able to make it happen. He was certain the arrow had been poisoned and the pounding headache and nausea leant weight to the theory. He scooped up a handful of snow and pressed it to the wound. It should slow the bleeding and if not then at least it was numbing the pain. Brynjar had suffered many wounds in his life, plenty worse than this. his skin was a network of scars. Poison however was a new experience, and he wasn’t eager to repeat it any time soon.
He cursed his rash decision, he had seen how many bandits were in the old fort, knew he couldn’t take them without help or at least a decent plan. But when he saw their chief, recognised the scar down his cheek and the blind white eye, he couldn’t stop himself. That bastard had lived far too many years already and Brynjar would be damned if he got to live one more day. He had been doing this long enough to know poor preparation before an attack was a sure way to court disaster but rage had got the best of him and now here he was, sat in the snow bleeding out with bandits on his tail. He was going to die in this forest like fool because he couldn’t control his emotions. All regrets were put aside the moment he heard the sounds behind him, men calling out and dogs barking, still some way off by the sound of it but getting closer. He leant over and glanced behind him, he could just make out the glow of torches in the distance, he had to get moving again. Clinging to the tree for support he pulled himself up and began to run. The pain from the wound was awful but he couldn’t slow down. Trying to distract himself the pain and cold and fear he began to think back to his childhood and that events that had ultimately led him to this moment.
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I might try re-writing that and see how it reads. I was trying to make Brynjar seem to be in a desperate situation where he had little time and a was scared and suffering but grabbing a stick from the ground might work a little better. ... more
There's one bit which I would change though. Now, as I tell everyone, this is just my opinion and that doesn't make me right. Have a think on it, you might stil... more