(OOC: if this doesn't fit into the story very well, just tell me. I'll gladly delete this post and try again later.)
Lars was starting to feel a little light headed when he found the old shack. Blood was rushing down a huge gash in his arm, and he didn't know how much longer he could stay concious. The fact that he had lost his prized Elum hadn't helped him much, either.
"A smoldering fire!", he thought, "Someone must live here!"
Using the last of his remaining energy he sheaved his bludgened knife and hobbled over to the delapitated cabin. Lars began to wildly beat on the wall of the shack with his good arm.
"Help me! For the love of the world, help me! Someone! You can't let me bleed to death! Please... please..."
He collapses to the ground.
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