Olaf crashed into a tree, his right hand was forced off the wound in his stomach in order to keep him standing with the aid of the tree, from the wound his blood now flowed freely, dripping down his chain mail armor. He groaned as he tried to move his left arm to cover the wound but it simply hung limply down his side, his shield still strapped around his now broken arm. He leaned against the tree with his back as he pushed against the wound again with his right hand, it was soaked in blood. Olaf took a couple of rasping breaths before he spat to his right, the spit was more blood than spit, it splattered against a nearby stone. With a loud thump his legs gave up and he violently sat down on the ground next to the tree.
Olaf starred upwards at the trees majestic crown of leafs, a small gust of wind made them move. The view was calm in a strange way, no screaming no clashing steel. How long had it been since he had felt this way? A series of coughs brought him out of his calm full thinking and back to the serious wound on his stomach, he ripped some cloth from his undershirt and pushed it against the wound. On weak legs he forced himself up supported by the tree, stumbling he continued his walk through the forest, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. He had to continue, but where would he go? Where?
His legs gave up on him again and this time there were no tree to stop his fall, he smashed face first into the ground, the blow clouded his eyes and his mind quickly faded into unconsciousness.