Ulfr gasped softly for breath. He held his side, the red saturating his hand and the thick leather he wore as armor. He lied weakly against a tree, looking up at the birds that flew now and then overhead. It was all he could do.

With ragged breaths, his eyes tilted up to the person that shifted in front of him, somewhat surprised by their presence. Still, he couldn't bring himself to be startled. He could hardly make them out. He wasn’t sure if they were an ally or not. All was muffled. Was the battle over? Had they won? It didn’t matter now, he supposed.

“Please... give me the honor of death,” he pleaded weakly. His own weapon had been tossed from him with the last blow. Now, he was scared; scared to die a pitiful death. He was meant to die a warrior, killed by an enemy -- not alone and scared in the cold.