Ransom's head spun as he regained consciousness to a dull scratching noise and short, ragged gasps.  He groaned, rolling on his back.  His wounds had tapped his strength, and a slow, steady stream still trickled down his leg and pooled in his gauntlet.  Wherever he was, it had once been a campsite, and some low flames still flung their light. 
 
Another short breath came from his left.  It appeared the 'log' he had triped on.  A knight, protected by a dazzeling suit of white armor, had pinned an elf under his chest, forming a rough X.  That woman's probably having some trouble breathing.  Maybe they can tell me where I am..... 
 
With more than a few gasps of pain, Ransom managed to roll the knight foward, so his body rested across said elf's legs.  He sat back down beside the two, resting for a moment while the elf gasped for breath.
		 
		
		
		
		
		
		
			
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				"The blood of the dead mixes with the the flowing sand and grants more power to the killer."--Gaara of the Desert
			 
		
		
		
		
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