Depth Perception and a Heart of Copper

Chapter 2 - Too much blood

For what I could only assume were hours, if not days, I laid in shambles within the ruins of the battered air ship. I was, surprisingly, still alive. I assessed my wounds in the moments I was conscious; my right ankle broken, bone partially exposed, blood splattering and partially covering the floor of the ship. I eventually noticed a dent in my back the size of my gun, the back of my shirt crusted over with blood and sweat. I was fortunately still able to move... somewhat, the dent thankfully not shattering my spine.

The bloodied gun laid loosely in my right hand when I pulled it from the ground, the tip rubbing against the bottom step of the copper staircase. My breath was sharp, my eyes clouded. I was clearly quite dehydrated; my mind feeling light headed and weak as it laid awkwardly on my shoulder. I felt no need to stand or move; all I needed was enough strength to bring my battered gun to my head, and pray it would fire. Ending my misery now would be better than later, I felt.

Though minutes passed, the time felt to pass in hours. In time, the blood finally stopped flowing, it seemed. I attempted to move, though the pain and trauma I had already received was too much to bear. The throbing pain was fortunately lessened, though only enough to allow me to concentrate on how near fruitless any attempt to move was.

I knew my wounds would soon begin to become infected, making any mere chance of survival dwindle indefinitely. What caught my attention, however, was the eerie sound of rattling footsteps on the metal grated floor, perhaps only a mere thirty meters down the hall. With what strength I could muster, I lifted my gun, paying attention to the hall before me.

The daunting sound of movement came and went, always coming closer and closer with each passing second. My breathing betrayed me, becoming swifter with anxiety as I awaited what was to come. And, as I felt my arm begin to faulter, my gun lowering ever so slightly, the figure entered the room. He stood tall, maybe two meters; his body covered in what appeared to be brown fur, stained partially with dark, maroon blood. The man was clearly that of the accursed wolven beasts. Why he was here, and alone, was most perplexing. He looked to me and snarled, my heart leaping into my throat as my hand began to shake.

"Grazak Vark Krelk Donalk." The beast growled, gripping his side, seemingly fingering around for a weapon that wasn't there.

"Wow! Wow, h-hey there, fluffy!" I rasped, my voice cracked with pain and dried from my lack of water. I lowered my gun, my arm already threatening to give way; regardless of the adrenaline that just surged through my body. Though my instinct was to simply shoot this beast where he stood, I knew it would not be wise.

"Gildagrak Sinsalk." The creature barked, giving up on finding his weapon, and eyeing my gun, regardless of where it pointed.

"Hey, fluffs, trust me when I tell you that I mean you no harm." I stated, reluctantly placing my weapon on the ground. The beast appeared to relax slightly, though he stilled continued to eye my hand warily.

"Where's the rest of your pack?" I questioned, forgetting the language barrier between the two of us. It took me a moment before I realized he had no way of understanding me. So, I did the best I could.

"Um... grunt, gilgol, cradle joggle dell?" I mustered, the beast only giving me a confused glance as a reward for my efforts. I believe it, too, finally discovered our lack of ability to communicate.

"Gil... Gildalk." He grunted, pointing at himself. I could only assume he meant the phrase to be his name. I responded by pointing my right index finger toward him, repeating his statement. "Gil-...gil-dawk?"

The beast shook his head. "Gildalk." It repeated. I nodded in understanding, repeating him. "Gildalk."

The beast smiled as far as I could tell, though the sight was certainly not rather appealing. In fact, it proved to be relatively frightening. I certainly hoped the creature wasn't contemplating my demise with such a grimace.

The beast soon pointed to me, more than likely asking my name in a language we can both understand. I replied with the truth. "Locke." The name of an ancestor of mine, as it was the name that my father had given to me when I was born, twenty-seven years ago.

"Lockek?" The beast replied, putting further emphasis on the 'k.' I nodded in response, the beast again smiling in a way only it could. It then slumped to the ground, sitting down almost casually. I remained confused as he rustled his hands (or paws, if you prefer) through his satchel, removing what appeared to be a partially raw and half eaten fish. The pungent smell was like a slap to the face as he began eating, his teeth and lips smacking against the clearly several day old fish carcass. I was surprised that the smell pierced my nose so quickly, even in the midst of a death-stained shuttle.

In a bit of unwanted courtesy, Gildalk attempted to hand me a bit of the fish. Though my stomach grumbled fiercely, I refused the piece of rotten fish. He shrugged, and proceeded to eat. After a few minutes of eating he rustled through his bag again, tossing me what appeared to be a bundle of surprisingly clean leather. I looked at him confused, before realizing what he meant. I looked to my ankle, and immediately inhaled a sharp breath. I grimaced at the soon imposing pain. I fondled the leather straps that were thrown to me, the eyes of the beast shifting over my leg as I removed a strap from the bundle.

When I noticed his glance, I looked to him and gave him a sarcastic smile. "Wish me luck."