The stranger was badly wounded. He could barely walk, every second a concerted effort just to stay conscious.  It was the middle of the night, and he could hardly see where he was going.  Anything could happen in the wilderness; he could be attacked by bandits or wild animals and he would be unable to defend himself.

 

Or perhaps...THEY...would find him again.

 

His vision faltered, and his head throbbed.  He thought he sighted a small, run down, and nearly abandoned inn in front of him.  It looked old and weatherbeaten, and looked as if it had not served customers for years.  It was a sad thing...a place of great happiness and peacefullness reduced to such a terrible status.  He pressed on, limping towards the front door, and applying pressure to his side (where blood was gushing forth).  Perhaps here he would die, alone in the wilderness, miles from anything, in an abandoned inn.

 

But if it was abandoned, perhaps they would still have some left over liquor.  That would ease the pain shortly before he died.

 

Upon reaching the door, he focused his mind.  With all the strength left in his body, he gave the door a knock.  And than another.  He attempted to give it a third, but than collapsed to the ground, slowly bleeding to death.  If someone didn't help him, he'd be dead in a matter of minutes he thought --- shortly before slipping into unconsciouness.