(no subject)
Sometime, he wasn't sure when exactly, he had stopped to rip off a piece of his shirt, and tie it snuggly around his foot. He'd long ago grown accustomed to the empty feeling in his stomach, giving up on food when his only options were high up in trees that he couldn't well climb with one foot cut open along the bottom.
"This must be hell," he mummbled to himself as he shoved his way through a familliar cluster of foliage, "I'm walking in circles." He was also only vaguely aware that he was talking to himself more and more.
At a rough estimate, Edward supposed he'd been wandering the jungle for around four days. It had been four nights, atleast, and each one of them long and mostly sleepless. His attempts to navigate a way out had shown no results -- every time he thought he'd found a way, he heard a scream (like a human) or a roar (like a dinosaur) and he'd run in one diretcion or the other. Or rather, run as well as one could on a injured foot. He never did find any other people after Samara, and the only large predator's he'd encountered were dead -- beyond dead, at that, usually in large bloody chunks. The sight and smell was enough to make him want to be ill, despite the fact that there was nothing in his stomach for him to lose.
In the middle of the afternoon, on what he supposed would have been day number four, he'd run into another of those deceased predators. This one, however, had obviously been lying there for a while, and was picked near clean by a small herd (he couldn't think of a better word) of tiny, carnivorous scavengers. They were barely the size of chickens, really, but they had sharp claws, and strong jaws, and they ripped at the decaying flesh with a vigor and enthusiasm.
Edward had made the mistake of lingering too long in morbid fascination. Had it only been one or two, it might have been an easy escape. But he was tired, reflexes dulled from lack of sleep, and there were dozens of them. It had been only his automail that had saved him from an even worse mauling, as he swatted them away with steel fist and foot. It took a while to knock them all back to the point where he could make an escape. He remembered the paniced thought in the back of his mind that it wouldn't matter too much -- the drops of blood would probably lead them right back to him when they woke. So, he did the only thing he could think to do.
He gave up. He knew he was only going to get so far if he didn't stop to rest. He'd simply have to hold them off if they, or anything else, caught up with him.
He sat at the base of some large tree, half-hidden in foliage, and curled up into a ball. He tucked his knees, crossing the metal one in front of the other. He folded his left arm over the bites and scratches in his torso, tucked his head, and sheilded it with his metal arm. There he sat, and waited.
"This must be hell," he mummbled to himself as he shoved his way through a familliar cluster of foliage, "I'm walking in circles." He was also only vaguely aware that he was talking to himself more and more.
At a rough estimate, Edward supposed he'd been wandering the jungle for around four days. It had been four nights, atleast, and each one of them long and mostly sleepless. His attempts to navigate a way out had shown no results -- every time he thought he'd found a way, he heard a scream (like a human) or a roar (like a dinosaur) and he'd run in one diretcion or the other. Or rather, run as well as one could on a injured foot. He never did find any other people after Samara, and the only large predator's he'd encountered were dead -- beyond dead, at that, usually in large bloody chunks. The sight and smell was enough to make him want to be ill, despite the fact that there was nothing in his stomach for him to lose.
In the middle of the afternoon, on what he supposed would have been day number four, he'd run into another of those deceased predators. This one, however, had obviously been lying there for a while, and was picked near clean by a small herd (he couldn't think of a better word) of tiny, carnivorous scavengers. They were barely the size of chickens, really, but they had sharp claws, and strong jaws, and they ripped at the decaying flesh with a vigor and enthusiasm.
Edward had made the mistake of lingering too long in morbid fascination. Had it only been one or two, it might have been an easy escape. But he was tired, reflexes dulled from lack of sleep, and there were dozens of them. It had been only his automail that had saved him from an even worse mauling, as he swatted them away with steel fist and foot. It took a while to knock them all back to the point where he could make an escape. He remembered the paniced thought in the back of his mind that it wouldn't matter too much -- the drops of blood would probably lead them right back to him when they woke. So, he did the only thing he could think to do.
He gave up. He knew he was only going to get so far if he didn't stop to rest. He'd simply have to hold them off if they, or anything else, caught up with him.
He sat at the base of some large tree, half-hidden in foliage, and curled up into a ball. He tucked his knees, crossing the metal one in front of the other. He folded his left arm over the bites and scratches in his torso, tucked his head, and sheilded it with his metal arm. There he sat, and waited.