Hey, I suddenly have a life! Yesterday I spent 2 1/2 hours working on a brochure for a history project, today I spent another 2 hours working on a poster for the same history project, and I had to make a birthday present+ card for my friend, tomorrow I have my friend's birthday party, Saturday a soccer game, Sunday an auction that I have to work at. Yet I managed to write a 850+ words chapter, for you, my darling readers :)

He almost feared this house, which as he discovered when he got closer, was made of the black-bricks. Who might be in there? Would it be abandoned? Would anyone care? Kyle hoped for the best as he teleported right up to the door. He slowing reached up one, short, black arm to knock on the door. A man opened the door, who appeared to be rather old, yet young. He had longish black hair, heading around the edges, but as it seemed to Kyle the great did not come with age, for deep in this worn man's eyes, showed dreaded experience. His eyes when at the sight of an Enderman, especially since Kyle was not the average Enderman. He was small for age, and crumpled on the ground in the pain. Boy, he must've looked so pathetic, because the man didn't even try to attack. So Kyle stated talking- or rambling more of it.

"My friend and I- well I don't much knew him, but I saved his life, and he saved mine, so yeah- anyway, we need help. My friend- again, don't much know him, really- he's dying, he needs help, I can't help him with my condition critical, too, I'm sure you've noticed my leg and various other marks and-"

It was at that moment Kyle realized he wasn't speaking the human language. Rythian seemed to know how to speak Enderman, so communication was never really a problem, but now, this worn-out man had no clue what Kyle was saying. Kyle felt stupid for not thinking about this. In spite of himself he thought that he really should've paid more attention in the other world studies class, but it was so biased against the human world. Kyle hated the way Enderman spoke of the human world, especially the other world studies teacher. He hated the human world with a strong built-in passion that all Endermen seemed to have. Except Kyle. Kyle didn't hate nor love the human world. He refused to pick sides when he had such small knowledge of it. Instead, he took a curious standpoint, wondering what made Enderman hate the human world so much, and if there was any good to it. The class would've been so much better with a neutral view on the other worlds, but of course no one has a neutral view on the other worlds. Except Kyle. He'd never felt so singled out, and by himself, of all people!

The man watched him with a certain curiosity, the kind that said 'I have nothing better to do and this seems interesting.' Kyle had a knack for picking up on these sorta things, emotions that, though clear in people's face and eyes, many people miss. This man seemed bored and willing to listen. But listen to, what was to him, gibberish? He probably wouldn't listen for much longer, and Kyle had his attention now, and had to make his move now. Kyle stated motioning about with his hands, this way and that. And the man seemed oddly accustomed to having to watch hand movements. While Kyle tried, he couldn't get up onto his feet. The man, oddly enough, helped him up. The man held Kyle upright and spoke in a cracked voice.

"Show me where the danger, trouble, or whatever it is is But first- come inside. You need rest. " He said. So Kyle let the man help him inside the black-brick house.

-(line break)-

Rythian, though unconscious, felt almost as if he could feel his blood level decreasing. The rate at which he was losing it had slowed, mostly due to having less to pour out. His heart rate had very noticeably slowed down. So much so, that Rythian was sure of it: he was going to die. He couldn't survive like this, half of his blood lost, the other half slowly seeping out.

Not to mention all the broken bones and what not. He'd tried to figure out what he had broken, but it was hard to tell. More than one, but less than, he knew that.

It was a lot, actually. A few broken ribs, a broken wrist, a broken noise, fractured jaw, dislocated shoulder, and an absolutely crushed foot. He didn't really like to think about it. He could practically see every wound, each gruesome and bloody.

If he survived this, he'd have plenty of souvenirs to remember this. His entire face was covered in small, but deep, cuts. His nose was one big bruise. His hair, once stood perfectly upon his head, was now singed and crisp. His chest, with its deep scar from chatting death, now ironically was the wound that would probably kill him in the end, it tore open again and was bleeding the most. His skin grew cold and pale. His general appearance was probably already dead.

He couldn't imagine how he'd appeared to Zoey. He didn't know if his wounds showed during his dream or not, as it seemed he felt no pain, or rather noticed no pain, he assumed not.

He wondered often if he was already dead, and maybe these wounds followed him to death. He didn't know