The fire was a small pitiful thing that cast weak shadows against the walls. Huddled in their coat, they shuffled a bit closer to the bare warmth. The wind was howling outside the small shelter, the sound worse than the hounds that had been hunting them. The weight of the snow on the roof creaked and cracked, each noise elliciting a flinch. They would be so glad when the winter had passed.
A thud near the door had them on their feet, weapon in hand. It had to be the Hunter with her hounds. They had been found; they hadn’t run far enough. The door slammed open, banging against the wall and letting in a small storm of snowing. A white covered figure hurried inside, fighting to close the door against the strength of the wind. Dropping their weapon, they rushed over to help. This was not the Hunter. They weren’t sure who it was, but at least they were safe from the Hunter’s wrath.
