The biting-cold wind blew around the cloaked figure, who clutched her hands to her chest in a desperate effort to retain any warmth she could. She walked, step after step after step, her horse long dead, following the fast fading tracks in the snow. They were fresh; someone had passed through no more than half an hour before, and, judging by the impression they'd left, they were heavily armoured. At this point, they were the only lifeline the wanderer had left. She trudged ever on, her mind clouded with doubt and worry. The tracks were being filled in with fresh snow faster than she could follow them and she was rapidly losing hope.
She'd heard tales of people dying in the frozen wastes. It was very rare to be killed; most of the threats that could be found in other, warmer parts were non-existent in the harsh climate. More often than not, the cold crept in second by second until it became easier to stop moving and sleep. The cold became warm and death had you by the hand before you realised you'd stopped shivering.
Her feet dragged and she stumbled, throwing her hands out to soften the fall. She landed hard on her hands and knees, and she remained for a second, watching the clouds of her breath set against the backdrop of the frozen ground. It came as a welcome distraction from the dark thoughts that were beginning to crowd in her mind – she clenched her fists, focusing on the feeling of the snow and the rocks that peppered it in her hands. With a grimace, she pushed herself up and continued staggering on the path left for her. She barely noticed her surroundings as she kept walking; her feet were moving without her telling them to and she had retreated into the safety of her own mind. She didn't notice when the tracks disappeared, and she didn't notice when her legs finally gave way beneath her.
She woke to the sound of a crackling fire burning in a dull stone hearth, and took in her surroundings through bleary eyes. She was lying on a hard floor, close to the fireplace of a fairly small room. The furniture she could see was rough and well used – by the look of it, most of it was hand made. A small woven rug lay in the centre of the room, the muted colours almost blending into the stone floor. In one corner was a haphazard stack of what appeared to be cooking equipment, and in another was a small table, holding a carefully arranged set of axes, ranging from what seemed to be a military-style weapon to a small hunter's tool. A bed was set against the wall opposite the fireplace, on which she could see a person sleeping. Oddly enough, the rumbling snores coming from the bed, combined with the warmth washing over her from the fire, were enough to soothe her curiosity about where she was, and more importantly, why she was there, and she felt herself slipping into sleep once more.
The next time she woke, sunlight was streaming into the room through a window behind her. The fire was burning low, and the figure was gone from the bed. She got up, and took a minute to explore her surroundings in more detail than she could in the night. The room that she was in seemed to be the only room in the building. The small room held the basics that anyone living there would need to survive and little more, but still gave off a cosy, welcoming feel.
Without much warning, the door swung open to reveal a heavy-set man dressed in thick winter clothing, a hefty axe resting on his shoulder. He stamped his feet twice, shaking off clumps of snow that were clinging to him, before stepping inside and slamming the door closed.
"Ah, I was wondering when you'd be up," he said, his voice deep and grating. "Next time, try not to get lost in a blizzard, eh?"
She stared at him for a second before she thought to respond. Her instincts were telling her that she shouldn't trust this person, despite him having apparently saved her life.
"And who exactly are you?" She questioned, narrowing her eyes slightly.
"Aye, well I'd ask you the same question. I live here," he gestured around the room, "but from the looks of you, I might say you don't."
"You didn't answer my question."
He chuckled, walking into the room and passing by her to drop a bag of firewood against the leg of the table in the corner.
"My name's Pádraig, if that means anything to you."
She inhaled slowly before responding in kind.
"I'm… Veronica."
"Sawyer?" He replied thoughtfully.
"You've heard of me?"
She wouldn't call it unusual for people to have heard her name. Many citizens of the northern cities would at least recognise it. She'd had her share of fame and infamy, although she was surprised that it had reached what she could only assume was a hermit, living in a mostly uninhabited area of the south.
"Aye. And what's a person like you doing falling asleep in the middle of a forest?"
She laughed a little, Pádraig's calm manner soothing her nerves. He seemed to be the kind of person who could put a savage boar at ease. "I was escorting a caravan from High Pass," she replied, raising an eyebrow at his almost incredulous, teasing expression. "What? I have to make a living somehow," she retorted.
"No, no, I get that," he smiled, "it just seems a little… tame for someone like you, doesn't it? It's a bit of a demotion from working for Lady Heather."
"Listen, my fighting days are over. I left my sword behind years ago."
She followed his gaze to the scabbard lying on the floor.
"Figuratively, asshole. Anyway, they left me behind. My horse died and they figured I was too slow for them, I guess." She frowned, and rolled her eyes. "They're probably dead now. Serves them right."
Pádraig nodded solemnly before walking past Veronica, heading to the door again, still carrying his axe.
"I have more work to do before it gets dark," he stated, in a matter-of-fact tone but without losing his air of kindness. "You can rest here for a while. I've seen frostbite before and you should be fully recovered within a day or two. You'll feel exhausted for a while, but it's nothing to worry about."
"Wait!" Veronica called after him just as he was opening the door. "The tracks – I was following some tracks. Was that you?"
He furrowed his brow. "When I passed you, it was the first time I'd been that way. I'm not one for going in circles during a storm."
He left without saying another word. The door swung shut behind him.