[Esgallhugwen]

Though the first of winter is a welcomed reprieve from field work, it is a burden to a sore traveler. Especially for a young wounded one.

How long have I been walking?

A voice rattled in the young woman's head, she squinted her eyes against the chill wind and looked down at her feet that were barely covered by her tattered skirt, no shoes the rattled thought spoke, no, not for a long time.

A horrible cough breached her lips as she staggered forward on numb feet, falling to her knees small pebbles and rocks bit into her frozen skin. She cursed hoarsely under her breath and picked herself up, almost falling again.

Her body was riddled with bruises, old and new, scratches and scrapes, old and new, and a few scares. But nothing marred her face save for a cut on her lip and smears of dirt. The cold seemed to be eating away at her and the grey rag that was once called a cloak provided no comfort.

But still she clung to her frail consciousness despite the numb sinking feeling that was swimming before her. She could feel the cooling blood trickling down her legs, hot tears burned her frosted cheeks and her teeth began to chatter visciously inside her skull.

How long have I been walking?

She followed the road upward knowing not where it led, knowing little other then that she would probably die in the street and be covered up by the impending snow. Another cough racked her body and she held back the urge to vomit.

Turning a corner a sign caught her vague attention.

The White Horse Inn

She would have laughed had she the strength, she clambered up the steps with aching toes, and attempted to push back the door. No she couldn't, as if someone had pushed it against her, she had no strength to open a simple door.

You can stop now Gudryn, he won't find you.

Darkness overwhelmed her and she hit the door with a muffled thump before falling to the ground. He won't find you.