The thick, woolen cloak made for decent seating. Without it, her backside might have frozen right to the frost-hardened earth of the lake bank. She kept the upper portion of the garment hugged tightly around her shoulders, while its generous length allowed it to be yanked tautly beneath her haunches.
Ahead, the water's surface was choked still around the rim of the lake, where the shallows permitted the cold to permeate. In the center, it reflected the wind-washed sky, but the surface seemed reluctant to break or ripple or show any life at all.
Dry, pale-brown reeds fluttered in the breeze and leaned over to tap and rustle against the huntress' shoulder. She did not rebuke them.
"You won't shoot! It'd be murder!"
The brigand's voice rattled about in her skull. An echo of the altercation from the previous evening. Weeks of prowling the miles of farmland between Bree-town and the ruins of Andrath had paid off. If one could think of such an unpleasant experience in this way. The huntress' mind had a peculiar way of working. Long, lonely nights in the bitter cold instead of curled away in her bedroll, or better yet, a room at the Prancing Pony, or better still, in Ivan's arms, were hardly a price to feel indignant over. If it meant that the local farmers and their families were kept safe from the Blackwolds who kept inching northward.
"It's not murder if I shoot you in the foot."
With her chin propped on her fist, she turned to glance dryly over the gently rippling fields. The hedge-wall of Bree was a dark green line on the horizon, with miniature peaks of buildings atop. It was a pity that the village Watch could not relieve her of her self-imposed duty. She yearned for a tremendously long, indulgent rest. A crackling hearth, fresh, hot food, heaps of fur blankets. Perhaps a certain dark-haired rake for a night. Or two. Or three. Or hundred.
"Nay. Not a hundred. That's too much," she mumbled aloud.
The wind kicked up with a fresh bluster, roaring mournfully over the trees and pummeling the side of her head. Like an icy fist, it pounded in restless, irritable bursts while she bowed her chin and let the hood of her cloak take its brunt. At length, it expended itself and went out like the final huff of resignation after a lover's quarrel.
It was little wonder the Watchers didn't come out here to stand vigil. Who in their right mind would?
With her head still bent, she placed the tip of her finger against her breast. A soft chuckling punctuated the frozen air.
