The assassin will have to stay sharp. After those howls the noises have diminished; there's only the odd scrape and scuffle above the wind, the growls between one small creature and another. But listening will pay off. The pack's coming from behind to her right- and then there's a thump from a roof on the next street over, snarls carried on a shift of the gale. A second pack, from her other side.

No heading back to her ship, nor to left and right. If she wants to stay ahead of the hunt there's only one way forward.

(And now, perhaps, there's that prickling sense of being under observation again...)

Ice makes her steps treacherous, snow threatens to slow her down. Ducking into alleys, weaving under porches, staying out of sight. How much farther can safety be?

Beneath the shadow of an archway she finally sees it. A small orange glow at the end of the street- no, two, either side of the road. The torches. And maybe it's just the sight of some other sign of life, or an instinctive notion, but those torches feel like safety. Like home and light and friendly voices...

The snow atop the archway crunches. Something's sitting right atop her shelter.