She was leaning against a birch tree marked with white spots, gasping for breath, each breath tugging at her empty stomach, sending waves of spasmodic pain.
Her face was as pale as the snow at her feet, her lips cracked and peeling from dehydration and cold, even seeping with traces of blood.
At her feet, slanted in the snow, was that ridiculously crude "arrow" she had made herself.
It was a straight spruce stick, patiently sharpened with a small knife, and repeatedly charred over a fire in an attempt to increase hardness.
The fletching was made from two feathers from a grouse she had previously hunted, barely glued together with resin scraped from a pine tree and a bit of thread she had pulled from her clothes.
This was the most "refined" work she could produce.
Just moments ago, ten minutes to be exact, the Goddess of Fortune seemed to smile upon her.
