This is a peasant hut straight out of the old country - like something from a village at home - that had been long-abandoned when she found it as evening fell, but the walls and the door are still sound. She'd spent the twilight scrounging wood and working out how to unjam the door, then settled to sit by her small fire and half-doze til morning.

She's been hearing dogs fighting over meat. That's not even real and she knows it, but those thoughts come sometimes when she's alone. Rain and the crackle of the fire and those old memories mean she startles hearing the pounding on the door, startles and takes her sidearm from its place besides her. Still loaded.

Padding in her stockings to the door she wrenches it open - fast, no cracking it to peer uselessly out into the dark - and shows her sidearm so the firelight illuminates it. "Who goes there," she growls.