Upon the coming morn, Hawkeye took the broken legs and smashed the empty panels, forming a kindling within the entrance area. With its openness, the mare could see any intruder that gawked at the smoke or flames, and she would retreat into the sleeping quarters if need be. She needed the fire. It was going to be a cold day. She could feel the ice in her bones. The winter had not been the kindest already, and it was only getting worse.
The previous quiet, windless day had been replaced with darker clouds that would reign over the land, garnering the storm that was eventual. It would be a blizzard, one of many that tormented the living during colder seasons. The mare hoped to see the soft bloom of flowers once more, the morning dew blanketing the grass and leaves. But without fire, she would freeze before her chores were done.
She had piled rubble from the roof that had collapsed, forming a pit for the tinder. With her bone knife, she tore the long garments she had found into kindling. Scraps of the cloth would catch aflame, warming the wood and grow a fire. Using the only piece of flint she had, she struck the side a few times against the stone. Sparks prevailed against the harshness, burning the torn fabric and crawling against the wood.
Stoking it with the fat cut from the rabbit's meat, the fire began to roar. She dared not stick too much timber upon the flames for fear that it would be smothered.
When it was growing, the mare removed the straps from her shoulders, undoing the strings that ran down her forelegs. Pulling off the gloves, she felt the heat against her light amber-grey fur. The warmth alone rejuvenated the desperate mare, filling her spirit and combating the cold.
She waited for a while, gathering herself and thinking upon her duties. The domicile of the ancients was an excellent base for the time being, but that didn't make it safe. She would have to check every inch of the ruin, building barriers and setting traps. It was better to start on the outside and work inward.
The fire would last several hours, and though the cold entered through the open roof, the mare did not worry. She had made plenty of fires over the years, and this would not be her last.
Strapping on the gloves and spinning the thread that bound the hide, she was ready enough to face the cold. With the oncoming storm, there was not much to do, yet the sacrifice had to be made. To go into a storm without giving a gift to the gods, there would be consequences, and the dire situation the mare had found herself in would only worsen. Braving the cold and fighting the ice would be worthy work.
For mares and stallions, the cold could end all life, but for the unseen, the cold made no difference. Should the unseen grow hungry and stumble into the sanctity of the ruins for some strange reason, the mare who was the last of the remnants would become cornered. Running and braving the storm would mean her ultimate demise, yet staying would grant her a night of terror under constant worry and threat. No, the gift was more than necessary.
With her hides securely on, the mare sidled outside into the snow-covered land. Her chores needed finishing.