Moving quickly, she fires off a shot that it shrieks and dances back from but missing doesn't bother her too much; it gives her time to keep running, to find a better position to drop onto one knee so she can aim.

The chill radiating reminds her of wading through snows deep enough she'd sink to her knees, out past Winterhold, horkers below on the ice, bears or cats or wolves ready to lunge.

Brónach's second shot fires true, more weight behind it this time as time almost slows when she pulls back the bowstring, holds her breath until the arrow flies. Careful of the hound. Lots of dogs in Skyrim, dogs never did her any trouble.