You're "Rescued".

Just as it's about to strike, an attack from behind saves you. An iron battleaxe comes down, dealing the wolf a vicious strike, practically cleaving it into two halves.

Gasping frantically, you look up at your saviour, expecting Donald's now-familiar form to greet you. Instead, you behold a hulking shape, all leather, fur and iron plating, wrenching it's weapon free. Before you can react, they approach, regard you, then rain down a single, powerful punch to your head.

-

You're not quite sure how long you're **** for, or how long you're simply stunned, present, but unable to say or do anything meaningful. Some part of you is aware of being bound, hoisted handily over your rescuer/assailant's shoulder and then carried off into the mountains.

-

"Drink." A single word, delivered in a powerful, slightly muffled contralto. A wooden cup is pressed to your lips. You're so disoriented that you obey before you even have a chance to think. Whatever the brew you've just consumed was, it burns going down, it's almost painful to swallow. But once it's inside you, you feel a certain warmth spreading throughout your body.

You blink, trying your best to clear your vision. You're on your side, ropes restraining you, in a small cave. There's a small fire in the centre of the room. You can hear the howl of the wind outside the cave, not too far off. Wherever you are, you're not too far from the exit.

Standing over you with the cup is the same armoured, helmeted figure from before. Tromping across the cave, they reach into their pack, and return carrying a handful of dried meat.

"Eat this." the figure tells you. When you hesitate, more aware of your situation, they hold it closer. "It's safe."

Your suspicions are all but confirmed from hearing them speak again. Whoever's holding you is most likely a woman. But the sheer size of the armoured figure... you imagined Jana's brawniest fighter would look the part of a demure Itherian lady by comparison.

Getting the feeling you'd simply be forcefed if you resisted, you eat from your captor's hand, feeling very much like an animal as you do. True to her word, there's nothing wrong with the meat.

"Good." the armoured woman murmurs. "You'll need your strength, for what's to come next."

Not long after you've devoured the last morsel, your bonds are cut. You barely have any time to contemplate making a break for it, as futile as that would be, before your wrists are lashed together once again, and you're hoisted up, both arms wrenched above your head.

The hulking woman hoists you until you're suspended ever so slightly off your feet, in a horizontal position, then ties the rope off.

"Hmm" The figure intones. "A noble, but Beathans aren't that soft. But... they do hold their pathetic rituals with the southerners, their playfights, around this time. An Itherian then. But not just any Itherian..." her gaze drifts up, to your useless hand, then down, to your right leg, dangling more limply than your left.

Even suspended off your feet, the woman towers above you. She must stand eight feet, at least!

Reaching up, she removes her helmet, revealing herself as a pale-skinned woman of about thirty, her black hair in a long braid, her sea blue eyes projecting a certain nobility and intelligence, just as her frame projects strength.

"King Edward, allow me to introduce myself." she smiles. "I am Jarl Størsdóttir Hjordis of Dean. The blood of Itheria meets the blood of Giants!"