Recently, there's been a fair bit of noise from White River. Every few evenings or so, farmers report the noise of wolves attacking a woman, or a woman yelling and screaming in agony, but when they move to the source of the noise...there's nothing there. Most have pinned it down to angry spirits of some drowned lady, whose corpse was ravaged by wolves. Farmers tend to do that, see; the commonfolk exaggerate things. The wisened old men with their calloused hands would push back their sweat-soaked greying hair and grunt "There goes th'noise again, get the sheep in Ulred, Jacom grab the horse..." and report it to a guard. The guard would trot off in the direction of the horrific yells, as he usually does, and finds nothing, and has to go back again because that's his job. After a few nights, the guards grew complacent, started rationalizing the issue.

Igfrid shrieked again, raking her nails across her flesh and armour, fumbling with buckles and convulsing with pain. Dark, muddy blonde hair like filthy straw pushes against every pore, her nose pushing outwards, bones cracking and sinew shifting...only to go into reverse again - hair retreating into the skin like a thousand needles, whole skeletal and organ systems clicking into place again, muscles shrinking. Her laboured breathing and heightened hearing parted through the cold night air to hear the chainmail boots clinking as a guard approaches the corner of the river to which she had confined herself to this evening. 

A gasp of air forced its way through Igfrid's lungs and she rolled into the river again, her senses dulled, cold shooting through her aching body and soothing the pain somewhat. The cold usually stopped the transformation - no beast likes getting wet. And like every other evening, Igfrid waited until her lungs were fit to burst, her heavy armour pinning her to the silt and the river-weed covering her form like camouflage. Then she'd slowly raise her head out of the water and check for the guard, and yes, there he was down the road over there. Igfrid exhaled loudly, dragging herself onto the bank again and lying there pathetically for a while longer.

Igfrid was no stealthy cat, like a certain person she vaguely recalled. She strolled nonchalantly through the cold night air of Whiterun, through the well-lit street, sopping wet and shivering. "Evenin' Igfrid, that horse again eh?" called out a cheery guard. Igfrid managed to control her chattering teeth enough to give a friendly grin and a wave.

"Aye! Keeps throwing me into the river, see. Better than the ground, though I worry for the currents!" yelled Igfrid back jovially, squelching her way into the Odd Jobs hut. The moment the door shut behind her, Igfrid took off her massive boots and left them by the door, undressing to everything but a baggy and soaking under-shirt and leather britches which squeaked with movement, and were held up by a cord. She noded politely to Aria and made a beeline for the upstairs room where she kept some of her belongings - incredibly small, but Igfrid doesn't complain - and shut the door rather swiftly.

It's curious, though, that ever since the noises started, Igfrid got that new horse and keeps coming back stinking of river water after falling in every time.