I made it to the foot of the Misties around four days ago.
It has been a pretty uneventual ascent thus far, which is nice, unless you count the raven.
Two days ago now, I had rounded a bend in the trail only to spot a ragged little black shape lying atop the pristine snow. Curious, and quite bored of all the blinding white, I struggled through the snowbank to take a closer look. It was, as it turns out, the aforementioned bird.
The poor thing had broken a wing and, after some struggling from the looks of the tracks in the snow, had finally been overcome by cold and exhaustion. At first I thought to leave the thing there, or even cook and eat it, but the longer I stared at it the more I was filled with pity for the creature.
It was only doing as birds do; flying, presumably searching for a place to rest, its next meal or even a mate and here it lay cold and alone, soon to die in the merciless grip of the low mountain temperature with only a broken bone between itself and life.
I tried to turn away, I tried to leave it behind. Ravens are vermin, or so I have been told and what was one less bird in the grand scheme of things? However, I could not even manage a single step before I looked back to its bright eyes and knew without doubt that I could not abandon it to its fate.
Without further ado I carefuly scooped it up and placed it in the crook of my arm beneath my thick fur cloak. Rather than try to take my fingers off with its wicked-looking beak, the bird just huddled there seeming glad of the warmth. I know not how long it has been out here, but perhaps it was simply too close to death to find argument with my actions.
I trudged on through the day, taking shelter in a small overhang before the light started to fade and there I set about strapping up the wing as best I could. It seemed a lot more content after I gave it some of the berries I had managed to scrounge together before my trek up the mountain.
I must admit that, reek though it does, my warg-hide blanket has been rather useful of a night up here. No more so than tonight, I think, for my feathered companion and I were driven to seek shelter early in the day by an impromptu blizzard. In this icy little cave, I have managed to construct a small fire from twigs I had taken from the plains and although it affords little warmth, it is better than no external heat source.
It is staring at me now, the bird. I think it is waiting for me to lie down to sleep. During the day it seems content tucked away in my cloak, but at night when I have wrapped my cloak around me and huddled down beneath my smelly blanket, it hops up to roost on my hip or arm. It is a strange companion, but a companion nonetheless.
