It is difficult to believe that Winter is drawing its final breaths, and the earth will soon bud with life again. How relentless and endless these chilled, grey days feel after so many months of them. Yet they will relent, and they will end, and I will be glad for it. For now, the only promise of a new season is the slightly higher arc of the sun on its course through the sky, stretching the days little by little.
I passed much of the winter at the camp with my companion, though he bids me seek respite from the harshest of the cold nights by visiting the old inn when circumstances allow it. I keep to nightfall for my arrivals and departures, to avoid alarming or troubling the townsfolk,and so far, it has worked well. I am torn, however, between the allure of a fireside and a hot meal, and the call of my responsibilities, and the constant concern for my kinsmen in the wilds. So I do not stay in any village more than one night at a time. I think it best for all parties involved.
My companion has scolded me for not being more diligent with my drawings, though my heart for it has been weak of late. I worked a bit on drawing a gregarious jay bird that followed our camp for several days, begging for crumbs, but I am not yet satisfied with it. A few days ago, I caught sight of a pretty roe-buck at dawn, and he stared long enough to let me sketch him roughly, before he darted away into a thicket. I believe I kept sufficient detail in my mind to complete the drawing to some satisfaction, and when I showed it to my companion, he was indeed pleased.
