The drip of melting ice eased me from slumber this morning. Friends new and old lay scattered and sleeping all about the cave floor, their bodies relaxed and their minds blanketed in the good spirts of Volder and Lema. I remembered hearing our talkative compatriot Xanxuiloxozzyr retelling our exploits in the Battle of the Scarp before I finally succumbed to fatigue and warmth last night.

I followed a fellow early riser, Twil, out of the cave mouth and down to a creek to drink and bathe. All around us the previous night’s snow glistened and melted in the strong morning light piercing the icy cover of steel clouds. An unusual softness was on the air.

Not speaking, Twil unslung his Harmonizer and wandered along the creek, his head tilted to the side in curious concentration. His long fingers began a gentle dance along the strings and a sparse rhythm began to form. Captivated by my friend’s playing I trailed behind, careful not to interject any sound. Although no discernable melody appeared, his playing seemed to compliment the murmer of the waking earth about us. The soft ripple of the creek was answered by delicate triplets, the light breeze in the bare tree limbs was echoed by rounded chords, even our footsteps in the melting snow added a layer to his acoustic explorations.

Spying the the ranger Cedric at rest ahead on a sun warmed boulder I settled down cross-legged beside him to observe Twil’s work unfold.

“Twoooooeeet..tweeep,tweep,tweep….Twoooooeeet..tweep,tweep,tweep”

With that introduction, a bright speck of a songbird flashed into view. The creature lit briefly upon Twill’s Harmonizer before floating to rest directly in front of me on the stone. Amazed, I could only stare at the minature beast. Golden of body with its head covered in deep black feathers, the songbird returned my curious gaze. It hopped from here to there and cocked its head back and forth in excitement as it seemed to give me a thorough once-over.

“Rhiannon smiles on you Finch,” spoke Twil softly.

“Tis highly, highly unnatural for this type of bird to linger in the wood this late in the season,” whispered Cedric, “they usually don’t survive Wyrm’s Turn if they can’t fly south.”

Dazzled by the moment, I uttered the first thought that came to me:

“The Gods reward us. They have sent their smallest messenger upon the Sun this morning to bless our blades and brows with grace.”

---

Taken as a sign of wild Rhiannon’s favor and a most postive omen, the Finch has taken a familiar. After much consultation with his mystic father Prince Caradoc, and his mad, feral druid companion Iorweth Wolfsblood, the correct binding rituals were completed and the songbird Seeleid has joined the young man in spirit and fate.