Camlin was walking with one arm curled up to his waist, and upon it a big black crow was perched, leaning into the fur of his cloak. “Craf cold,” the crow muttered and, without thinking, Camlin tucked his cloak over the bird’s splinted wing. What am I doing! “How did I even get roped into this?” he muttered to himself. “Taking a crow for a walk.” “Camlin kind,” Craf cawed. He shook his head. I’m a fool, nursemaiding a crow. Two days I’ve been doing this. If the lads from the Darkwood saw me now. He realized he was stroking Craf’s head as he thought that.
