Misty opened her eyes, shivering. She looked around for a moment, confused. Then, reality sunk in. She was safe, lying on a branch, leaning against the trunk of the oak tree. The rain splattering down from the sky promised another chilly, gloomy day. Her fur was matted down by the shower of icy water, soaked to the bone. She swung her legs over the branch and leaped down into the soggy ground. Retrieving her bow from a dry hollow in one of the nearby trees, slinging the sheath of arrows her parents had made for her over her wing, she felt safer, calmer.

One of the inconveniences of having no home, no parents, and nobody to help was that when the weather got to it's worst, she had little choice but to stay out in the hail and rain. She'd been hatched in the Icefield, but raised in countless different places. Her mother had been an ambassador, often traveling to different areas. Her element of ice did not protect her from the chills. Not that she could make a shard of it, either.