a thousand teeth, and yours among them

OOC: wee

Claws scrabbled for any and all sorts of grip. The wind was a force. A giant hand of air that pressed on his bowed skull, heaving chest, and whipcord limbs. It was determined to shove him back and down. Perhaps if he let it it would force him to his death on the rocks and trees far far below. Godfrey's limbs made just enough headway that he inched up the rocky precipice. They weren't sturdy enough to prevent him to sway each time he forced a step. The path in the snow and ice behind him was jagged. A wavering, winding thing that always took him heavenward. Just not necessarily in a straight line.

So why was he out and about on such a terrible day? Originally it had been because he had tracked a winter hare up here. Now though, it was simple bullheadness. That and he feared for his safety. Unless he found himself a good broad ledge he feared he might be blown away.

He tipped his skull upward, his muzzle knifing through the tempest. Ahead he spotted his salvation. A perch, thank the spirits and all that was holy, a perch. It was occupied, yes, but he didn't particularly care at this point. So he fought his way upward to the ledge with the silver female upon it. Surely she wouldn't take offense to him joining her, right? There was always a simple companionship in surviving harsh weather.