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Patrolling around the territory had its perks, sometimes. While Aristotle didn't particularly admire the cold that plagued the moors, he thought the snow to be beautiful; he didn't care much for how tired it made him at the end of the day, but at least it lulled him to sleep at night; walking around so much only to meet the occasional inquisitor at the border could be boring, however, sometimes, there was good to it. In fact, during his expedition back to camp from the western-most border, past a few trees and through some long grasses, he'd discovered something nestled amongst the roots of an old, shriveled willow. The dirty leather-bound book was dusted with snow, but stuck out like a sore thumb due to the red hue painted onto its spine.
Curiously, Aristotle paused his walk, blinking toward the book sticking out from the ground. He turned toward it, dusted it off, and figuring it was decidedly abandoned, picked it up and continued on his merry way. Such is why he could be seen in a more secluded area of the camp, tucked away from the snow, form shaking slightly in an attempt to keep warm as he sat hunched over the near-faded words of the songbird encyclopedia. Hungry for knowledge, he seemed to be immensely immersed in reading the page on warblers.
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