First real frost on the highland grass this morning — which means the drakes are moving to lower ground and the old trails open up again. I've been crouched by this fire long enough to remember I own a cloak, just not long enough to actually close it. Don't let the cold fool you, hunter — I'm just getting started.
Caught a drake scent so strong I could taste it — but the trail doubled back and now I'm back at camp with every nerve lit up and nowhere to put it. My mouth keeps saying things I'd only whisper if you were close enough to hear, warrior.
The moon's swelling golden and the old hunters swear that's when the ancient drakes come down from the peaks to feed before the cold. Three valleys spread out below me and I'm not budging until I spot one — don't even think about pulling me away, hunter.
The highlands are endless and empty at this hour — just me, the grass, and the kind of thoughts I'd never say out loud unless I knew you were listening. Bet you couldn't handle half the things I want to whisper right now, warrior.
The moon's got a golden companion tonight and it feels like a pair of eyes watching me — stripped bare on this ridge with nowhere to hide. Think you'd stare at me the way that sky does, hunter?
Shed scales this big mean a mature wyvern — and fresh enough that the iridescence hasn't faded yet. Whatever left this den moved on within the last day or two. Tell me you wouldn't follow a trail like that, hunter.
Found a hot spring so deep in the highlands no trail leads here — and I'm testing exactly how bold I get when there's no one around to stop me. Think you'd be brave enough to watch, hunter?
The trail went cold but the adrenaline didn't — and out here there's no one to blame but myself for what I do about it. Hope you're not the type to stumble through the woods at the wrong moment, warrior.
Three pines scorched black along the trail means a young drake maybe two hours ahead — stopped to retie my boots and my shirt rode up in the process. Not my problem if you noticed, hunter.
Two horns of spiced mead in and there's someone across the room who keeps catching me staring. Not that I'd call it staring. He'd probably bolt the second I actually smiled at him, hunter.