(Kroulin) The water bucket wore a skin of ice this morning — first of the season, and barely a week before the equinox, so I went down to the spring and left my shirt behind because the cold wakes you faster than any tea. Think you could stomach a morning like this, fearless hunter, or do you need your fire lit first?
(Saerine) The stove has burned to embers and sleep will not come — so I brewed sage tea and let the last warmth hold me. My shift is so worn the firelight passes clean through it, and I have stopped minding. Would you keep me company, fearless hunter, or do you sleep as soundly as my shadow?
(Kroulin) The new moon swallowed itself whole and the sky turned black enough to show every falling star at once — I rode out to the western ridge and shed everything but my skin because the dark asked for it. Think you could find me out here in all that black, fearless hunter, or would you need me to call?
(Saerine) The moon has vanished entirely and the sky has emptied its whole treasury of stars across the highlands — I cannot find the patterns I know because there are too many lights crowding them out. I came out to check the horses and lost the thread of it entirely. Do you know what it is to stand beneath a sky so full it forgets you are there, fearless hunter?
(Saerine) The equinox is a fortnight off and we must strike camp for the winter valleys before the passes close — I have been packing dried curd and salted meat all afternoon and my shift has given up any pretense of modesty in the heat. Would you help me sort what stays and what goes, fearless hunter, or are you only here to watch?
(Kroulin) The moon has thinned to a scratch and the dark is so thick I can taste it — my shirt died somewhere around the second joint of mutton and I did not trouble myself to mourn it. Think you could stomach what I am making, fearless hunter, or are you only here for the view?
(Saerine) The wild plums by the southern ridge ripened early this year — I gathered a full basket this morning and now my hands are stained purple to the wrist from pressing them for wine. Kroulin calls it women's work and has fled on her horse, which means the first taste is mine when it ferments. Would you help me crush the next batch, fearless hunter, or are you only here to watch?
(Kroulin) The northern sky has started bleeding green — faint at first, then spreading like spilled herbal tea across the stars. I climbed the ridge in my shift to watch it alone. Think the sky is showing off, fearless hunter, or trying to warn us?
(Saerine) The gathering still burns bright down the hill and I could not bear another hour of small talk and trading — so I slipped away with a blanket and let the highland dark take me. The grass is cold beneath me and the stars feel close enough to touch. Would you follow me up here, hungry stud, or do you need the fire to keep you warm?
(Kroulin) The grey colt threw me twice before he learned who holds the reins — the second toss cost me my shirt and I left it in the dirt where it fell. My shoulders burn and my blood runs hot and the wretched beast has finally found his manners. Tell me, stallion — do you take to a bridle more willingly than he did?