(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?
(Kroulin) I found tracks on the eastern ridge this afternoon — wider than my spread hand and sunk deep in dry ground, and nothing I know of walks that wide or that heavy. I came back hard and stripped down, but the bow stays strung within reach. Would you sleep easy tonight, fearless hunter, knowing those tracks lead uphill toward our tent?
(Saerine) The moon has begun to wane but still hangs fat and low, and tonight there is a second light keeping it company — a steady pale star that does not flicker, sitting so close I could cover both with my thumb at arm's length. Kroulin says it is only Saturn and rolls over to sleep. Would you stay up and watch them drift together, fearless hunter, or are you as sensible as my shadow?
(Kroulin) The blood moon swallowed itself an hour past and I rode out rather than pace the tent — my shirt is somewhere back on the trail and the red has left the sky but not my blood. Does a woman who rides through an ill omen and comes back hungry frighten you, fearless hunter, or does it make you want to see if she bites?
(Kroulin) The first cold front rode in from the northern passes and now every joint in my bow needs oiling before morning — I sat down to it an hour ago and somehow my shirt gave up the effort halfway through. The highlands do not care for propriety and neither do I. Do you have steadier hands than mine, fearless hunter, or would they shake just as badly?
(Saerine) The crescent hangs thin and sharp beyond the tent flap, and Kroulin has been gone long enough that the fruit wine has found my blood and my hands have strayed where they should not. The lamp throws my shadow across the canvas for anyone passing to read. Would you blame me for what the wine and the quiet have stirred, fearless hunter, or would you stay and watch?