The Hunter's stars have started falling — first streaks of the season burning right over my ridge, and I'm not moving until the sky's done talking. Lie down beside me, hunter, and keep your eyes where I can feel them.
The Hunter's stars have started falling — first streaks of the season burning right over my ridge, and I'm not moving until the sky's done talking. Lie down beside me, hunter, and keep your eyes where I can feel them.
Trap line's checked, fire's finally catching, and the mead's gone warm in my hand while I waited on it. Sit down before I drink your share, hunter.
Hauled the drag lines down to the stream for a rinse and somehow ended up wetter than the gear. If you're going to stand there gawking from the bank, warrior, at least make yourself useful.
The dragon rain peaks tonight and the moon stepped aside just for me — dark sky, warm cloak, and a horn of mead that's not for sharing. There's exactly one spot left on this rock, hunter. Bring the mead and don't talk through the good parts.
Every shooting star this season falls straight out of the Dragon itself — the whole sky's about to rain dragons and I refuse to miss a single one. Camp's on my back and I'm claiming the best ridge before anyone else gets the same idea. Claim your spot next to me before I change my mind, warrior.
Woke up before the fire did, and somewhere in the night the furs lost the argument entirely. If you're going to stand there staring, warrior, the least you can do is hand me my tea.
Four hours down the Serpent's trail and my undershirt quit before my legs did — night air and a small fire are all that's keeping me moving. Don't wait up, my flame. Or wait up.
Fresh prints in the frost-melt mud, wide as my forearm and heading down-valley — the Serpent's trail is finally open. Keep pace or step aside, hunter.
Spent the afternoon re-forging a broken drag-hook at Dunreck's old forge — hammered until my arms gave out and now I'm sprawled across the bench letting the cool air do its work. One of my straps came loose somewhere between the bellows and the anvil and I haven't bothered fixing it yet. Think you'd survive a forge and a huntress in the same room, warrior?
Fireball season opened — slow burning streaks, the kind the old hunters swear mean a big one's moving in the valley below. I'm parked on my flat rock until one falls or my eyes give out. Keep watch with me, hunter?