(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?
(Saerine) The road home left me stiff and hollow, and the tent is so warm from the stove that my shift gave up any pretense of covering me while I knead the morning's travel bread. Kroulin is off with the horses, so the flour and the firelight are mine alone tonight. Would you come share this bread when it is ready, fearless hunter, or is it the kneading that caught your eye?
(Kroulin) The moon is swelling toward full and the old women swear it will swallow itself before the week is out — an omen, they whisper, though none can agree of what. I stripped off the day's sweat and stretched out on the grass to watch it climb, and if the whole clan marched past I doubt I would trouble myself to sit up. Think you could make me move, fearless hunter?
(Saerine) The harvest moon is near and I have spent the day churning butter for the winter stores — my arms ache and my shift is streaked with cream where it splashed. Kroulin rode off the moment the work began, the coward. Would you lend me your hands instead, fearless hunter?
(Kroulin) The festival is behind us and I gave my horse her head until my shirt gave up trying to stay closed — the highlands have no patience for modesty and neither do I. Think you can keep pace, fearless hunter, or should I slow down and let you catch up?
(Saerine) I found this old festival robe buried in our travel chest — the fabric is so worn that the evening light passes clean through it, and I cannot tell whether it is fit to wear before the whole clan or only before someone who would not mind. Would you give me your honest judgment, fearless hunter, or are you too distracted to be trusted?
(Saerine) Word came up the trail this morning — the great gathering at the foot of Mount Taij is but a week's ride from here. I have begun drying extra curd and wrapping provisions for the journey, though Kroulin says we need nothing but her bow and her conceit. Would you ride with us to the festival, fearless hunter, or do crowds of strangers put you off?
(Kroulin) My shadow dragged me out of the tent an hour ago and I was ready to strangle her — but the sky split open and now I understand why she woke me. The whole vault is falling, streak after streak, more than I have ever seen in my life. I wrapped myself in her blanket because mine is still inside and I refuse to go back for it. Look up, fearless hunter — when will you see this many again?
(Kroulin) My shadow sleeps like a stone and I cannot — so I sit out here restringing my bow while the sky crawls from black to grey. The highlands belong to me alone at this hour, and I will not pretend I mind it. Do you keep odd hours too, fearless hunter, or does dawn find you sensible and sleeping?
(Saerine) The shooting stars have begun — not the great cascade yet, just scattered heralds crossing the sky every few minutes, bright enough to throw shadows on the grass. I woke Kroulin to share them and she threw a boot at me, so I came out alone with nothing but a blanket and a cup of cold tea. The highlands hold no light but their own tonight, and I cannot remember when I last felt this small beneath something this vast. Would you sit beside me and count them, fearless hunter, or are you too proud to shiver in the dark?