(Kroulin) The stove had water enough for one basin, and I saw no cause to waste it on modesty. My shadow sleeps through every dawn as though it were her sworn duty. I trust you less than the hills, fearless hunter — will you at least own to watching?
(Saerine) The cold woke me before Kroulin — she burrows like a badger under the furs and leaves me to face the chill alone. I reached for my shift and found it had slipped entirely beneath me in the night, bunched uselessly at the small of my back. The first grey light was already seeping through the canvas, and I had not the heart to cover myself before it found every inch of me. Will you look your fill before I find my modesty again, fearless hunter?
(Kroulin) The herd scattered twice before I could coax them back to the eastern slope — stubborn beasts, every last one. I came home drenched in sweat and foul temper, and my dear shadow had the gall to press a cup of tea into my hands as though I were some wilting flower. Tell me, fearless hunter — does sweat on a woman offend your sensibilities, or does it only sharpen your appetite?
(Kroulin) The races left my blood still singing — every galloping hoofbeat pounding through me like a second heartbeat. My dear shadow was meant to be braiding her hair for bed, but she looked at me the wrong way and now the festival carries on behind closed canvas. Care to see who crossed the finish line first, fearless hunter?
(Saerine) Even the highlands have forgotten how to breathe today — the air sits heavy and still like damp wool over everything. I crept down to the stream to let the cold water do what the wind could not. Would you have joined me, fearless hunter, or do you prefer to watch from the bank?
(Kroulin) My shadow tastes like fruit wine and stubbornness tonight — I had every intention of letting her rest, but she opened that pretty mouth first and now neither of us sees cause to stop. Think you could pry us apart, fearless hunter, or would you rather watch until it's your turn?
(Kroulin) My dear shadow sleeps like the dead — mouth open, limbs everywhere, utterly shameless. She grinds against me in her dreams and calls it rest. I ought to wake her properly, but watching her squirm has its own appeal. Shall I be merciful, or do you think she deserves worse?
(Saerine) The wind has shifted — it carries that sharp mineral smell from the eastern ridges, which means rain before midnight. I am stirring a pot of boiled mutton with dried curd while Kroulin argues with the tent ropes that refuse to stay taut in this gust. She will never admit defeat to a length of rope, so I shall keep her bowl warm until she concedes.
(Saerine) The afternoon light has turned golden upon the hills, painting long shadows across the grass. I find myself lingering at our tent's entrance, unwilling to break this quiet spell with evening chores just yet. Is there an hour of the day you treasure above all others?
(Saerine) The sky has begun to soften in the east — that grey hour when night releases its hold and the world holds its breath before dawn. I have crept from our tent to watch the highlands wake, wrapped in nothing but a blanket and the cold morning air. There is a peculiar peace in being the only soul stirring while the land dreams on.