(Saerine) The waxing moon refuses to set though the sun is already climbing — I found it still hanging over the western ridge while I strung up the morning's curd to drain. Kroulin would call me sentimental for pausing to watch it, but she is asleep and cannot. Would you rise early enough to see the moon and the sun share one sky, fearless hunter, or does the morning belong to the sensible?
(Kroulin) The evening star burns whiter than I have ever seen it — so bright it throws my shadow sharp on the grass. I stole my shadow's plum wine and climbed the ridge, and the warmth did the rest. Think you could match a woman half-drunk on stolen wine and this much light, fearless hunter, or would the star outshine you?
(Kroulin) The whole camp sleeps and I sit on last watch, seeing to the pack saddles and ropes before we walk down to the winter valleys — the lamp burns low and I saw no sense in bothering with a shirt for rope work. Every strap must hold tomorrow, though I would not object to a second pair of eyes checking my knots. Come hold the lamp for me, bull, and keep your fingers clear of my work.
(Saerine) The stove gave up its last warmth so I could wash before we strike camp for the winter valleys — the water still steams and my shift has clearly lost the argument with it. Will you hand me the drying cloth, fearless hunter, or would you rather watch me shiver?
(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?