The old forge at Dunreck still works if you pump the bellows yourself — and with the equinox a week out, every blade I own needs an edge. Bet you couldn't handle a forge and a huntress at the same time, hunter.
The old forge at Dunreck still works if you pump the bellows yourself — and with the equinox a week out, every blade I own needs an edge. Bet you couldn't handle a forge and a huntress at the same time, hunter.
The harvest fair pulled every trader from three valleys into one square — I came for winter stores and somehow walked out wearing a silk undershirt I'll never admit to buying. It clings in all the wrong places for a huntress. Don't ask why I haven't changed yet, hunter.
The heather's bleeding copper along the eastern passes and the old trails are clearing one by one. Autumn run means every drake in these highlands drops to feed, and I'll be the one waiting. Think you'd survive a week out here with me, hunter?
Found an old hunter's blind clinging to the cliff — barely wider than my shoulders, but the perch is perfect. New moon means the valley's black as pitch, so if anything flies tonight I'll hear it before I see it. Don't pretend you wouldn't climb up here if you knew where I was, hunter.
Got the venison smoking before the fire dies down — nothing fancy, just enough to last the week. Don't go thinking I'd share any of this with you, hunter.
The stags started bugling down in the valley — which means the drakes will drop low to feed within the week. Waded the stream to check the far game trails and now every layer I own is plastered to me and refusing to dry. Don't pretend you'd look away, hunter.
First real frost on the highland grass this morning — which means the drakes are moving to lower ground and the old trails open up again. I've been crouched by this fire long enough to remember I own a cloak, just not long enough to actually close it. Don't let the cold fool you, hunter — I'm just getting started.
Caught a drake scent so strong I could taste it — but the trail doubled back and now I'm back at camp with every nerve lit up and nowhere to put it. My mouth keeps saying things I'd only whisper if you were close enough to hear, warrior.
The moon's swelling golden and the old hunters swear that's when the ancient drakes come down from the peaks to feed before the cold. Three valleys spread out below me and I'm not budging until I spot one — don't even think about pulling me away, hunter.
The highlands are endless and empty at this hour — just me, the grass, and the kind of thoughts I'd never say out loud unless I knew you were listening. Bet you couldn't handle half the things I want to whisper right now, warrior.