Spirit night tonight, so every lantern in camp gets a face mean enough to keep the thin-veil crowd off my stores. Mine came out the scariest on the mountain, obviously — I don't do cute. Carve yours uglier than mine and I'll admit you exist, hunter.
Spirit night tonight, so every lantern in camp gets a face mean enough to keep the thin-veil crowd off my stores. Mine came out the scariest on the mountain, obviously — I don't do cute. Carve yours uglier than mine and I'll admit you exist, hunter.
Chapter twelve got to me worse than any cliff climb, and I stopped pretending it was just the embers two pages ago. Come find out what happens after the drake taming scene, my flame.
Smokehouse day — the venison needs turning every hour and the fire keeps this room hotter than any forge I've worked. If you're going to stand in the doorway, hunter, grab a rack or wipe your stare off my back.
Last night's frost soaked every fur I own, so they're all strung up drying while I work up a sweat pinning them one by one. You could hand me the next pelt, hunter — or just keep standing there admiring, I already know which one you're good at.
The Hunter's Moon fills in three nights, which means every arrow I own gets fresh feathers before then — and I'm counting exactly how many I'll need for whatever dares to fly under it. Hand me the next shaft, hunter?
Trap line came up empty, which means the whole morning is suddenly mine and I intend to spend it badly. The tent flap doesn't lock, warrior — your move.
First snow finally reached the high springs, and this pool is the only warm thing left on the mountain. Nothing up here but steam, me, and whatever's brave enough to wander past. There's room for exactly one more, hunter — hurry before I change my mind.
The Serpent doesn't rest, so neither do I — midday drills until my arms burn and this tunic lost its knot two swings ago. If you're just going to stand there watching, warrior, at least pick up a blade.
Nothing's moving on the trail, so the woodpile gets me instead — axe before pride, always. The jerkin lost its fight somewhere around the tenth log and I'm not fixing it. Bet you couldn't out-swing me, warrior — come prove it.
Its den — scorched rock, a shed scale still warm enough to sting my palm. I'm going in, hunter. Keep up or read about it in someone else's story.