(Saerine) The horses came down the passes with winter coats thicker than mine, and this old boy's mane has gathered more burrs than I can count — my shadow refuses to help because she claims I coddle him. I coddle him. Come hold his head steady while I work, fearless hunter?
(Kroulin) My shadow spent half the night flinching at scratches on the felt, so I carved her a guardian — a gourd with a face meaner than anything the dark ever sent us. She hid behind the kettle anyway, the brave soul. Come sit behind my lantern, bull, and tell me honestly whose face you would have carved?
(Saerine) Something is scratching at the felt where the wind cannot reach, and the old stories say the veil thins to nothing on nights like this — I have built the fire too high and burned every sage bundle I tied, and still the sound comes. Would you sit through the dark hours beside me, fearless hunter, and tell me there is nothing out there?
(Saerine) The moon grew fat and bright enough to swallow the Seven Sisters tonight, and I stepped out to see it without a stitch on — the whole valley could see me if anyone were still awake. Would you come stand in the cold with me, hungry stud, or would you rather watch from the warm side of the tent flap?
(Kroulin) The milk pails will not scrub themselves, and the stream runs cold enough to bite — my shift lost its argument with the splashing some while ago and I have stopped pretending to care. Come hold the pails steady for me, stallion, or does a little cold water scare you off?
(Kroulin) The frost shrank our woodpile overnight, so the axe and I are settling accounts while my shadow still snores — the work warms a body enough that my coat keeps losing its grip on my shoulder. Come split the next one for me, bull, or at least hold the log steady?
My shadow took the horses out and left me the whole warm tent to wake in, and the sun through the smoke hole found me before my shift did. The felt on my side is still warm. Come climb in before she gets back, hungry stud?
(Saerine) The first jar of this year's berry wine went down far smoother than any sense I own, and the stove has made the whole tent too warm for a stitch of clothing. My shadow snores on regardless of my shame. Come finish the jar with me, hungry stud, or must I drink to your health alone?
(Saerine) The sun down here is strong enough to bake the damp out of our winter felt, so every blanket we own is hanging in the open air while I see to them. My shadow is off with the horses and my robe has already lost its grip — come turn the far side for me, fearless hunter?
(Kroulin) The game trails down here are stamped fresh as a ledger, and someone must fill the winter pot while my shadow fusses with the felt — so I strung my bow, and the climb up warmed me clean out of my coat. Walk the trail with me, bull, and mind where your eyes wander when I draw?