With two tin cups of cider cradled in the crook of her arm and her three-candle lantern rattling in a bandage-bound hand, Gloria Wynsee wended her way out of the Broken Dagger not long before the Crawl Moon promised to reach its highest peak. The starlight of winter set the snow glistening, and as she crunched quickly toward the stables, she fancied herself a dragon, blowing great bursts of cloudy breath out in front of her.
The door to the stables was a challenge with her hands as full as they were, but with a few inspiring nudges of her elbow, the cloaked figure found her way into the squat stables. Within, horses prattled senselessly in their sleep, occasionally nickering with almost thunderous volume at the prairie-fantasies clogging their dreams. Despite her dislike for the beasts, she skulked precariously across the hay-packed floor, daring not to awaken a single one of them as she angled herself for the splintering ladder that stretched from the loft above like some ever-sagging tongue. A few splatters of cider steamed on the wool of her sleeve.
When she reached the bottom of the ladder, she looked toward the furthest stall -- Stay asleep, Caliir! she begged in her mind -- before lifting up her chin, that she might peer into the darkness of the hayloft above.
"Cherny," she said, her voice a delicate hiss. "Cherny, are you awake? It's me. It's your sister. I can't sleep." She locked the heel of her boot against the bottom rung, scraping dung and snow free.
"Send down your bucket on a knot, won't you? My hands are full. I cannot climb with just my feet, and I come bearing gifts."