It's still warm. As if the last rays of summer cry out across the land, a final breath before the cruel winter takes it in an icy blur.
Autumn is a time where souls cross the barriers between worlds; where the weak are shot by hunters and even the strong succumb to illness. Throughout the forest, it is silent for once.
The calm before the storm.
Some may find the silence relaxing, and venture into the forest bravely. But others will hole themselves up in their homes, and renew altars, praying for survival.
The brave ones, on their quest for adventure, may encounter strange animals, affected by the passing and death of souls. The best will carry themselves with honour, proud to survive the year. But the worst-
Well, the grief of losing all they hold dear can overtake even the strongest of souls. Perhaps that is what the cowards pray for, so that no more souls will die by others grief.
They are wasting their time.
As it grows colder, leaves fall and wilt in the rotting bloodstains, the forest becoming desprate in search of survival. They associte the falling of the leaves with coldness and death- which is ardent of them, considering even the dried, hollow bones of the witch docter seem to stir in anticipation.
Yes, autumn is a time of change, always temporary. However the one thing permanently engraved in everyone's minds is the smell of rotting leaves, and the orange colours: a warning signal.
