Gold Fall has its own unique rhythm; its own song sung from the beaks of birds that play melody to the creaking of the branches as they bow to the wind; the way the cold bites a little harsher than before and the meadow grass not quite as soft beneath his feet.
It’s not quite so different from the twilight of High Sun, but enough that Anther can feel it like a change in the ground he walked upon; hearing it in the voices that sing to him as the wind races by. Softer. They call him south where the warmth still lingers; beckoning him towards the mountains that climbed skywards, high above the earth that flowed in rivers of fire; where its peak was rarely seen without pristine snow, surrounded by grass that stayed green through every season.