The days are coming colder now.
Thæon can feel it in the dead of night, when his cloak slips from his shoulders, or when Obí turns his face away, shifting his wings and a cold touch of night air wraps itself around him, disturbing his slumber. He can feel it in the ground beneath his feet, and the pale touch of fading colour in the meadow grass; in the way the leaves are beginning to brown and the flowers in their private meadow open up for one last beautiful display of colour before wilting with age.
High Sun is turning old now, soon to wither into Gold Fall: the light dusting of rain soon to become heavy snowfall that will settle sooner in the mountains than the valley. It is not an ideal place to settle for the cold winter months—Thæon knowing that once the snow starts falling, then the mountain passes will close and they’ll have no choice but to follow the deer north into the cradle if they are to keep Obí fed through Deep Snow.
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