"It's bonfire time!" Sage hollers loud and clear for all her friends to hear. This is her favorite time of the year. The days grow shorter and the frost crowns the wild grass. The harvest is ready and the orchards smell an earth mix of both fresh apples and half rotted ones that missed their calling as mead. If Sage were one to frolic or kick her feet up she would in joy. As it stands she's chewing on the end of her wheat stalk, chest puffed out proudly.
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