The air was moist with composted leaves and chilled by a strong wind, drenched in the formalities of a dying season. Trees quiver and bow under the pressure of rising winds, crying a echoed howl of agony through the forest. Hooves scrape at the empty ground; the soil offers nothing but dying grass. Tender roots trapped beneath frozen earth leave all with empty stomachs and hungry eyes. Heads shake with displeasure for the stark outlook of the newest season. A bitter Autumn leaves does thin and stags weary. A large stag stands out from the group, with a dark gray, nearly cobalt pelt and antlers that curved back around themselves like a intricate peice of jewelery worn by the highest nobility. With a shake of his massive head he breaks off into a sprint, passing the towering birch trees with increasing speed, past the sparkling lake whose surface glints like diamonds under the noon sun. Running past the devout followers, praying to the twin gods for good luck and plentiful grasses, past the groups of fawns dozing amoungst the tall grass or frolicking with one another. Feeling the chilled wind whip through his coat and the fresh air flowing through his lungs the proud stag couldn't of been more thankful for such a endless forest.