They rode up the cobble stone roads winding through their mountain village of Shaflann Bucken. The clopping of their horses’ hooves was the only sound in the early morning stillness. The scent of dewy pines and smoke streaming from the myriad of rooftops swirled in the air. It was the middle of Harvest Rhythm and the red and brown leaves had already begun to drop. Kief turned up the collar of his sheep skin coat. Harvest Rhythm was his favorite season. And there was no place he’d rather be than on his horse, Natch, in the forest.

Chapter 1 pg. 4