There, a wederen breeze comes from the north. In the horizon, ravenous fiends are cawing for an indigo frost stalking over the highlands. Feasting and flesh-eating on coyotes to golden lilies. They march and then tramp - sweeping away in a single stroke all the sweating labour found in the sweet garden of Aestas.

It is custom to leave a lone candlelight in the void of night, to welcome and then guide the Scythmen in their long voyage of rite. Yes, you may presume it is all true even in despite. These Scythmen, descendants of the immortal God - almost, if they must not die first in a manner that even ash is not left behind. There, there, once more, sent away in a mission by the mighty Azrael, to collect and reap the bad weeds from the earth. In their coming, if you cannot sense the strange alluring shift in the air, you will be sure to recognise their tool; Forged in steel, a long curved blade at the end of a pole, a wooden shaft (often called asnath in the elder days) attached to one or two short handles to which they never part ways. It is said so in ancient whisperings. Of whom? Of those who came long before the war of the three. Three continents, three kingdoms, three suns but one blood. You may hear that a quarter of their essence is still buried and locked in the making of their sacred tool - steel diluted with the earth's most precious metal - blood.

When the moon is high and the gleam is bright, mothers sing and their children dive. As molten as it is appears golden, it is only privilege and blessings for those who do not weep and pass through the pounding and hammering sounds of affright.

This is the tell of the thyma, which to this day, stands as the greatest achievement one poor soul can obtain in these violent parts of this world of Moraceae.