The 'rifter flies less high in the sky above, and the air about us feels colder. Marcs pass, and seasons follow each other as ever, in the pattern ordered by the gods who watch over us. Winds blow leaves from the trees, leaves which have turned from green to shades of brown and gold, red and yellow.

Yet there is much to be grateful for, whatever season we find ourselves in. Each has its own beauty, its own attractions. And through all the seasons, all the marcs, we watch over and defend the lands.

And at this time excitement stirs, and plans are laid. Parties, contests, all manner of festivities will soon appear, all for the appreciation and enjoyment of revellers. A chance to meet with friends old and new, to take ease, to step back for a while from the defences. A time to remember that there is more to our lives than labour and combat, that our senses should sometimes have the chance to perceive more than the smell of blood and the screams of the dying. The words pass across the lands - in quiet tones, or accompanied with shouts of glee.

Fall Festival approaches.