Feel your hair, your clothes, bend to the breeze - just as the crops around you do. You are the meridian wraith, and to the workers only your scythe is visible above the golden sea which dances at your feet. Look north, past the watermill and all signs of honest industry, to the metal city in the clouds. Turn away, and cast your eyes back to the expanse of worked fields, patchwork ochres punctuated by the odd beech tree. You remain watchful.

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