In the Coriver Forest at the turn of summer to autumn, plants ran wild.
No human tracks could be found among the trees, and those huge beasts that once threatened the survival of the littlefolk had been slaughtered to extinction many years ago. Vast canopies knit together like clouds, turning bright noonday into a gloomy dusk.
Among a patch of small, still-green fallen leaves and fine grass came a faint rustling. A chestnut-red pony, no bigger than a plump sparrow, galloped full tilt, hooves flying.
Two littlefolk in red cone-shaped hats rode on its back.
They had been on...
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