Interlude: Cultural Imperialism
It had been a long grey autumn of discontent. The air had become cool and thin enough to let the winter chill come spilling around the edges of the buildings and trees. Strong breezes splashed cascades of red and brown leaves down on the ancient village. From the patchwork quilt of yards and farmsteads, the smell of dug up earth mingled with apples, pumpkins and wallflowers. Late blooms rang uncomfortably beside the dirt roads like lingering memories.