ITP: Harvest

[lietmeupinside]

[In an area a bit away from the buildings in camp, a place where trees have been cleared and a small cabin raised, where the ground has been prepared and tended and looked after lovingly, rye has grown. Against all odds, this little area of the woods has been transformed into a gently waving sea of gold, and the small Baltic nation in white linen has a sickle in hand, preparing to cut the very first sheaves.

It is quite picturesque, actually. Very peaceful.

Unless you happen to approach from the west, that is. The rye over there is pink.]

((OOC- Backdated to the end of August, because timespace is my bitch. o/))