It is very early. The sun is just peeking its head over the horizon and the fluffy clouds are glowing a pale pink. The birds are stirring overhead, stretching their wings and cooing softly to their nestlings. A sleepy rabbit hops slowly across the path and disappears into the tall grass. In the middle of the field a solitary figure stands, drinking in the fresh morning air. He holds a scythe over his right shoulder, and in his left hand is a whetstone, resting in a yellow cone. He stands motionless, watching as the golden orb of the sun shoots up above the horizon, flooding the sleepy hills with light.