In the early hours of the morning at first light, there are days Mother Nature seems to struggle to rise. Along rolling fields, the air remains heavy and thick, reluctant to let go of the darkness of night. Only the river serves a constant reminder of the progression of time and continues to breathe life into the land.

A sharp ghostly call pierces the air, and rings like a distant echo, hanging on the mist like a half-remembered dream. A flash of blue zips down the riverbank, gone in a heartbeat, swallowed up by the river - muted, as to not disturb the still and quiet morning. But magic lingers in the trail of light left behind; a promise of hope. And sure enough, round the next bend in the river, there he is, perched on his throne, patiently waiting as time stands still.