The scythesmith worked late into the night, hammering and tempering blades so the farmers would have sharp scythes for the harvest.

At dawn, a flock of scythebills skimmed the marshes, their curved beaks glinting in the light.

The scythebill tilted its head and probed the mossy bark for insects, its curved bill perfectly suited to reaching crevices.

The scytheless reaper struggled to harvest the overgrown field by hand.

At dawn, the scyther moved silently through the dew-drenched field, cutting long swaths of grass with practiced precision.

The scythers moved silently through the tall grass at dawn, harvesting the field before the storm.