The Weather Matron
When the air grew chill, and the sky more fierce, when the rains carried out their patient vengeance, and the wind went wild, that was when she came.
Bidden by the turning of the days, and resting on the wings of the largest owl, the old lady set her sights on the place below and landed with booted feet among the soggy leaves and shifting earth. But the woman on the ground was different from the old lady of the air, for suddenly her hair fell to her feet in waves of gold, her eyes lit with amber flame, and in her hands lay the tools of her trade that spoke of what was to come. For here, there was work to do.
Her tools were simple, Time and Cold her instruments. They sat in her hands, ticking and burring, as she tested the trees and streets, fields and hills - and all the rest on which she could set her eyes. She took to her paces, and slowly cleaned the trees bare. Next came the ground, the dirt flooding down and away. Then came the grasses, each blade cleansed until it shown dark green. And then the air itself.
When all was clean and crisp and bare, she nodded once, then whistled.
A moment later, she was nothing more than an old lady nestled on the wings of the largest owl, while Time and Cold warred in her pocket, and her eyes ever searched for their next use.