TheScream's Journal

Ash falls to rest upon the surface of the Earth. It collects to form a soft, bone-white mound resembling a mountain's peak. Slowly, all visible ground vanishes underneath the blanket of ash, consuming the familiar and the life that once teemed in this place. A wretched stench fills the air -- from where doth such an odor originate? Observance is serviced to locate the source, the cause for these embers and dust.

It is seen! A figure stands in the midst of the rotten snow glaring at the bloodstained sky. Arms raise, hands cup, and a shout escapes the mouth of the shaped outline.  Tears do not slide down his face, as the heat from his hell evaporates his distress. No emotion can be revealed, forcing onlookers to view only a beast.

Understanding manifests within the minds of the spectators, the figure -- the beast -- is the source of cinder and reek. His flesh boils and peels, the wind catches the dead crust sending it high into the air and then to fall as ash. It is the heat he blames, the heat of his hot hell. Skin scorched and seared, his blood making way to surface, he then trembles. The cries of his broken shrieks are deafening to the ears. As he stands, burning in the fire, crying to the heavens across the Great Chasm, hope leaves him in the same fashion as his flesh.

“My world is of ash, flame, and un-death.”