It shambled. The deteriorated, dry husks that could be called its legs made visceral noises of tendons snapping and bones cracking as the creature made its stumbling way closer. Even the least discerning eye could tell this creature could not still live; its body structure was entirely askew, as if someone had twisted it into its new posture haphazardly. Its entire body was dried out, the skin was paper-like, the eyes lacking the normal luster of life. How long it had inhabited these ruins was anyone’s guess, and if Thoreau’s guess was the correct one, it had ‘lived’ there long enough to die three times over.
The scholar ran over a few thoughts as he watched the creature move closer. The singular most representative aspect of these unnatural creatures, the undead, was their complete lack of body language. The truly animated dead moved without purpose or awareness. They were affected by little concerning mind games or willpower; they knew no fear because they knew nothing. They were like puppets on strings, and yet these string had no master to pull them. The only thing that drove this abomination was its last command: to kill all creatures it could find in these ancient halls and thusly guard the secrets hidden therein. At this point, all that could be done was either destruction of the mindless puppet, or to take control of the strings. And, as the scholar knew, due to his current capabilities, the former would have to do.
As the shambling monstrosity drew closer, it began to kick up the dust and litter strewn across the ancient floor. Swirling into the air, the dust outlined the silhouette of another creature, skeletal in shape. Thoreau, the scholar, took a step back and let his face betray a grin. Brown eyes turned bright white as, shaping the form with his thoughts, Thoreau forced the silhouette to turn around and draw back an arm. With immense force, the dust-limned creature slammed its skeletal limb through the abdomen of the undead monster.
After the commotion, Thoreau picked up the small tome the creature had been guarding, brushed off the years of dust and decay covering the embossed letters of "The Great Inferno", and began to read.
"The Great Inferno"
as remembered by Pyr Thalàssion.
The fire swept on. A wonderful kaleidoscope of orange flame and red ember flowed through the land. Grass and tinder, wood and leaf, animal and man all mixed to a great crescendo of warring, rolling, wavering flame. Amazing power in the touch of heat all together, a mestizo life form needing nothing and just creating… removing all the taint of the world and bringing it all together to a glorious existence. The beginning is the end.
With soot stained finger tips was this written, and a beautiful char it remains. A manuscript depicted the most horrible and awesome events in history, and showed it for it was. The inevitable, beautiful coalescence of life and being. A flickering flame, a roaring bonfire, a blazing atmosphere, a world on fire, a fire storm of life. The purity of reason shocks Life itself.
An ash tree was the tree of life and now a tree of ash is all that remains. Yggdrasil burnt to a cinder, a wondrous flame that showed till the end against the night sky, which was all but destroyed by the luminescence. The only thing to mark that there ever was such a scorched sky was the smoke growing in the heavens. Gods are no longer content on their laurels. Life will be but fire and brimstone, but fire and brimstone so pure and bright that none can deny their willingness to take part. Creation was. Birthing, beginning flame made sure of all things, ash would stay. And so the galaxy would burn too, pockets of gas alight for aeons eternal.
The stars would flame with the trees, the final candle light vigil for the past tense. And nothing would be remembered. This was the way it should be.