as much as memnoch had seen the fitness of the great explosive plume, he strangely did not want to die beneath it. a prophet perished in fire only when he had come to the end of his teachings, and the little vulpine had just begun.
and so memnoch, like all beasts of the field, fled the sulking lick of molten rock and took to more comforting climes. head down, he could cover ground without breathing so much of the wretched air, but presently too stood panting amid the poison.
a ruddy creature, not quite wolf — memnoch prickled at the abomination, but stalked toward the figure, small hackles abristle. "get ye gone!" he roared, "lest the righteous fires char ye to ash!"