Deepwood Weald while I burst into flames

It had happened overnight. He went to sleep to the dull droning in the air, and when he woke in the early hours there was nothingness to greet him. The trees still stood; some had lost their skin or inherited a new coat which twitched and hummed, but they stood. Nothing else survived — not the grass, the flowers, or even what nimble creatures may have spent time frolicing through the warm spring afternoons. He was still alive, although frolicing was not a part of Njal's great plan. The old man hobbled his way back east, trailing along the ocean's side until his hunger drove him inland. He did not know what sort of dangers lay here within the Teekon as he returned to it, but Njal did not care so much. He needed a place to rest, and found the weald (barren as it was), and hunkered down for a number of nights. He lingered for as long as he thought it necessary. His energy levels did not return though, and the ache in his hip was a constant, frustrating thing. Gradually the man found his way to the eastern edge of the ruined forest but he did not depart from it, letting the shadows shroud his grizzled figure for a little longer — he stood and observed, vigilant and brooding.