The Bracken Woods the end of the world was quiet

"ye damned, be cleansed by fire!" memnoch shouted into the ash-choked air. the dragon roiled; his hellfire eyes haunted its movements with a lust reserved for arsonists and candlemakers. a dream; he desired that his bones be singed in that surging gold. 
it was not to be, however. memnoch had come for a singular purpose. let the gulping fires cut down the witches he would feed to its lust, and thereby slake his own. "blessed be th'believer," he breathed to himself, reluctantly turning rangy step away from the toiling cauldron and toward the taiga beyond. "blessed be he who seeks not sin, but righteousness in the arms of the great star."
memnoch lapsed into old-tongue prayers then, pausing every now and again to peer over one small shoulder and hoot exultations at the smoking nostrils of the beast, uncaring of who might see or hear him.