In Alistair's astonished eyes, magenta lights gleamed on the verdant lawn. The beauty stunned the gaze; the sound pleased the ears. Neighboring homes exuded similar warmth; their frames morphed into glistening sands. It was the majesty of necessary destruction.
The watcher's concentration was successfully attracted, and he gaped at the incandescent hues. A chance to escape had arrived, but Alistair trembled in his spot.
He lay prone, like a stillborn, a traumatized expression marring his face, and its single thought reflected plainly: 'What have I done?'
The eyes lingered on the cause, those trembling hands that shut. No, taking any longer break would make him miss his chance.
Despite his rampant feelings, the plan needed to commence.
A heart steeled itself, and the prone figure lifted to a stance. In this flickering of purple embers, his gaze emitted cold decadence.
