The vicious Autumn herald had much
in store for the last shriveling leaves of
Spring's glory. No more honey dewdrops
to bear witness to the fury of the golden scenery.
The fire of the sun filled the dry crisp air
and set the leaves aflame. Vile stood in frozen
doubt, unable to make memories of such foul
predicaments. What does he gain in death,
but the judgment of Him and the
sentence of the infernal abyss? Are the
fires of Hell so different below as they are above?

Then in one swift movement, the ground
tore asunder and great hands dragged his
struggling soul. His mind is far from shrewd, but
this is quite profound and most absurd. Vile
felt the stone tear through the fabric of his attire.
Then finally all movement ceased and he came
upon a white robed man. His face, unseen, but the
skin of his hand--quite coarse. "Follow me", the robed man
whispered. No other course is there for Vile and the path
is set ahead. "Be this death, robed man?" No answer. "Then be
this some savage circumstance bore upon me in life?" Still no answer.
Vile quickened his pace and followed the robed man hesitantly.