It was a storm to end the world.
Verdigris hung thick and dense like fog in a valley upon the forest of bronze soldiers frozen for time immemorial in some titanic struggle in the vast lawn-space resting at the foot of Mark Wringlers imposing mansion. Rain roared down like fire belched from the throat of some ravening dragon, searing the large statues with its thundering might. The apples trees thrashed about in rage, shaking gnarled branches at the heavens for smiting them with such a hellish downpour. Lightning rent the sky asunder, crackling amidst the clouds and throwing sparks among piles of dry lives as casually as a child discards a toy whose minutes-old novelty has already been stolen away by the passing time.
Mark Wringler himself observed the apocalyptic scene from behind the safety of rich fabric curtains and heavy panes of glass, but still trembled with every rumbling peal of thunder which shook the house. The sound of the rain on the roof above was like the marching o