A slate-gray sky hangs bloated and sickly over a scorched plain littered with corpses. An icy wind reeks of death and decay. The hour is unknowable, but the aether rings of dusk; not the dusk of a day, but the dusk of a world.

You stride, unshod and naked, across the blackened wastes. You navigate by feel alone an unseen path through heaps of severed limbs and heads, a blackish-red paste of ash and gore squirming between your toes all the while. Dead faces watch you as you pass, their expressions peaceful and calm; just as sheep led to slaughter, these thousands did not die in fear.

A dark spire arises from the horizon. A black smear across the sky, it dwarfs the tallest of towers and humbles the mightiest of mountains. The endless leagues that lay prostrate before it pass beneath your feet as rivers running to the sea, and within moments you stand at its base, marveling at its infernal grandeur. In this moment you bear witness to the axis about which all human endeavor revolves: the ever-impending cessation of life.

An endless tide of sanguine rot cascades over the plain, flooding the carnage-laden earth from horizon to horizon. The current rises, and you with it, as the howling winds fall silent. You float, weightless, upon an endless, waveless, crimson sea.

The flood lifts you up, up higher than the highest of clouds, and you find yourself swimming in the starlit fields of the firmament above. It is here whence you behold a figure atop the great menhir of Death, a figure with skin like milk and eyes like watered blood.

He sees you.

He draws near, he places his hand upon your breast, and he forces you down beneath the surface. You do not struggle as you drown, for there is no struggle to be had. This is your fate, and thus is the fate of the world.

Your final breath bubbles up through your lips, and the heavens tear asunder. Light and darkness pour forth from the rend in equal measure, filling the aether of existence until they subsume one another and all Being is subsumed into they. The seams and stitches in the tapestry of existence dissolve, and only the sheer gossamer of reality remain, un-sewn and un-dyed.

There is no sound, no smell.

There is no darkness, no light.

There is only Silence, and the Silence is complete.