The dull roar of the explosion shook the city, rolling slowly outward in all directions, engulfing block after block with its tidings of change. The mushroom cloud rose skyward, like an incantation to the gods, dark, darker than the ages, dwarfing the arena below it as it towered to a height of 10,000 feet or more.
Its mighty volume of noxious filth began to rain down on the long-suffering people of the city. It was they who must unfairly shoulder the burden, the burden of disgrace that had for so long infected the heart of their hopes and dreams. Many rended their garments, yea verily, tore them in despair, sending lamentations heavenward from where, alas, no swift answer would come. A gray pall hung thick and low over the land.
From a safe distance, Brendan the First, Chieftain and King, watched from his throne. He was resolute, yet his heart was also heavy. He knew that years of desolation lay ahead for his people, a wasteland of hope and desire that they must traverse with little to guide them. This had to be, he knew, yet still he could not help but feel a twinge of regret.
But he was a Philosopher King, a sage, a prophet, a seer of things that might yet come to pass. And so, he allowed himself the thinnest of smiles.
Because he knew this, this, in his heart of hearts: for all the gray pallor that enveloped the firmament, a beautiful new day had dawned.
