Ira’s creation while undoubtedly beautiful, slowly grew boring. One could only witness that perfection of creation so many times, before one must attempt to perfect perfection. So she left Phyra. Crossing the greats seas and the vast void of fresh clay. No longer did a sense of fury and hatred fill her heart. For that rage had been spent creating magnum opus. Now she was serene. Calmed. Joyful. Obsessed.
As her hand touched the clay she thought of her creation. Thought of the process of destruction and rebirth. Thus as she touched the clay, the
land molded into a vast shrubland. Bush and grass waiting to be bathed in rain and sun. Even the simplest of creation had a sense of arrogance. An arrogance to think that it deserves to live in comfort. To grow fat off bountiful lands. Ira did not feel the need to provide such comfort.
These lands shall be scorched by the sun.She watched as her beautiful fires spread and died. The plants grew fat only to be quietly and methodically destroyed by flame. This would do.
She continued to expand these lands northward. Never stopping and rarely tiring. Fire in her wake. Ash all that survives.
