Warning: This work has been rated 16+ for mature content.
The old car was a beast that had been reconstructed from the scraps of nature, it had once seen the majesty of being free and young, but was now no more than a beast of burden. The machine had all the soul of an old horse, beaten to it's last gasps, it's tendons but nothing but threads clinging to each in the cold.
Cars are tools, horses are tools, and all tools are good. All tools, though, will rust, all tools, like anything in the world, degrade, and when they can no longer degrade, they go to death's arms. The driver would know this best, he was use to tools, their forms, their meanings, he was a slave to them, and they were slaves to him.
He was never the strongest, but a tool could fix that. He was never the fastest, but a tool could fix that. He was never the smartest, but.... well a tool could never fix that; All a tool could do is hide it. But the same way they can fix and they can hide, they too can destroy, sometimes it's the only purpose of a tool, because a tool's only as good as it's maker.
He knows that all too well, the world bears more scars than you could ever think, and among those scars are the ones that he left, so small to the outside world, but they're the biggest ones that some people know. These scars too bear the mark of a tool, the mind, the greatest of all tools, for it is an absolute neutral, it has no good and it has no evil but what it sets for itself, and this mind was the tool of Samernson
Samernson is a strange name, even in a world of strange names, his was an oddity. It had come from a long line of names, a line that began in a time that no one remembers, one that even then waywardly wandered it's way from father to son, from land to land, from translation to butchering from man to beyond, it's found a home in him.
His father was a proud elf, but he didn't care for names. His mother, too, was a proud elf, and she did care for names. Samernson was chosen symbolically, for he was last of their children, and his many siblings held a massive seniority over him. In the many myths and tales of his people, there was once a time, long before the time of man, where elves were a venerable people, where the young were the old, and the old were the young.
Samernson was blessed and cursed by the fact that that was no longer a fact. It meant that he lived fast, but he learned quickly that when you live fast, you often live stupidly. He had lived stupidly, but he did not want to admit that there were periods when he lived maliciously, if it were up to him, those moments would be forgotten, those sins were eternal.
But that's not how the world works.
At least, that's not how the world outside the Stark Line works.
The old car began to huff and puff as it and it's driver finally reached it's destination. The writing was firmly on the snow-covered ground, it was time for the long walk to begin. He pulled the key from the ignition, and lingered for a moment, looking beyond the ice-covered windshield, all that could be seen was a sea of burnt-out and destroyed cars.
It was time.
Samernson leaned toward the once glided dashboard of the derelict beast, pulling a briefcase out from where a passenger would lay their legs in the car. This would be his key, his shelter, and his guardian angel for the moment. He placed his fingers upon the bronze latches, he quickly snapped them open to reveal a checklist of items that he needed for his trek.
Samernson only took the handgun out of the briefcase, putting the gun into a holster that was concealed within his coat. He took the briefcase with him as he pushed his long legs onto the snow. He was tall, and somewhat lanky, his form was subtle enough to where you notice him nearby but wouldn't pay much attention to him otherwise. His blonde hair was long and messy, but not to point of androgyny, with the top of his head being completely covered by a hat.
He took a breath before he went to the trunk of the car, making sure to keep his driver-side door wide open. Putting down the briefcase, he would open the trunk with the key before throwing it into the snowy field that was beside the road, he wasn't gonna need it anyway, and the reason why was in the trunk.
A single can of gasoline stood undisturbed in the soft covering of the trunk. Samernson quickly took it out, unscrewing the lid on it before walking toward the still open driver-side door. He throw splashes of the clear liquid into the car, soaking it in it's entirety, before pouring out a trail into the snow around the car.
At last, when the trail had been fully set, Samernson went to retrieve his briefcase, taking out the cigarette carton, and putting one of the cigarettes between his lips. He quickly snapped his fingers, an action that caused a single flame to appear between them. With it, he light his cigarette, before throwing the little fire towards the trail of gas, causing it to ignite.
He stepped back as the fire grew, until it eventually concluded with a massive eruption of flames from the vehicle. He could only admire now, and think about what he had just done, the pact he had just signed, with that man in a suit and tie, that we all just happen to know.
Samerson didn't spend a moment more watching the inferno, he merely stepped aside, and began to trek across the sea of cars, those vestiges of the men who had taken the same step he did. It was finally the beginning of the end.