I'm really great at writing introductions. My real downfall comes to actually following through with anything after that. Like this one:
The wind spun and twirled in its frantic dance, screeching around corners and screaming a warning. “They are coming!” it cried as it danced with the villagers around a bonfire, trying to make them see sense. The fire crackled in puzzlement, then sent forth sparks of laughter. “You joke,” it said to the wind, “These humans here celebrate the coming of the sun.” The wind carried on, cutting through sleeves and biting through shoes. “They are coming!” it warned one last time before disappearing over the hill to carry its dreadful message onwards.
The fire chuckled once more to itself, filling the festive air with jolly sparks. It listened as an elder told tales, tall and short, of years and eras gone by. The fire played along, making shapes for the young ones to find within its flames. “Angelic demons, they were,” the elder said, “come to plunder and pillage and pilfer.” The fire turned an obliging red, making more shapes as the story was told of a war long ago waged, and of how these young ones were descendant of the survivors. The air stilled, letting small flakes drift down from above.
“They have come,” every flake whispered, hushed from the warning with which they carried. “Impossible!” the fire spat back to the snow, “See the innocent, lying in his mother’s arms? Every babe knows when they come and cry out a warning, and--see?--he is fast asleep!” Quietly, cooing was heard, then slowly replaced by a cry, then finally a bawling that drowned out the elder. The babe had awoken, and the fire understood his warning. It shrank back, dying down almost to embers in fright. “They’ve come,” the snow whispered, swirling around a foreign object.
“We Have Come!” the object announced, softly falling next to the remnants of the fire, “And Now You Shall All Die!” The feather, white as the snow surrounding it, was followed by a thunderous trumpet call, echoing many times over across the rivers and streams and darkness of the season of night. Claws and talons landed in the village, gouging the earth with their terrifying force. It was a wondrous sight, and it would be the last thing most humans saw.
More fires lit up the night, green and blue and unnatural. The sky echoed these fires with ethereal flames of its own. “This way,” the sky said softly, “Come this way to find your rest.” The demons raked through the revelers, devouring, demolishing, and destroying what they pleased. More cries joined that of the babe’s, and the pure snow turned from winter white to autumn red. Some of the humans seemed to be fighting back now, though the black ichor did not even remotely equal the red blood.
Fighting broke out among the demons, and squabbles over meals ensued, making feathers fly and passions run into the snow. Blind savagery tore through the village, filling a void formed from thousands of seasons of forced fasting. The fire died down even further, intimidated by these angelic demons and their sky fire. The fire watched as the wyrms fought and trampled everything, their green and blue fires laughing in chorus.
Eventually, only one remained, and the lone victor stood over his foes to quietly regard his prize. The feathered wings of the beasts no longer looked as falling snow, but their passions survived in their stillness. The silent air was filled only with the quiet wailing of the babe in the cold embrace of his mother. The victor heard the cry and looked coldly at the infant. “There was no place for us, so there will be no place for you,” it rumbled, leaning over the last survivor.
The fire regarded itself angrily. It had not warned the humans that had fed it so faithfully and kept it alive for so long! It flared up, catching the victor by surprise. The feather next to the fire turned to ash, its fellows on the wing from which it came quickly following suit. The wing flared brightly, and soon the whole being was consumed by the red flames as its own green and blue looked on without pity.
As the sun glinted bleakly over the edge of the world for the first time in months and illuminated the remains of a human village, a chill breeze carefully swept away the ashes of the last dragon, sighing, “They came.”
My mother reads that and goes "Oh! That's a wonderful introduction! What happens next?" and I just sit there like "idk" Any suggestions on how to get past this?