The pleading persisted from beyond the house; more voices fed into the unsettling chorus. All the yelping and bawling shook you to the core. You were petrified, blood thundering in your ears like a runaway train. Internally, you were seized with a sickening panic. Your mind raged on, your eyes darted all round, your lips quivered uncontrollably, and then... calm. A wave of realization washed over you and with it came peace. You were trained for this.  

With a deep inhale you regained some stability. Moving one wooden limb after another, you armed yourself with your bow from off a small table near the couch. After bundling all your arrows in their quiver, a golden gleam caught your eye. 

You peered down at the ornate locket. The treasured accessory had been tossed onto a side-table with little care. Something terribly wrong must have happened for Cohen to abandon this.  

His words bobbed to the surface, above your other tumultuous, raucous thoughts.

You don't have to worry about this bag of bones. I can take care of myself.

He was beyond capable of caring for himself, yet you could not help but worry for Cohen. After all, he was the the bravest man in all of Bramstow, not to mention the most stubborn. He was your beloved guardian and teacher who, moments ago, dived head-first into danger. How could you not worry?

You reached for a weathered brown pouch that was hanging on the wall. After slinging it across your torso, you proceeded to plop the precious amulet inside.

I've made up my mind. I refuse to leave Coco out there.

Approaching the front door, a shaky gulp of air rattled your body. You slid an arrow out of its quiver and nocked it onto the bow string.  Tentatively, you gripped the door handle. Then, taking one more breath, you twisted it.

Within a few seconds of opening the door, you recoiled from the strange odor in the air. A scent so familiar... the scent of burning. A sea of smoke and ash raged on the other side of the doorway. Faint lights, most likely the fires themselves, pulsed inside the black haze. The sounds of terror rang in your ears; villagers sobbed and pleaded to the goddesses for mercy. 

 You retrieved a stained cloth from the dangling pouch and dunked it into a rain barrel. It still reeked of oil and dirt, but it would serve to guard your mouth and nose from the hazardous environment,  hopefully.  

Having had discovered the true urgency of the situation, you had only one option. You plunged into the thick of things.

First, a blast of intense, unwavering heat slammed into you. Then, within a few moments, flecks of ash began to coat your face. The jagged, grainy particles harassed your senses and robbed you of your sight. Tears began to gush down your cheeks, serving to deteriorate your vision further. Eventually, you were reduced to groping along the narrow streets.

Frantic survivors sprinted past you, loping in the opposite direction of the pandemonium. Some thrashed at others wildly with only self-preservation in mind.

As you ventured deeper into the destruction, visibility dwindled down to a horrid state. Your already diminished sight was restricted to a pathetic twelve to thirteen inches in front of you. 

Smack!

A tinge of pain coursed through your arm. You had collided with something large and sturdy, possibly a building. It was a convincing wall; that was, until you placed a hand on it to support you while you compose yourself. Whatever it was, it was smooth, almost sculpted... 

"Are you done yet?"

 You released a shocked gasp. Did that wall just talk?

You mumbled a quiet 'sorry' and retracted your hand. You gawked at the man towering above you. His face was masked by the haze; however, his deep, almost gravelly, voice cut through the sounds of crackling flames and hissing wood.

"I'd love to stay and chat, but I'm pretty sure the whole village is on fire." He paused a moment and began to continue down the street. While you were steadying yourself, he strode past you without so much as an apology. 

 "Well, thanks for the trinket."  

"Trinket?" You whispered aloud. You seemed alright. Everything was in order... Cohen's locket! It had vanished!

A powerful rage roared to life inside you.

That no good thief! All they do is take! Cohen's going to be so disappointed...

You eased your wrath. Cohen. He was what mattered the most, never-mind the locket.

Sobered from your anger, you attempted to call Cohen's name. You managed to produce a "coh" before the violent coughing began to rack your body.

The throng of refugees began to thin, yet the smoke thickened. It permeated the dingy cloth that covered the lower part of your face.

Luckily, there was no need to call again. As you lifted your gaze, you realized you had succeeded in identifying the birthplace of all this chaos. It was the husk of the Imp's Fiddle theatre! The theatre had mustered up its largest, most exquisite production yet: Inner Demons. The play was a recount of the bloody betrayal of The Seven Deadly Sins. There must have been a nearly two hundred attendees, maybe more!

You sprinted towards the withering structure. The blaze had devoured a large portion of the wooden structure, reducing the iconic building into a fiery ruin. The grand oak doors had immolated off of their melted hinges and laid smoking on the front steps. Edging around the twin slabs of scortched oak, you entered the dilapidated theatre.

 It saddened you to have to wind your way around the charred ticket booth, where you had spent so much of your gold to treat Cohen to plays; to have to survey the smoldering lounge area, where you and Cohen would trade stories and munch on snacks after a show; and to tread through the ashes of the once ruby-red carpet, where you liked to hide the tickets from Cohen just to fool with him. 

Trudging past more wreckage, possibly another set of doors, you advanced into the arena. Rows upon rows of stacked balconies extended toward the sky. Flames licked up the walls and tore at the stuffed seats, while embers still sizzled on sagging floorboards. 

There, something on stage caught your attention. A crumpled, little figure was curled up on center stage. It was Cohen! Somehow he was rendered unconscious. 

You had taken the first step towards Cohen when you heard an ghastly moan. Not a moan from any human, but from the heavy beam above you. The massive timber beam splintered and was dislodged from its place with a deafening crack. You did your best to leap out of danger, saving your head, but doing nothing for your legs. You were flung to the ground with a grunt. A hefty chunk of the beam landed on both of your ankles, pinning them. Pain ripped along every nerve in your body. The nauseating crunch of bones signaled that something was definitely broken. Shards of glowing wood seared your skin and tinted your vision with a bloody hue.

The urge to pass out was overbearing, even tempting, but the sight of Cohen's feeble state kept you from sinking into unconsciousness. You made an attempt to wriggle out from under the beam. Pain raked down your legs at the slightest movement. Useless. 

Shocked, horrified, you glimpsed a shadow pass behind the stage's curtains. Heavy footsteps plodded behind the stage until a man, clad in intimidating wine-colored armour, sauntered into view. He cast a wry sneer in your direction. His face was sharp, warped and twisted. There was something unhealthy in his eyes, like a lurking madness. 

He kicked at Cohen's limp form. With an inaudible laugh, he scooped Cohen up and threw him over his shoulder with the respect deserving of a sack of rice. The man walked towards the backstage. Before he reached his goal, he stopped, turned and pressed a single finger against his lips. With that, he yanked a lever and the main curtains swung closed, acting as a divider. 

 Your eyes stung with tears of anguish. Raspy, strained gurgling was all you could manage to utter. There was nothing you could do. 

Everything around you was in a state of incineration. The oppressive smoke began to pool around you. It wrapped itself around you, encasing you. It invaded your lungs, only permitting incessant hacking. With your mind becoming a jumbled mess of confusion and distress, there was no escape plan forming anytime soon. 

Even pressed against the ground, the smoke purged the air from your lungs, rushed into your nostrils, and blackened your vision. Muscles spasming, lungs constricting, teeth grinding each other to dust: the cruelty of death.

Your lungs ached for air, pined after the tiniest breath. All you could do was watch your vision turn into a cold, gray mess. The life was draining from your limbs; you could barely keep your eyes open. Time slowed to a halt. The world became cold, motionless, silent. It was as though you were caught in a black and white painting, a frozen scene where there was no movement or sound or color. A potent sleepiness began to cradle you. You embraced it.