Benedict Adelbert stood in the smoke. His home crumbled around him. The Holy City was burning. Ash drifted aimlessly, the silence in the air broken only by the occasional scream in the distance. Pulling air into his chest, he screamed.
"Pyria! Pyria! Where are you?!"
No response came. She could be anywhere in the city. A powder storage burst somewhere, more screams followed. In the distance he saw the tavern crumble. Its tower had been the one thing helping him orientate. With another deep breath he made his way to the billows of dust and shouts near where the tavern had been.
An Orc looked frantically around, dragging a badly burnt pile of people across the street on a blanket. They were barely breathing.
"Ailor?! Help me get these people to boats, before Banshee comes back!"
Ben paused, the Banshee was dead. This wasn't right. There was no way.
Still, he made his way for the other end of the blanket. Lifting, him and the orc started towards the docks. He hoped no one had been left behind. It was his only worry then.
It seemed like a decade before they finally reached a boat. The people were lowered and Ben was off. The orc was shouting at him to come back, but it was far too late. The roaring muted his shouts.
The sewer water was red, dozens of corpses sat in the water as rats skittered around, feeding. Undead shuffled around on the other side of the canal. He moved quick, searching for the sewer tavern, coming to a blocked door. A knock yielded nothing. A crack in the barricade revealed charred corpses.
He turned, an undead clawed at him as he turned a corner. A side step kept him safe as he sent a hard kick into the creature's stomach. It fell, head spilling on the stones.
Ben sighed. He left the sewers, heading towards the boats. They'd all left but one. He jogged, feet scraping across the floor as his energy drained. Too much running. Not enough water. His steps slowed and his hands found themselves in his pockets. He was oddly calm. The boat was small, and he slid in. With the final boat filled, the swain began rowing. The Hadar DMZ was their destination. Turning his head bought a final view of the burning city. He didn't die. His heart did though. His soul. His hope.
A hooded man hummed solemnly, the rest joining, heads bowed with a sickness in their stomach.
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