The smell of smoke was what started it. It drifted lazily through the doorframe, a blanket of grey covering the ceiling. Faintly, at the edge of his hearing, Lucas heard the crackle-snap of fire and bolted upright. Barely, on the edge where he strained to pick up any more signs of danger, he heard the harsh, sibilant sounds of the whispers and the soft brushing of cloth. They sounded frantic, urgent, almost frenzied.
He was afraid.
He ran to the window, desperately praying to whatever was out there that it hadn't spread too much, but as he leaned out, he already saw it climbing the side of the building. It was like a living beast, digging its gaping maw into the wood and dragging it upwards, an endless cycle of devouring. Whatever hope of escaping on his own was gone, dying half-kindled in his chest. His phone was unresponsive, and he dreaded his chances of getting saved. Screams resounded throughout the floor, and his heart jumped in terror. People were burning to death close enough he could hear them, or else it was so painful that he could hear it from the first or second floor. Tears clouded his vision as he thought about dying like that.
Lucas wiped them away quickly. If he could get downstairs quickly enough and drop out of a window correctly, he could survive, if with some major burns. He wrenched the door of his room open, and momentarily froze in shock. There were dozens of glowing salamanders the size of his finger, crawling up and down the hallway. The slam of his door on the wall directed all eyes to the doorway, and his throat closed with horror as all of them turned to him. One crawled on his doorknob, and it faintly sizzled from the heat. His palm came down in a hard smack on instinct, and he felt it burst under the force, blood coating his hand before he registered the pain, feeling like he dipped it in boiling oil. The viscous, tar-like substance slowly dripped from his hand and the smell of burnt carpet filled the room before the rest swarmed him.
He was at the center of a screaming, thrashing pile of hatred and fire. He threw his body against any surface to get rid of the hellish reptiles, popping them by the handful as they were crushed in between his body and whatever hard plane he impacted. A dull fuzz worsened his vision, and so much blood was on him he felt like he was melting alive. Lucas faintly registered the only one screaming was him, but he was in too much agony to care. The tar wouldn't come off, and whatever higher thoughts turned off as he searched for safety. He sprinted out of his room, crushing a few more of the sprites under his feet. The stairs were concrete, but still incredibly hot.
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The second-floor door was flung open, and he could see hundreds, maybe thousands of those same sprites circling the area, their trail of fire eating through the walls and then the floor. He slammed the door shut, and darted down to the first. When he opened the door, it wasn't to an army of angry fire lizards, but a sea of flame.
There! At the very center, an ugly orange-yellow portal pulsed. He couldn't see the other side, just blackness, but he was willing to guess that's where the things had come from. And if they all came here, it was wide open. He could hide. Better that than try the deathtrap that was the front door. It was obscured by a veil of smoke, and any lock would long be warped shut. At least there was a clear path to the portal. Lucas ignored the faint darkening around his vision, and the pain coming from every inch of his body. The damned whispers were reaching a crescendo now, peaking in volume and speed, more a chant than anything. The portal was just a few steps away now...
He was interrupted by being tackled to the ground, his head bouncing off the hardwood with a sickening crunch, and he felt dizzy. Some ren-fair reject was on top of him, but he could barely hear over the beat of his own heart and the hiss of the fire. The room swam in and out of focus, and he vaguely heard the fevered chanting rise in pitch before he felt something heavy and unnaturally cold plunge into his ribs, accompanied by a faint mad cackling. He felt some deep part of him pulled, tightened to a breaking point, and then smashed his head into the robed cultist's face, resulting in a mimicry of the same sickening crunch he heard from his own head. The string loosened now, no longer about to snap, and he could feel the knife (dagger?) slip from his chest, along with a slow seeping of blood.
His arms dragged his limp body to the glowing gateway, weakly reaching out to touch it. There was a violent jerk, a harsh impact, and a glimpse of a vast, barren landscape, and then he knew oblivion.