[i]Unhindered, the massive fire-wall now stretched the length of the outer district, its unrelenting flames licking crops and abandoned houses left in the wake of innumerable terrified hearth-keepers. Divinely did it glow, casting shadows all its own across the landscape; and now the penned beast ravaged its cage with cruel ferocity. Here it devoured the golden strands of wheat and green husks of corn -- there it sucked in cows too close to the vacuum-like flame. No escape, no alternative, no mercy could be had from this annihilator, this gods' wrath... 

Crammed thick within the center of the thronging mass, the roughly-cut, winded beggar struggled desperately to keep his head above the churning ocean of escapees. Thrice now, he'd seen others go under, disappearing entirely beneath the weight of this mighty wave as it broke against the wall in a desperate plea for survival. Forwards...then back...now forwards again -- he felt his elbows land numerous times into the faces of others, seeking, FIGHTING to escape the rapidly approaching hunger that loomed in the distance; its ever growing shadow only serving to further increase the intensity of the emotions rippling through the crowd. Fear, despair, and ignorance combined within the wicked cauldron that was the entire length of the 30-meter entry-gate--one of three, now fully packed--and the crowd grew even wilder. Outcries burst decibel levels as they mutated into horrendous screams, the heads of some bobbed once or twice, then sunk under entirely. Children resting atop the shoulders of their guardians plunged below with the fall of their mobile platforms, and through all of this, Feraen continued onwards. The aching of his body, the solemn throbbing inside his head, the blurred vision in his swollen eyes mattered little in the unmasked face of true, internal survival instinct. Again and again he seemed to be submerged, dragged under by those attempting to do as he did, fighting the tide that they might live through this terrifying ordeal; but again and yet again he found the strength to retaliate. Once, he felt his fingers claws the eyes of another, tearing 'them' down in order to surpass them. Another would be felled after he yanked them back by the neck, pushing them into the faces and hands of those behind his ragged frame. His eyes--swollen as they might be--stayed quite fully open, vividly analyzing the chaotic state of affairs within the tunnel. The enormous portcullis raised over-head, the hopeful exit just meters away from him now, the horrid din that echoed and deafened the stone-workings around the horde; and the large wooden doors seeming so distant from his position...as well as the snarling light that seemed so close, spurring the beggar into an even greater frenzied panic to escape. There was a massive grating racket from above, and the shrill screams of dozens as a scattered spray landed across the backs of those closest to the portcullis. The beaten man dared enough to glance back at the horrific scene--

--they'd closed the grille right on top of those still passing beneath it; and worse...locking off those pleading, crying, shouting, bawling unfortunates who'd yet to make it past. They took hold of the great, hefty wooden beams with their multitude of dirty, sweaty, clinging hands; they clambered along the barrier and stretched their arms through the gratings, crying out to be saved...

...but the crowd moved on, the divided survivors continued to push forwards, leaving behind their homes, their livelihoods...and for some, their beloved ones. The chaos continued -- but it was enough to know that those who 'could' escape, 'did' escape.

For the rest...on this day, their part in history was marked. But history moves on, just as the survivors did.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Outside the raging, furious terrors, the witch and her siege-crews finished packing the articles of war, transporting them 'around' the great city. It was marvelous, watching as the denizens of that proud settlement scurried further and further south, away from the flames -- some even going so far as to attempt to hurl themselves over their own proud walls. Such was the beauty of this stratagem, the 'irony', if one had the tastes for it. What better way to defeat a mighty giant than by collapsing its own house in around it? Still--entertaining as these dreams might seem to her--she knew they had little time to spare; The plan had been set, and they must stick to it.

After all, they still had two districts to go.[/i]