Pivoting, we all follow the alpha of Candlewood's gaze, horrified to see the stage flooring splinter as the Rényú hoard beneath forces its way through. The grimy-gray, limitless stream of flopping, croaking, multi-limbed demons surge grotesquely out of the widening hole in an inhuman, malevolent saraband, floundering for purchase in the spectral light.
"Move! Move! Move!" Sean booms, pointing upwards towards Ian and the exit as the malodorous stench of the Rényú rises.
Crashing into me, Dorian ducks his scaly head beneath my body, hoisting me onto his broad shoulders before he bounds up the stairs. Once I secure a suitable hold, I cast a hurried glance backwards to see Sean coming up swiftly after us —taking two or three stairs at a time—and Silas bringing up the rear, still hindered marginally by the cuffs binding his wrists behind him and the dragging chain of the shackles.
