Topic: sorry

The siren blares, deafening the sounds of hurrying hoofsteps clacking across a freshly polished tile. Young Cynbel at the ripe age of eleven, was running for his dear life while he wore a tattered black robe. He heard the various shouts, all demanding for the young alchemist's apprehension, but as he bolted past the door, he heard their increased panic. A crossbow bolt flung past him, embedding itself into a steel door that bent into a turn. "Shoot to kill!" one of them cried. Cynbel was soo...