It was in the dead of night that chaos awoke the ranger. Yelps of pain and anguish were carried on the air to his tired, but keen, ears. A feeling of horror swept through him when it smelled it. The familiar stink danced the tango within his nostrils. It was smoke. Vincent the ranger leaped from his tent and searched the forest floor franticly for something. For what felt like an eternity to the aging ranger's eyes combed the scene of the burning forest until he saw it, a small plant. The haze of the smoke stung his eyes as he ran to the small vegetation, whose fragrance overcame the smells of the burning forest. The one thought that raced through Vincent's mind was to get his plant to safety. He ran from the flames but as he ran he felt age drip down into his legs, his lungs tightened, his breathing became more rapid and his breaths were short and painful. The old ranger's body went rigid, and he collapsed onto the ground. His life, his struggles and survivals, raced through his mind as he laid shivering in pain. Was he dying? Would he be dead by the time the trolls and wolves found him and feasted on his flesh and bones? As these horrid thoughts went through his body like a poison a comforting image managed to sneak itself into the stream, his plant, his precious plant, was safe. The ranger gave a sigh and exhaled long and hard and with that all went black. He awoke the next morning or afternoon, he would never know, in the middle of what appeared to be nature's battleground. The ground was littered with corpses of beasts and creatures that had not been as lucky as he. A feeling of heartbreak soon overtook him as his eyes rested
themselves upon the heap of burnt waste that was his home. Fortunately for Vincent, the chest that held all of his supplies sat patiently in the midst of the destruction. In a mode of survival Vincent constructed himself a fire where his tent had once stood. Fire had taken his home and nearly taken his life now however, fire would be the only thing that kept him alive.