Somewhere in the midst of this chaos, someone was frantically strumming a guitar. Francœur nervously played for the group of demons that had taken him here. He played them new songs, and in return, they did not kill him. It was a terrifying deal. At least they did not demand that he sing. Perhaps they did not know he could. He was not about to correct them, he did not feel he could sing in a situation like this.

Help should be coming soon, if not for him then for the others. He frequently looked for help, listened for the sounds of a rescue, any sign of hope. There were too many here to try escaping alone.