It’s is the third hour of the day on the 12th day of the second month. The morning sun shines thin but clear in the chilly winter air. In the harbor district of Amalteen the life of the city is fully underway. It is Wallsday, and many skilled craftsman have shuttered their shops, but the commerce of the harbor continues unabated. Shouting above the barking dogs and screeching sea gulls, the fish mongers hawk their wares. Several ships have come into port on the morning tide. The stevedores turn capstans to power the cargo cranes while singing out there work songs. A wrinkled and grey headed hill giant sings loudly and off key as he works along side. All this is occasionally drowned out by the bellowing of mastodons dragging their carts and sleds. On one of the quays, a particularly vicious looking crew of buccaneers is beginning to disembark. Goblins, Orine, and tattooed humans from barbarian lands spill out on to the dock, drawing wary looks from the well-dressed merchants there to receive cargo and news from foreign lands. It takes no skilled observer to see that the ship is in the service of the Queen of Irendi, as all the officers are tall, red-headed, and green eyed concheeri, some of which may have noble titles to go along with their true names in their homeland. One particular barbarian, a particularly tall and ruddy skinned mokoeen stands out from the rest, as even his fellow crewmates seem to fear him and give him a slight berth as he stands at the base of the gangplank taking in the city.
Along side the harbor street, in the shade of an old olive tree that is one of the few remaining along the docks is a cafe were those without pressing business take leisurely late morning repast. A glowing iron stove gives a little heat to the few customers taking in the sun, and talking over their the remains of their morning meal. Among the more usual merchants and ships captains, a few customers stand out in their unusualness. The most eyecatching is a willowy languid elf even more androgenous than is usual for their fair race, and beguiling in appearance like a dangerously feral fey. Nearby two fairhaired and white skinned northerners are having some heavy discussion that is punctuated by occasional laughter. One is a nondescript sailor but the others garb marks him to be a cleric of the sun goddess Showna, whose worship is known and approved of but still somewhat strange in these parts. Not so that of the god who the armored pilgrim guard sitting at the table nearby. The clasp of his travel stained cloak and the prominent mark on his tabard marks him a servant of Aravar, the god of Death, patron of Sailors and of this fair city. On this shoulder is still the boutonniere of a pilgrim, which shows he has not long been in the city. Just sitting down to a table by himself is a man in the embroidered tunic and white cloak that might mark him a lay brother of Aymara. His short beard is well trimmed, but his cloak is strangely slovenly for a servant of the goddess of beauty and purity. Faded stains mar its whiteness, and it has been several times rudely patched like a gleeman's cloak. He seems rather like a player from a poor theater playing a lay brother of Aymara. He orders a glass of wine and begins to puruse the packet of letters he carries.
The big barbarian on the docks shoulders his travel pack and swaggers up the quay. As he nears the end, he suddenly snakelike grabs up a stranger walking by and pulling him half off his feet roars in his face, "Where are the pleasure girls?" The shocked man shivers in terror at the tattooed bone bedecked and monstrous face, unable quite to find his words at this sudden turn of events. "Bah." grunts the Mokoeen and moves on.
Now though a few of the sailors in the harbor have become unusually animated about something. It is not a general alarm and most business in the harbor and the general din continues unabated, but there is a subtle and spreading note of change in the sound. Some of the sailors seem to have stopped their usual chores and to be peering over the side of the ships at something in the water. Others are shouting with a note of unusual urgency. The change goes not entirely unnoticed in cafe. The young northern sailor and the bearded lay brother both stand alertly and look about as if fearing some empending attack. But no danger is evident. They look at each other curiously and scan the docks for some sign that will illuminate the matter, but none is forth coming. The big barbarian has now mounted the ladder up the harbor's sea wall, and he yells his query to a stevedore passing down the left side but is ignored.
The sailor walks toward the sea wall trying to understand what is going on. He is accompanied by the young laybrother. Seeing the other two patrons get up from their seats, the armored gaurd also stands and walks over to join the other two. "Pardon, but what is the matter, goodman?", he says. "I'm not sure.", comes the reply from the young sailor. "Something in the harbor seems to be the cause of some excitement." "The let us go see this thing that everyone is marvelling at.", says the lay brother. The three walk together across the broad street to the sea wall. As they arrive, the big barbarian comes over the wall, seemingly oblivious to any trouble. He barks at the young northern sailor, "You! Are their any women in this city? Where are the houses of pleasure?" The young northerner laughs, "Long voyage, brother? I'm sure if you head into the city, you will see some fair ladies waving at you, but perhaps you can tell me what this excitement in the harbor is about? Why all this animation?"
The big man shrugs and looks back over the sea wall, "I don't know. Tide going out I guess?" The other three men peer curiously over the sea wall.
Gangplanks start falling off the anchored ships and clattering onto the piers. Small boats suddenly disappear from the edge of the quays. Several of the big tall-masted sailing vessels mysteriously start to slowly keel over, there masts and rigging tracing a deceptively slow arc through the air like falling trees. Sailors begin to panic, some jumping off of their ships and a few lashing themselves to the desks with ropes. The stevedores have ceased their labor, leaving behind primarily the sound of agitated sea gulls. Much of the crowd is now frozen, staring out to see and pointing, though a few have oddly started jumping over the sea wall.
The big barbarian says, "Tide going out fast. Real fast. This happen all the time here?" Understanding suddenly dawns on the young sailor, "It's going to come back fast too! Run!" He wastes no more time, but turns and runs, motioning to his comrade, "Run! Up the hill! Run!" The brother of Aymara wastes no time in following. The cleric at the table of the cafe bolts up, and takes off after the sailor with his orange and white robes flapping. The sultry elf gets up and looks around, and then begins pushing through the crowd toward the big stone temple of Shalymar the sea goddess on the edge of the harbor. The big barbarian says, "What's wrong with them?" A look of horror overcomes the face of the armored pilgrim guard as his imagination begins to encompass the situation. He turns and shouts, "A wave is coming. A wave is coming! Everyone run!" The barbarian turns and looks out to the harbor, "There's no wave. A wave isn't coming."
Gazing out in to the harbor, they see a valley of brown muck where only moments before was clear blue water. The Arbra river on the cities northern edge now flows across a mud flat all the way out to the harbor mouth. Fish and eels are flopping in the ooze and sea weed. A few small boats are even stranded on dry ground in the middle of the harbor. Some children and a few other people are now frolicking on the terraces of the exposed sea wall and others are now running on the mudflat trying to grab up fish.
The barbarian's confidence wavers, "Ok maybe a wave is coming." He turns and begins fleeing up the hill. The sultry elf continues to walk along the harbor street, fighting through crowds of gawkers and nervous draft animals. The gaurd continues to scream, "Run! Run for your lives!", but to little avail. The few people whose notice he attracts treat him as a strange and potentially dangerous curiousity, but otherwise his words are drowned out in the general hubbub and excitement. The whole harbor area is now in a state of confusion. Some people are rushing away from the harbor, others are rushing towards it to see what the hubbub is about. Collisions and screams occur on the street. On the mud bottom below, some are now running and stumbling back toward the sea wall while others are jumping down the terraces to cash in on there chance at free fish. Dispairing, the guard turns and runs, and as he does the reason for the confidence in his delay becomes immediately apparant. Even encumbered by his armor, he runs like the wind. It is clear the power of his deity is upon him, for as fast as the fleet barbarian runs, yet the armored man is overtaking him up the hill.
Progress up the hill proves to be challenging. The streets are filled with street vendors, and wains going down to the harbor to be loaded or unloaded. The sailor and the laybrother of the artist's goddess move agilely through the crowd, but their cleric friend is struggling, though his shouts of, "Flee!", "Make way!", and "Run for your lives!" seem to be having some effect, though often as not it is to bring people out into the street to see what is going on. A merchant tries to grab the barbarian, with a shout of, "Where you are running to?", but the big man simply extends the flat of his hand knocks the man onto his back. Up ahead, the laybrother vaults nimbly over a wheel barrow of oranges.
Back in the harbor, the general sounds of confusion are now replaced by terror. The murmur of the crowd has become a shrieking, screaming, whinnying bellowing, roar which after a few moments becomes a sort of thunderous static in which you hear nothing and so seems oddly like silence. The elf, finding it difficult to make progress, seems to reconsider the plan of making it to the distant temple and instead turns up a side street and begins to run, but it clearly too late. The elf is pressed on all sides by a crowd which has finally begun to understand the gravity of the situation and is fleeing in a mad panic up the hill.
On the adjacent street, things are faring only a little better. The cleric not as fleet or as atheletic as the others is falling behind; the sailor looks briefly back to check on his friend's progress, but the neigh of a horse brings him back to his own situation just in time to avoid being trampled on as a shying horse jolts a cart out into the street. The sailor tries to tumble underneath, but can't drop low enough in time and smashes his head on the cart with such force that it knocks him on his back. His cleric friend catches up to. Another man tries to acost the barbarian with a punch, "You can't do that to my friend!", but the barbarian nimbly side steps and clothes lines this attacker to the ground as well. Behind the barbarian a crowd has formed. The pilgrim gaurd tries to get them to flee, but to no avail. A small child steps right into his path, certain to be trampled beneath his heavy fast moving boots. Making a profit out of difficulty, the black cloaked man simply scoops up the little girl in his arms and proceeds scarcely hindered up the slope. This alone of the man's actions hithertoo has the intended result, for the crowd becomes immediately incensed. A mother screams, "My baby! He's got my baby!" Men take up cludgels and bludgeons from what is at hand and proceed to chase after him crying, "A kidnapper! Way! Make, way!", and stop him. Angry goodwomen - perhaps aunts, cousins and neighbors - flee along just behind with a look of murder in their eyes.
Now though back in the harbor, the ground has begun to shake and there is a murmur as of distant thunder. A mound of water rises into the sky as it races toward the harbor, lifting, turning, and tossing large boats as if they were toys.
The fleet footed gaurd despite his burden and armor easily outdistances his pursuers and comes abrest of the Mokoeen barbarian, who grunts at him in admiration. Up ahead the cleric drags his sailor friend to his feet and manages to dodge a runaway hand cart that is leaving crockery in its wake, while the laybrother checks his pace wondering if he should go back to help. The elf is in a stampede as humanoids and beasts of burden flee in panic up the hill away from the death that is surely coming. A big mastadon plows through the crowd, leaving red smashes in its wake and nearly trampling the elf to death, but leaving a hole in its wake that allows some freer running, but the elf is nonetheless scarcely 50 yards from the sea wall.
The wave impacts the cities sea wall with a mighty crash that sends water perhaps 60’ into the air. The wave itself crashes onto the street in a hill of churning foam higher than the head of a giant. A few small boats, some containing still terrified sailors crown it. Several large ships are picked up and slammed down again as if they were toys in the hands of an angry child. They shatter and come apart with a deceptive slowness before exploding. Great stone blocks at least 4’ across are blasted out of the sea wall and hurled like catapult stones across the broad harbor way, smashing with the wave into the inns and warehouses that line the street and spinning them about like a autumn storm spins the fallen leaves.