The locals have already started calling it The Storm, as if certain that one of its magnitude is not likely to ever strike the city again. Hour after hour the rains have kept falling, and at an amazing pace. Even in daylight the city is draped in midnight darkness, punctuated only by the fierce lightning that rips angrily from the sky. The wind howls and gusts and pushes those unlucky enough to be caught outside off their feet. In the lower reaches of the city the streets are raging rivers hurtling towards the bay, washing away anything that isn't tied down, and quite a bit that was. Bodies float through the streets in the Warrens, some fresher than others. Refugees from The Docks district fight the weather as they struggle up the lonely road that takes them to the top of the Cliffs of Lost Wishes, as their homes and businesses succumb to the onslaught of nature. Great sections of the district have already cleaved off into the churning ocean as the sandy soil is undermined. A gathering of mages from The Inverted Pyramid have taken up station at the top of the cliffs and work urgently to save as much as they can from the ravages of the storm. Those displaced crowd into Midtown mostly, and while the streets are almost utterly devoid of life, the inns and taverns on higher ground do a booming business.
Already rumors swirl around the city that there is some supernatural agency at work, that a storm like this could only be the result of foul necromancy. Most don't believe it, surely, but this is Ptolus, and one can never be sure. After almost 24 hours, it doesn't appear that the storm intends to leave Ptolus any time soon. As people huddle in their homes, or in the welcoming warmth of taverns and inns, tensions rise, tempers flare, and certain nefarious elements plot how to use Nature's Wrath to their own advantage.
