Torn Asunder by Thunder
Now an almost forgotten ruin, Weston was the twin settlement of Easton, nestled either side of the River Glanwyn and providing protection from marauding pirates to the settlements further upstream.
The more open of the twin towns, many of the inhabitants either lived here and worked as fisherman with their boats in Easton Harbour, or tended to the fields and land nearby. A well served as the centrepoint of the village, which stuttered out into open countryside after barely a mile in any direction. The River Folk provided a safe passage across the mouth of the river in exchange for goods, providing a much needed connection between the two villages. Life in the village was peaceful and unremarkable. The seasons came and went, but the people rarely did - the same old faces gathered around the well for the daily gossip, the same hunched shoulders nursing flagons of ale at the bar. All that was to change one fateful summer night...
The rhythm of village life had continued uninterrupted, as usual, well into the evening. In fact, there wasn't anything out of the ordinary until the sun had begun its usual golden finale of descending behind the peaks of the Bellever Mountains. As the long cool shadows of the mountains stretched out to hug the villages before nightfall, a low rumble could almost be heard as if a distant storm were harrassing shops out at sea. Only this wasn't drifting in on the ocean breeze... this was coming from the mountains, and was getting so loud there was no mistaking what it was. As the villagers gazed up in awe at the majesty of the snowy peaks, they saw a single teardrop of snow drifting down below the usual border of purple rocks and white snow, growing in size, in speed, in volume as the avalanche raced down the mountain.
Avalanches aren't unsual this time of year, with the sun at its warmest, causing the glacier to cool the rivers with its meltwater. However, not one person in that village square, or at the bar, could recall having seen such a large volume of snow drifting up into the air like smoke from a forest fire, nor the cloud it settled into up in the atmosphere as it too grew darker than the shadows of the mountain.
As the snow continued it's destructive marathon, it can became clear that this was quickly developing into a rare Cumulus Glacibus Avalanche Surge. The sound of the snowfall could no longer be heard as it was overpowered by the huge booms of the clouds of ice hitting the warm summer air. Sudden bright flashes of lightning provided glimpses of the avalanches' progress down the into the foothills. It would soon reach the village. The villagers scrambled to get their belongings and raced to the riverbank waiting in vain for the river folks barge to ferry them to safety.
Alas, no barge came, for the Riverfolk have long known that this type of avalanche will dump too much into the river, turning it treacherous as it struggles to rid itself of ice and mud. Far better that they retreat upstream to the safety of the marshes and wait it out. Several fishermen from Easton heard the screams of despair from their neighbours and rushed to get the boats out of the harbour to mount a rescue. The first to get out of the harbour, became trapped on the river as it began to surge from the meltwater, preventing them making headway. Those that were behind struggled to get even that far.
All that could be done, was to watch in anguish as the waters rose, sweeping away the helpless villagers as mud, broken trees, boulders and slabs of ice smashed into their homes, their well, their tavern until there was nothing usual about Weston ever again.
The more open of the twin towns, many of the inhabitants either lived here and worked as fisherman with their boats in Easton Harbour, or tended to the fields and land nearby. A well served as the centrepoint of the village, which stuttered out into open countryside after barely a mile in any direction. The River Folk provided a safe passage across the mouth of the river in exchange for goods, providing a much needed connection between the two villages. Life in the village was peaceful and unremarkable. The seasons came and went, but the people rarely did - the same old faces gathered around the well for the daily gossip, the same hunched shoulders nursing flagons of ale at the bar. All that was to change one fateful summer night...
The rhythm of village life had continued uninterrupted, as usual, well into the evening. In fact, there wasn't anything out of the ordinary until the sun had begun its usual golden finale of descending behind the peaks of the Bellever Mountains. As the long cool shadows of the mountains stretched out to hug the villages before nightfall, a low rumble could almost be heard as if a distant storm were harrassing shops out at sea. Only this wasn't drifting in on the ocean breeze... this was coming from the mountains, and was getting so loud there was no mistaking what it was. As the villagers gazed up in awe at the majesty of the snowy peaks, they saw a single teardrop of snow drifting down below the usual border of purple rocks and white snow, growing in size, in speed, in volume as the avalanche raced down the mountain.
Avalanches aren't unsual this time of year, with the sun at its warmest, causing the glacier to cool the rivers with its meltwater. However, not one person in that village square, or at the bar, could recall having seen such a large volume of snow drifting up into the air like smoke from a forest fire, nor the cloud it settled into up in the atmosphere as it too grew darker than the shadows of the mountain.
As the snow continued it's destructive marathon, it can became clear that this was quickly developing into a rare Cumulus Glacibus Avalanche Surge. The sound of the snowfall could no longer be heard as it was overpowered by the huge booms of the clouds of ice hitting the warm summer air. Sudden bright flashes of lightning provided glimpses of the avalanches' progress down the into the foothills. It would soon reach the village. The villagers scrambled to get their belongings and raced to the riverbank waiting in vain for the river folks barge to ferry them to safety.
Alas, no barge came, for the Riverfolk have long known that this type of avalanche will dump too much into the river, turning it treacherous as it struggles to rid itself of ice and mud. Far better that they retreat upstream to the safety of the marshes and wait it out. Several fishermen from Easton heard the screams of despair from their neighbours and rushed to get the boats out of the harbour to mount a rescue. The first to get out of the harbour, became trapped on the river as it began to surge from the meltwater, preventing them making headway. Those that were behind struggled to get even that far.
All that could be done, was to watch in anguish as the waters rose, sweeping away the helpless villagers as mud, broken trees, boulders and slabs of ice smashed into their homes, their well, their tavern until there was nothing usual about Weston ever again.
