For reasons of fortune, fate, or folly, each of you finds yourselves in the outpost of Altaruk during the festival week of The Soaring Sun. Whatever affairs you sought to conduct are instantly forgotten as stalwart sentries begin leaping from the walls like rabid Gith, swcreaming in terror.
A wall of silt that spans the horizon barrels in from the east, out of the Forked Tounge Estuary, with a speed that outraces any hope of fleeing its wrath. You can only seek whatever paltry cover may be available and let the sands have their way till their energy is spent.
As the hot winds announce the death of Altaruk, some foolish or brave enough to dare stare into the coming tempest of silt utter cries of what can only be madness brought on by the realization of the inevitable. Insensate ramblings of a woman, some say Elven, riding the crest of the storm as if it were her own pavilion till the roar of the winds drowned them out and those open mouths filled with silt.
On the 3rd day of The Festival of the Soaring Sun, 190th King’s Age, Altaruk ceased to exist.