The dockside had finally quieted. Most of the fish were gone out to sea, though remnants remained even then of the lengthy and surreal disaster. Sometimes someone would come across fish bones lodged into a space between crates; sometimes someone would come across bear prints in the mud by the sea, heading back towards the woods.
But it had come to an end for the most part, and all was as well as it ever got on the Docks of Rhy'Din. The seagulls had drifted away for the most part, as well as the cats and raccoons. People cleaned up what flood damage had been caused, and went back to their day to day jobs.
Several hundred miles away, Bill E. Bobbins had felt nothing but relief since taking his wife to Whitewall Island for a vacation. At least until the heat was off. He had spent the past couple of days feeling safe and secure and relieved, counting on the fact that even if someone could figure out that he started the mess, they wouldn't think to look out here for him.
He woke up late in the afternoon, having spent the night before celebrating his get away in the local pub. He thought that he smelled something funny, but brushed it off as him needing a shower. Slowly, leisurely, he went outside to stretch in the summer sun and feel the rays.
Then he sniffed again.
Then he looked.
Strewn all along the beaches of Whitewall Island were fish. Rotting fish. The same rotting fish that had been on the docks of Rhy'Din. Bill E. Bobbins stared, unable to believe it.
He stared for a long time.
And as the first of the seagulls began coming in waves, he let out a little sob.
[size=9]((Thanks to all the muns and characters who made this thread a thing of chaotic beauty. I think this is a good place to end it; if anyone else wants to post about the disaster, feel free to start another thread here Dockside!))[/size]