The highest of high society was called to order on the first day of the month, February 2021. Many had perished in the fires and the flood that proceeded. Tropical storms had ripped right though the quaint town south of Barbados. A tumult, without relief for twenty six consecutive days. Electrical poles were ripped from the ground by strong winds that suspended and slung about debris like it was in an underwater vortex. Gravity seeming to ebb and flow at whim. The eye of the storm conveniently situated itself overs Parchfield manor, a white two-storey gettaway, for the white haired and weary hearted governor of the neighbouring Barbados. Being on holiday at the time, to escape the heat of summer and an investigation from internal affairs. Prayers of many languages could be heard in muffled sobs, perhaps coming from inside the manor and under the wooden staircase. The Manors occupancy had risen to bursting point, as if it were an ark upon the sole hill of salvation. Many of the irregular tenants were of either a political or intellectual background making up the greater portion of the day to day haut monde. This would be the governor’s very own renaissance as the front door burst in from it’s hinges in a gust that seemed only to re-double in force. Bodies were flung everywhich way as clinging hands gave way and people found themselves sliding down the hall, out the back door and into the neighbouring field. Fragments from stained glass windows mixed with ordinary wood-chips in the filed and the grass shoots bent and bounced without pattern.