the room over the untouched rim of his wine cup. This was, of course, done
through slitted eyes. It would not do to have anyone suspect he was not truly
asleep. What he saw only confirmed his growing feelings of disgust.
The Vulgar Unicorn was definitely going downhill. A drunk was snoring on the
floor against the wall, passed out in a puddle of his own vomit, while several
beggars made their way from table to table, interrupting the undertoned
negotiations and hagglings of the tavern’s normal clientele.
Though his features never moved, Hakiem grimaced inside. Such goings on were
never tolerated when One-Thumb was around. The bartender/owner of the Vulgar
Unicorn had always been quick to evict such riffraff as fast as they appeared.
While the tavern had always been shunned by the more law-abiding citizens of
Sanctuary, one of the main reasons it was favoured by the rougher element was
that here a man could partake of a drink or perhaps a little larcenous
conversation uninterrupted. This tradition was rapidly coming to an end.
The fact that he would not be allowed to linger for hours over a cup of the
tavern’s cheapest wine if One-Thumb were here never entered Hakiem’s mind. He
had a skill. He was a storyteller, a tale-spinner, a weaver of dreams and
nightmares. As such, he considered himself on a measurably better plane than the
derelicts who had taken to frequenting the place.
One-Thumb had been missing for a long time now, longer than any of his previous
mysterious disappearances. Fear of his return kept the tavern open and the