faded and worn-like the people… like the rest of the town.
Hakiem had watched Sanctuary’s decline over the years; watched the economy dry
up as the citizens became more desperate and vicious. He had watched and
chronicled with the detached eye of a professional tale-spinner. Sometimes,
though, like this-when a prolonged absence made the deterioration more apparent
to the eye than the day-to-day erosion of his more favored haunts, he felt a
pang of sorrow not unlike that he felt the day he visited his father and
realized the man was dying. He had cut that visit short and never returned,
preferring in his then-youth to preserve the memories of his sire in the joyful
strength of his prime. Hakiem had always regretted that decision and, now that
the town he had adopted and grown to love was in its death throes, he was
determined not to repeat his earlier mistakes by abandoning it. He would stay
with Sanctuary, sharing its pain and comforting it with his presence until
either the town or he, or both, were dead.
Having renewed his resolve, the storyteller turned his back on the heartbreaking
sight of the docks, once the pride of Sanctuary, now a ghastly parody of their
own memory and entered the tavern which was his objective.
The Wine Barrel was a favorite haunt of those fishermen who wished to indulge in
a bit of socializing before returning to their homes. Today was no exception and
Hakiem easily located the person he sought. Omat was sitting alone at a corner
table, a full tankard held loosely in his lone hand as he stared thoughtfully