It was a slow night at the Vulgar Unicorn. Not slow in the sense that there hadbeen no fights (there hadn't) or that there weren't many customers (thereweren't) but rather a different kind of slow; the slow measured pace of a man onhis way to the gallows, for the Unicorn was dying, as was the entire town ofSanctuary. More people were leaving every day and those left were becomingincreasingly desperate and vicious as the economy dipped to new lows.

Desperate people were dangerous; they were quick to turn predator at thesmallest imagined opportunity, which in turn made them vulnerable to the realpredators drawn to the town like wolves to a sick animal. Anyone with an ounceof sense and a good leg to hobble on would have deserted Sanctuary long ago.

Such were the thoughts of Hakiem, the Storyteller, as he sat brooding over a cupof cheap wine. Tonight he did not even bother adopting his usual guise of dozingdrunkenly while eavesdropping on conversations at the neighbouring tables. Heknew all the patrons present and not one of them was worth spying on - hence noneed to fake disinterest.

He would leave Sanctuary tomorrow. He would go somewhere, anywhere, where peoplewere freer with their money and a master storyteller would be appreciated.Hakiem smiled bitterly at himself even as he made the resolution - for he knewit to be a lie.

He loved this bedraggled town as he loved the tough breed of people it spawned.There was a raw, stubborn vitality that surged and ebbed just below the surface.Sanctuary was a storyteller's paradise. When he left, if he ever did, he wouldhave stories enough for a lifetime ... no, two lifetimes. Big stories and littleones, tailored to the buyer's purse. Stories of violent battle between warriors