Most heroes rise from tragedy. Countless legends passed through the doors of orphanages. Scores of fiery-eyed adventurers once once held their loved ones with arms stained red. It was at this speculation that Ahab really wondered if he was at all special or counted, for having lived such an uneventful life. Any quill taken down to mark his own deeds would seem more like a librarian's guide than the low rumblings of a future hero; surely Ahab's accounts of meeting such acclaim in the marketplaces of the Sultanate would take favor over his own ramblings and, somehow, make his life seem less impressive than it already perhaps was. What could he hope to accomplish? And with this Iblee's Curse?
Akreen's father, Ahab, listens, exhaling a puff of cactus green from his nostrils.
"Your mind is too big, even for you," Ahab says, holding out the hookah in his hand. Ahab takes the hookah, taking a deep breath. The words bounce around Ahab's head, thoughts echo and clash, yelling over one another like the merchants at the marketplace. It feels incredibly too crowded.
"Akreen, look for a moment at this." Ahab reaches into his pocket and produces a small, drilled stick from within his robe. "A gift from the Heartlanders, you see. A sign that a man is at his best." Ahab places the instrument to his lips and blows, producing a sharp whistle. "Aha! How could one who is not living as the gods intended have such a treasure?" He extends his hand with the flute. "I want you to have this. Take this for yourself and you will see. Everything you could want or imagine finds its way into the Sultanate."
That night, Akreen rests next to his wife and infant, unable to sleep, thinking about the conversation with his father earlier in the evening. "How could Ahab know of the things that feed my soul? He only sees what comes to him in the market stall. He could never imagine the riches that lie between the pages of a tome." Harians would never understand, not wanting to venture far out of their walls or to seek recognition beyond their social circles. Misery loves company and that is how Harians make the most of their time, passing the hookah and marveling at the latest exotic trinket from across the land. Like the trees that used to dot the landscape, no one would remember who was here when they had gone. Or even if they did, no one would care. "My mind is not too big for me. It is too big for these walls." Of that Akreen was sure. And by the morning, he was gone.
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