A dying city beside tranquil shores, disconnected from trade.

It had been a long time since the great boats last put in. In the dusty streets and still air you could almost hear the shouts of stevedores and sailors, men and mer. No one knew why the city had ceased to be an entrepot. The harbor was still deep and well-sheltered, the farms and mines that surrounded it still produced goods of worthy, if not exceptional, value. But, as surely as the sun lay on the waters, the ships had stopped coming.

There were few children in the city, and the few there were seemed smaller and sicklier than before. The younger sons and daughters of the great merchant houses were gone - the sons to the imperial province to seek their fortune, the daughters married off. The long-lived elves who had once ruled merchant empires nursed their grief; their human counterparts, a sense of anger at good times that dried up before their birth. None of the merchant princes had been crass enough to take his own life, but many had entered premature and sour retirements.

In the alleys by the wharfs, old men played dice or drank wine, while the younger ones tried to scape by on what trade was left. Some embarked on the fishing boats, some raided old factories and houses for stone they could dress and sell. The air hung heavy by the wharves, as if waiting to unload some dread cargo.

The great ships didn't put in, anymore. the glass and spices and silks no longer flowed in to the city, the grain and metal no longer flowed out. Sprawled out on the warm shore, the city bled slowly to death.