Luto

You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.” Ethel flinched awake from her daydreaming. At first, she didn't look all too enthusiastic to see her. Her lip bit, discomforted if not outright squeamish looking at the prospect of strangers flagging her down. She worked up the courage to approach, stopping in front of the crone to take the stool by its top and dragged it closer towards herself with a loud, wooden scrape before she'd finally take her seat. "Used to work for this lord back in town - I was a seamstress, see. I took care of his laundry, mended all sorts of damages, sewn the buttons back on.." The woman sighed, nursing a scabbed knuckle. "Until he was met with financial ruin. I was just laid off." Ethel concluded. Pregnant pause hanged in the air, before Ethel suddenly rose. "Can I go? Work won't pop up by itself if I stall a moment longer." She offered the old woman an apologetic smile that came across as more of a pained wince, one worn out of obligation than any hint of real kindness.