loss

The Ebb of Aching Hearts

Mire's End clings to the sodden banks of the River Lethe like a bruised eye. Here, the water doesn't flow so much as it weeps, carrying the gray silt of upstream sorrows into the stilts of the town's sagging piers. The air is thick with a mist that smells of damp wool and cold stone, muffling the sounds of the living until the only thing left is the rhythmic, heartbeat-like slapping of waves against rotting timber. Every resident of this town wears a strip of black cloth, a symbol of a loss they refuse to let go. In the taverns, the spirits are low and the ale is watered down by the ever-present humidity. Visitors are watched with a heavy-lidded suspicion, for in Mire's End, a new face is simply someone who hasn't yet learned what the river takes away.