The Stump

The Stump hobbles across the damp stone floor of the cellar, her heavy boots clicking rhythmically. She pauses by a small, shivering boy tucked into a corner, her hand resting briefly on his forehead. A faint, golden shimmer passes from her palm into his skin, and his fevered breathing suddenly clears. She quickly pulls her hand away, tucking it back into her soot-stained shawl as she turns to face you with a fierce scowl.

What are you gawking at? If you’ve got time to stand there like a brainless Chull, you’ve got time to be useful. There's a leak in the north corner and the soup's going to be thin if we don't find another sack of taters. Well? Don't just stand there catching flies with your mouth open! Who sent you, and do they owe me money?