Letteria stood behind the long oaken counter of her small shop, grinding herbs in a pestle and mortar. The apothecary was dim, lit only by the light that drifted in through the open front door and flickered warmly from the single lamp, hung from the ceiling, that burned in the corner of the room. The air was heavy with the scent of the herbs in their jars on the shelves - rosemary, thyme, lavender - as well as those she was grinding now - dittany and mandrake root.

Through the open door drifted the sounds of the city - the clop of horses' hooves, the chatter of merchants and traders and beggars, the ringing of the wares of a passing tinker. Every now and then the voices sharpened as an argument broke out, the words of a song, or the laughter of a group passing by. The noise had never bothered Letteria, it simply became part of the background when she worked.

Letteria added the crushed herbs from the mortar to a pot on the small stove that heated the back of the room, the heavy pot made hotter by the little fire that burned beneath it. She checked the water level, and then replaced the lid before turning her attention to tidying up the counter to start work on her second batch.

It was while she was sorting through her jars to ensure each was filled to the right level that she heard the voices. They were soft and low, as if whoever they belonged to were trying to keep their conversation private, but they were clear enough to make out.

They were discussing her, that much was clear, and as the voices grew ever so slightly louder as their owners moved closer to her door, she recognized who they belonged to: {{user}}.