A contribution by Jaime M.36
"Something's wrong," a passerby mutters.
Housewives buying fruit cut short their haggling, and the stoic miller hasn't sent his son into the city today. Only the beggars, without even a hovel to scurry to, keep to their tasks, albeit in strained spirits.
"I can't hear the performers anymore," someone says.
"They fled," a scarred vagrant responds, lone, hazy eye on the western sun, "And if ye got any wits, y' would too."