(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

Giscorl's monotone broke. "Giscorl b-buy cloth, s-sell cloth, w-wash cloth,
m-mend cloth, and..." He gestured at himself again, but his hands were
shaking so badly that he couldn't even finish.
I tried not to stare, "Uh... never mind. Look, I'm here to pick up someone's
wash... Mebbeth... the midwife... Ragpicker's Square?"
Giscorl blinked. "Wash cloth?"
"Yes, Mebbeth... Ragpicker's Square?"
"Eh... rag? Picker?" He tapped his fingers, as if counting something. "I know.
I remember." He held up a trembling finger, as if telling me to wait.
He returned with a flattened mass of green rags, thin as paper, yet so stiff
they looked like they could double as wooden boards. The rags were so
caked with a greenish-lime starch that they looked like it would take years of
soaking to relax them.
I rapped the cloth with a knuckle, and a hollow clack was the response,
"Uh... how many times did you clean these?"
"Giscorl wash cloth, starch cloth every fifth-day, wash cloth, starch cloth
every fifth-day." His eyes flickered. "Giscorl wash many years. Always starch
cloth on fifth-day. Giscorl's ritual."
"But they're ruined."
"Wash cloth. Is Giscorl's ritual." His voice was flat, almost zombie-like. "Must
starch cloth every fifth-day."
"What's the point of doing it every five days when they don't need... oh,
never mind, just hand them over."
When I returned, Mebbeth seemed lost in twisting the black-branched
picture frame I made for her... she was squaring the edges and snapping off
some of the barbed seeds on the branches. She suddenly noticed me at the
door and set down the frame. "Aye, child?"
"I brought your wash... I think Giscorl was a little heavy on the cleaning
111