The Tavern at the End of the World

Seated opposite the cell on a faded armchair, the woman was not having the most scintillating conversation. Her mother had been through surprising amounts of trauma. Not the kind that leaves you feeling vulnerable and depressed, the other one. The one that cuts and pastes your memories, plays with physical brain structure like Play-Doh and turns an intelligent upright young woman gibbering wreck incapable of speech or conscious thought, simultaneously making her psyche liable to release large amounts of lethal psychokinetic energies to raze a small town. For this reason, Mother was unconscious just now.
The young princess had been visiting for weeks now; every day, she'd come down, take a seat before the the invisible barriers that separated them and search for answers in her Mother's unvarying, unwavering, unanswerable silence. One day, she might even get them. Mother was beautiful, in her own way. She had long ringlets of chestnut brown hair, a slim, well-defined face set off by emerald green eyes - not that you could see these just yet. her left cheek was marred by a scar that had been given her by a brutish sibling. It was usual for her to be dressed in verdant tones to match her eyes and just a year earlier, you would not have been at all surprised to find her in the corner of a room with a cocoa in one hand, a tome containing the secrets of the multiverse (sometimes an autobiography) in the other. In sleep though, she curled onto one side on a mound of vermin-ridden hay in a bare cell of mould-stained walls. Painfully thin, Mother's skin was gossamer thin and drawn tight over her hands, giving a strange transluscent effect that was symptomatic of her other woes. It was a good thing she slept, she'd never have stood for these living conditions if she'd been self-aware.
The young princess sighed and left. Time to catch up with a few friends.