Charis - Apothecary
General Summary
As you push open the weathered wooden door of the apothecary, it groans loudly on rusted hinges, the sound echoing in the still air. A faint musty scent of herbs and decay lingers, mixing with something more acrid—perhaps the ghost of long-evaporated potions.
The interior is dimly lit, with dust-choked beams of light filtering through shattered windows and cracks in the ceiling. Wooden shelves line the walls, many of them collapsed or broken, their contents spilled across the stone floor—glass vials, dried herbs, and crumbling parchment labels barely legible with age.
A long wooden counter stretches across the back of the room, behind which stand tall, ornate cabinets with glass-paneled doors, their contents obscured by dust and grime. Some of the doors hang ajar, revealing empty potion bottles, ceramic jars, and tarnished brass instruments once used for alchemy.
To the left, a large mortar and pestle rest atop a stone worktable, surrounded by scattered bundles of dried roots and wilted flowers. Among the debris, you spot a few stoppered bottles, their contents still sloshing faintly, and a small, locked wooden case with intricate carvings.
A staircase, partially collapsed, leads up to what was likely a loft or living quarters, though it looks treacherous to climb. A doorway in the back, its door barely hanging on by one hinge, leads into another room—possibly a storeroom or a place where more potent mixtures were brewed.
As you step through the half-broken doorway into the backroom, the air grows noticeably thicker, heavy with the lingering scent of long-faded alchemical concoctions. The room is small and cluttered, its stone walls lined with wooden shelves, many of which have collapsed, spilling dried herbs, shattered vials, and brittle parchment scraps across the dusty floor. A large central worktable dominates the space, covered in the remnants of an abandoned experiment—blackened scorch marks, melted glass, and a twisted metal stand where something once boiled but has long since cooled to a hardened residue. A few sealed jars remain intact, their contents obscured by dust and time. To the left, a cabinet with iron reinforcements stands against the wall, its doors slightly ajar, revealing rows of labeled bottles and ceramic containers. Some still hold faintly glowing liquids, while others contain dried powders or strange preserved specimens floating in murky fluid. In the far right corner, a small iron-bound chest sits half-buried beneath fallen debris. The floor around it is scorched, as if something burned violently here long ago. The silence in the room is absolute, save for the faint creak of wood settling.
As you ascend the narrow, creaking staircase, the air grows lighter, though it still carries the dust of years long past. The second floor is modest yet thoughtfully decorated, the living quarters of the apothecary who once called this place home. The walls, though worn and weathered, are adorned with intricate carvings of flowers, vines, and woodland creatures, etched carefully into the wooden beams and panels. Time has softened the details, but the craftsmanship remains evident, a testament to the herbalist’s deep connection with nature. A small bed, its mattress long rotted away, rests against the far wall beneath a narrow window, through which faint light filters, casting eerie patterns across the floor. A wooden writing desk sits nearby, its surface cluttered with brittle parchment, dried inkpots, and an old quill, as if the owner had left in a hurry but never returned. A shelf of books and scrolls, many ruined by time and moisture, leans precariously against the wall, their spines still bearing the faded names of ancient herbal remedies and alchemical formulas. Near the foot of the bed, a small personal shrine catches your eye. The delicate wooden carving of a green dragon, its wings curled protectively around a cluster of carved trees and herbs, sits at its center. Faded offerings—withered flowers, a ceramic dish filled with long-dried leaves, and a few small polished stones—remain undisturbed, as if left in devotion long ago. A faint scent of something earthy and herbal still lingers around it, a whisper of the reverence once held in this space. Despite the decay, there is a strange warmth here, a sense that this place was once a sanctuary, a refuge for the one who lived and worked below. But now, it is only a forgotten remnant, waiting in silence.
As you step through the half-broken doorway into the backroom, the air grows noticeably thicker, heavy with the lingering scent of long-faded alchemical concoctions. The room is small and cluttered, its stone walls lined with wooden shelves, many of which have collapsed, spilling dried herbs, shattered vials, and brittle parchment scraps across the dusty floor. A large central worktable dominates the space, covered in the remnants of an abandoned experiment—blackened scorch marks, melted glass, and a twisted metal stand where something once boiled but has long since cooled to a hardened residue. A few sealed jars remain intact, their contents obscured by dust and time. To the left, a cabinet with iron reinforcements stands against the wall, its doors slightly ajar, revealing rows of labeled bottles and ceramic containers. Some still hold faintly glowing liquids, while others contain dried powders or strange preserved specimens floating in murky fluid. In the far right corner, a small iron-bound chest sits half-buried beneath fallen debris. The floor around it is scorched, as if something burned violently here long ago. The silence in the room is absolute, save for the faint creak of wood settling.
As you ascend the narrow, creaking staircase, the air grows lighter, though it still carries the dust of years long past. The second floor is modest yet thoughtfully decorated, the living quarters of the apothecary who once called this place home. The walls, though worn and weathered, are adorned with intricate carvings of flowers, vines, and woodland creatures, etched carefully into the wooden beams and panels. Time has softened the details, but the craftsmanship remains evident, a testament to the herbalist’s deep connection with nature. A small bed, its mattress long rotted away, rests against the far wall beneath a narrow window, through which faint light filters, casting eerie patterns across the floor. A wooden writing desk sits nearby, its surface cluttered with brittle parchment, dried inkpots, and an old quill, as if the owner had left in a hurry but never returned. A shelf of books and scrolls, many ruined by time and moisture, leans precariously against the wall, their spines still bearing the faded names of ancient herbal remedies and alchemical formulas. Near the foot of the bed, a small personal shrine catches your eye. The delicate wooden carving of a green dragon, its wings curled protectively around a cluster of carved trees and herbs, sits at its center. Faded offerings—withered flowers, a ceramic dish filled with long-dried leaves, and a few small polished stones—remain undisturbed, as if left in devotion long ago. A faint scent of something earthy and herbal still lingers around it, a whisper of the reverence once held in this space. Despite the decay, there is a strange warmth here, a sense that this place was once a sanctuary, a refuge for the one who lived and worked below. But now, it is only a forgotten remnant, waiting in silence.
Comments