Charis - Bardic Guild Hall
General Summary
As you approach the ruins of the bardic guild hall, the weight of its former grandeur is unmistakable. The building looms before you, a once-stately structure now weathered by time and the ravages of destruction. The exterior is made of smooth stone, with intricate carvings of musical notes, lyrical scripts, and flowing patterns that have long since begun to fade. The stone is chipped and cracked, but you can still see glimpses of its former elegance, the kind of building designed to inspire and lift the spirits.
The guild hall is set on a wide, open walkway, the path paved with sun-bleached stones, their edges softened by time. This walkway leads you through a small courtyard, now overtaken by wild grasses and the remains of once-immaculate flowerbeds. A few stone benches sit haphazardly, some cracked and toppled, others buried beneath thick vines and overgrowth.
At the center of the courtyard is the fountain, an elegant feature now reduced to a shadow of its former self. Once, it must have been a thing of beauty—its water flowing gracefully, perhaps a crystal-clear stream, now stagnated and murky. The fountain’s central figure—a pair of dancing statues—is worn with age. Eroded stone forms depict two graceful figures, one playing a lyre, the other with a flute, their faces long since erased by the elements. The water that once cascaded from their hands has turned to thick, greenish slime, and the marble basin beneath is cracked, the once pristine surface now littered with debris.
From the courtyard, stone arches stretch to either side of the guild hall, their graceful curves leading around to other parts of the complex. These arches once framed the way into hidden gardens or smaller courtyards, where music and laughter no doubt filled the air. Now, they frame only the passage of time and the echoes of the guild’s faded past. The arches themselves, though sturdy, show signs of age—moss clings to their underside, and the stone has begun to crumble in places.
As you continue up the steps leading to the massive front entrance, you feel the weight of the building's history. The steps are wide, though many have been broken or worn away by time, leading to a set of grand double doors, now hanging ajar, the wood warped and cracked. The entrance, once imposing and welcoming, now exudes an eerie silence. The marks of long-departed craftsmen are still visible in the fine carvings of the door, which once depicted stories of epic performances and legendary bards, but now only the faintest impressions remain.
To either side of the entrance, stone pillars stand—still upright but weathered. They were once adorned with intricate carvings that spoke of joy and creativity, of voices lifted in song, and instruments played in harmony. Now, the carvings are indistinct, blurred by years of neglect.
As you step into the courtyard to the left, the air feels heavy with the remnants of past celebrations, though now it is an eerie silence that fills the space. The courtyard is small, but the sense of faded grandeur is clear. At the far end, a raised platform sits, still intact despite the years of neglect. It’s clear that this was once a stage for performances, where bards, dancers, and poets would captivate audiences with their art. The platform is made of worn stone, with the faintest outlines of intricate designs around its edge—symbols and patterns that suggest this was a place of high importance for gatherings and spectacles. Around the platform, scattered across the ground, are scraps of silk, tattered pillows, and remnants of canopies, their once vibrant fabrics now faded and torn, fluttering weakly in the breeze. These pillows must have been spread out for those who sat on the ground to enjoy the performances—comfortable, inviting, the remnants of luxury long gone. The fabrics, some still vibrant in hue, are now frayed and dirty, their colors muted by the harsh passage of time. Several wooden poles, half-buried under creeping vines and grasses, still cling to fragments of canopies, but they have lost their grandeur. The shade that these would have offered is now long gone, and what was once a place for socializing and relaxation is now a scene of quiet desolation. The silk that once fluttered in the air now lies in tangled heaps, tangled with remnants of nature—leaves, twigs, and dust. Near the edge of the courtyard, stairs lead up to a walkway that circles the perimeter of the guild hall, worn and uneven but still passable. These stairs were no doubt frequented by many. At the top of the stairs, another entrance to the guild hall beckons, though its door hangs open, much like the grand entrance before, revealing only shadows and dust inside.
As you step into the courtyard to the right, a sense of quiet beauty still clings to this space, though it is now worn by time and neglect. In the center of the courtyard stands another small fountain, its stone structure now weathered and cracked, the water long gone, leaving only stagnant pools at the base, filled with debris and the occasional floating leaf. The once graceful, dancing figures that would have adorned the fountain are now chipped and worn, their features faded and obscured by the passage of time. The area around the fountain is scattered with the same pillows and canopies you saw in the other courtyard, remnants of what must have been a space for people to sit and relax, perhaps listening to soft music or engaging in quiet conversation. These pillows, though still cushioned, have become stained and faded, the fabrics torn and frayed by the elements. The canopies that once offered shade from the sun now hang limp, their colors no longer vibrant but washed out by years of neglect. The air carries a faint mustiness. Behind the fountain, the most striking feature is an overgrown hedge maze, its entrance barely visible under the tangled vines and bramble that have crept across the stone walls. What was once a maze of neat hedges and carefully crafted paths now lies in a state of chaotic growth, with towering bushes and twisting vines obscuring the original design. Some sections of the maze appear passable, but others are completely shut off by thick, gnarled vines and wild vegetation. It’s as if the maze itself has been abandoned, swallowed by nature over time, hiding whatever secrets it once held within its winding paths. Near the far edge of the courtyard, stairs lead up to another walkway, much like the one you saw before, curving along the side of the guild hall. The stairs are uneven, some of the stone steps cracked or missing entirely, but they still offer a path upward. The walkway leads to another entrance into the guild hall, the door there slightly ajar.
As you make your way into the courtyard at the back of the guild hall, a distinct, haunting atmosphere surrounds you. The pillows and canopies scattered across the stone courtyard are more plentiful here, though much like the others, they have worn and decayed with time. The once inviting, soft pillows are now faded and tattered, the colors having bled out from long exposure to the elements. The canopies, which may have once provided shade and comfort, now hang limp from their supports, some torn or slashed by the wear of countless seasons, leaving the area bathed in an eerie, quiet stillness. The courtyard itself seems to have once been a place of rest and leisure, with decaying chairs positioned around in small groupings, likely meant for people to lounge and watch performances or converse in comfort. These chairs, now broken, their wood split and their once-soft cushions long since turned to dust, speak of a time when laughter and conversation filled the air. The faint, musty smell of old wood, mold, and decay permeates the air, as nature slowly reclaims this place. At the center of the courtyard, a large pool dominates the scene. The water within is still, stagnant, and murky—more of a swampy puddle than the clear, sparkling pool it must once have been. The center of the pool held what appears to have been a staging area for performers, the stone platforms still standing but cracked and weathered. The remains of decorative once-vibrant mosaics line the platforms now barely discernible beneath layers of grime and moss. On the far side of the courtyard, stairs lead up to another walkway that curves around the building, leading to yet another entrance into the guild hall. The stairs, much like the rest of the courtyard, are weathered and cracked, with some stones worn down almost to dust. The walkway above provides a view of the entire space below, the tops of the decaying chairs and the surface of the stagnant pool coming into full view. The wooden supports of the walkway seem sturdy enough, though the stone and mosaic tiles beneath your feet have begun to crumble away in places, a reminder of just how much time has passed since this place last saw life.
As you step into the guild hall, the air feels heavy with the weight of history. The room before you is vast, its sheer size enough to make you feel small. A grand chamber, once bustling with the energy of creative minds, is now almost eerily quiet. The stone floors are worn in places, but the benches that line the room and the planters filled with dry, withered plants still stand like forgotten sentinels, their vibrant life long gone. The columns that rise toward the ceiling seem to stretch impossibly high, supporting the skylights above, which now let in only faint light, casting the hall in a soft, diffused glow. To the left and right, hallways stretch off into the wings of the guild hall, but your attention is drawn toward the grand staircase at the center. Two curved staircases rise from either side of the room, their stone steps leading up to a second story, where you can see a walkway that connects the upper levels, overseeing the hall below. The space is vast and open, lending a sense of grandeur and faded elegance to the building. But it is the room between the staircases that catches your eye. Massive iron filigree doors, intricately wrought and remarkably intact despite the wear around the rest of the hall, stand before you. Their ornate design catches the light, casting shadowy patterns across the stone floor. Windows on either side of the door are similarly designed with the same iron filigree, but it is the mirrors inside that truly stand out. You peer into the room beyond, and your gaze is drawn to the large mirrors that line the walls, their frames so tall and elaborate they could almost dwarf a goliath. The intricate designs along the frames are faded, but still visible—curved patterns, spirals, and the suggestion of mystical symbols. But the glass itself is strange. For most of the mirrors, you see only a blackened surface, devoid of reflection. The glass appears as if it were once a portal, but the magic has long faded, leaving only empty darkness. You have the sense that there are more of these mirrors, hidden from view. But there is one mirror that catches your attention more than the others. Its surface shimmers slightly, a silver shimmer that flickers in the dim light, as though something still lingers there, just beyond your reach. When you try to approach the door, it refuses to budge, even with your hands pressing against the heavy iron. You can feel the hum of magic, a tingling sensation in the air as though the door itself is alive with enchantment, refusing to let you pass. A chill sweeps over the room, and the air grows colder as a soft, bitter laughter fills the space, echoing eerily off the walls. You turn, and there, standing behind you, is the ghostly figure of a young elf. She is translucent, her form flickering with the faint glow of magic, her expression one of sorrow and regret. She looks at you with sad, ancient eyes, and as she speaks, her voice is a soft whisper, carrying with it an undercurrent of bitterness. “You cannot enter,” she whispers, her voice quiet but unmistakable. “The door is locked. And the key... is hidden.” Her gaze shifts to the mirrors, and she continues, the pain in her voice palpable. “Once, these mirrors were portals, windows to distant lands. We used them to travel far and wide—lands. Places where music still thrived and the hearts of the free were still beating. But when the invaders came, the portals were sealed from both sides.” She steps closer, her form flickering in and out, and you feel a sense of tragic loss as she speaks. “Sealing them from the other side... was a suicide mission. There was no way back for those who went through. My brother was one of them. I hope his death was at least swift.” A soft sigh escapes her, the weight of grief heavy in her voice. “Promise me... promise me that you will bring him home. He went to Týnagarðr.” Her eyes meet yours, desperate. “Promise me, and I will tell you where the key is.”
As you continue your exploration of the guild hall, the vastness of the place seems to stretch on endlessly. The central area with the grand staircase leads you to two main wings: the left and right wings. Each section of the hall feels like it once thrummed with life, now eerily silent, as though the memories of music and laughter still hang in the air. The Great Feasting Hall Heading through the doors on either side of the grand staircase, you step into the Great Feasting Hall. The room feels vast and imposing, with long tables that once hosted the finest banquets. The air carries the faint echo of music and chatter, but now the tables are empty, coated with dust and debris. The stone floors, worn from years of revelry, still retain faint marks from where guests once danced and ate. The far end of the hall opens to a door that leads to the back courtyard, and the kitchens are nearby as well, the heavy smells of spice and roasting meats long since dissipated. You can almost feel the echoes of laughter and toasts to friendship, but now, only silence remains. From the corner of your eye, you catch sight of something that disturbs the stillness—a cellar door, cracked open. When you push it fully open, your heart sinks. Inside, among the crates and bottles long emptied, you find skeletons, the remains of those who tried to take shelter here when the invaders came. The bones are piled together, frozen in their final moments of desperation. The horror of their slaughter is clear, and it’s easy to imagine how they must have tried to hide, only to be struck down in their place of refuge. The Left Wing Moving to the left wing, you notice a stark change in atmosphere. The library stands before you, its shelves still lined with old tomes, many of which are about music, plays, and theatrical performances. Dust coats the covers of the books, but you can feel a certain reverence for what was once here. The air feels heavier, as though the words of forgotten songs still resonate on the pages. Beyond the library, you find several composing rooms, with spilled ink and unfinished manuscripts scattered across desks. Sheet music, half-done compositions, and torn scrolls fill the air with the haunting memory of creativity cut short. The classrooms nearby still have desks where young bards and musicians once learned their craft, some with chalk still marking lessons on the blackboards, though faded by time. Further along, a storage room filled with instruments caught your attention. The viols, flutes, and lutes lie abandoned, their strings snapped, their wood warped, or coated in a thick layer of dust. You can almost hear the soft strumming of a lute or the high trill of a flute as you walk through this room, once a safe place for traveling bards to store their treasured instruments. Another door leads out to the left courtyard. The Right Wing Turning toward the right wing, the atmosphere changes again. Here, you find the rooms where traveling bards would stay during their visits to the guild hall. The chamber doors stand ajar, revealing small rooms furnished with simple yet comfortable furnishings: a bed, a desk, a chest for personal belongings. The windows are broken, but the faint glow of what remains of the light still filters in, casting long shadows on the floor. A doorway leads from this part of the wing to the right courtyard, much like the other side. The Second Story You make your way up the curved staircases, feeling the weight of history underfoot as you ascend to the second story. Here, you find the rooms where the resident bards once lived. The rooms are spacious, with high ceilings and large windows that overlook the courtyards below. The rooms were clearly designed for comfort and creativity, with personalized touches—a tapestry hanging on the wall, an old book still open on a desk, a wooden flute resting in a corner. Some of these rooms still hold remnants of their previous occupants' lives. You find a piano, its keys chipped and cracked, but still capable of a faint sound when you press them. A nearby writing desk holds unfinished poems, scribbled notes in a chaotic scrawl, perhaps abandoned in the middle of an artistic epiphany. The overall sense here is one of unfinished lives—creativity left to decay.
As you step into the courtyard to the left, the air feels heavy with the remnants of past celebrations, though now it is an eerie silence that fills the space. The courtyard is small, but the sense of faded grandeur is clear. At the far end, a raised platform sits, still intact despite the years of neglect. It’s clear that this was once a stage for performances, where bards, dancers, and poets would captivate audiences with their art. The platform is made of worn stone, with the faintest outlines of intricate designs around its edge—symbols and patterns that suggest this was a place of high importance for gatherings and spectacles. Around the platform, scattered across the ground, are scraps of silk, tattered pillows, and remnants of canopies, their once vibrant fabrics now faded and torn, fluttering weakly in the breeze. These pillows must have been spread out for those who sat on the ground to enjoy the performances—comfortable, inviting, the remnants of luxury long gone. The fabrics, some still vibrant in hue, are now frayed and dirty, their colors muted by the harsh passage of time. Several wooden poles, half-buried under creeping vines and grasses, still cling to fragments of canopies, but they have lost their grandeur. The shade that these would have offered is now long gone, and what was once a place for socializing and relaxation is now a scene of quiet desolation. The silk that once fluttered in the air now lies in tangled heaps, tangled with remnants of nature—leaves, twigs, and dust. Near the edge of the courtyard, stairs lead up to a walkway that circles the perimeter of the guild hall, worn and uneven but still passable. These stairs were no doubt frequented by many. At the top of the stairs, another entrance to the guild hall beckons, though its door hangs open, much like the grand entrance before, revealing only shadows and dust inside.
As you step into the courtyard to the right, a sense of quiet beauty still clings to this space, though it is now worn by time and neglect. In the center of the courtyard stands another small fountain, its stone structure now weathered and cracked, the water long gone, leaving only stagnant pools at the base, filled with debris and the occasional floating leaf. The once graceful, dancing figures that would have adorned the fountain are now chipped and worn, their features faded and obscured by the passage of time. The area around the fountain is scattered with the same pillows and canopies you saw in the other courtyard, remnants of what must have been a space for people to sit and relax, perhaps listening to soft music or engaging in quiet conversation. These pillows, though still cushioned, have become stained and faded, the fabrics torn and frayed by the elements. The canopies that once offered shade from the sun now hang limp, their colors no longer vibrant but washed out by years of neglect. The air carries a faint mustiness. Behind the fountain, the most striking feature is an overgrown hedge maze, its entrance barely visible under the tangled vines and bramble that have crept across the stone walls. What was once a maze of neat hedges and carefully crafted paths now lies in a state of chaotic growth, with towering bushes and twisting vines obscuring the original design. Some sections of the maze appear passable, but others are completely shut off by thick, gnarled vines and wild vegetation. It’s as if the maze itself has been abandoned, swallowed by nature over time, hiding whatever secrets it once held within its winding paths. Near the far edge of the courtyard, stairs lead up to another walkway, much like the one you saw before, curving along the side of the guild hall. The stairs are uneven, some of the stone steps cracked or missing entirely, but they still offer a path upward. The walkway leads to another entrance into the guild hall, the door there slightly ajar.
As you make your way into the courtyard at the back of the guild hall, a distinct, haunting atmosphere surrounds you. The pillows and canopies scattered across the stone courtyard are more plentiful here, though much like the others, they have worn and decayed with time. The once inviting, soft pillows are now faded and tattered, the colors having bled out from long exposure to the elements. The canopies, which may have once provided shade and comfort, now hang limp from their supports, some torn or slashed by the wear of countless seasons, leaving the area bathed in an eerie, quiet stillness. The courtyard itself seems to have once been a place of rest and leisure, with decaying chairs positioned around in small groupings, likely meant for people to lounge and watch performances or converse in comfort. These chairs, now broken, their wood split and their once-soft cushions long since turned to dust, speak of a time when laughter and conversation filled the air. The faint, musty smell of old wood, mold, and decay permeates the air, as nature slowly reclaims this place. At the center of the courtyard, a large pool dominates the scene. The water within is still, stagnant, and murky—more of a swampy puddle than the clear, sparkling pool it must once have been. The center of the pool held what appears to have been a staging area for performers, the stone platforms still standing but cracked and weathered. The remains of decorative once-vibrant mosaics line the platforms now barely discernible beneath layers of grime and moss. On the far side of the courtyard, stairs lead up to another walkway that curves around the building, leading to yet another entrance into the guild hall. The stairs, much like the rest of the courtyard, are weathered and cracked, with some stones worn down almost to dust. The walkway above provides a view of the entire space below, the tops of the decaying chairs and the surface of the stagnant pool coming into full view. The wooden supports of the walkway seem sturdy enough, though the stone and mosaic tiles beneath your feet have begun to crumble away in places, a reminder of just how much time has passed since this place last saw life.
As you step into the guild hall, the air feels heavy with the weight of history. The room before you is vast, its sheer size enough to make you feel small. A grand chamber, once bustling with the energy of creative minds, is now almost eerily quiet. The stone floors are worn in places, but the benches that line the room and the planters filled with dry, withered plants still stand like forgotten sentinels, their vibrant life long gone. The columns that rise toward the ceiling seem to stretch impossibly high, supporting the skylights above, which now let in only faint light, casting the hall in a soft, diffused glow. To the left and right, hallways stretch off into the wings of the guild hall, but your attention is drawn toward the grand staircase at the center. Two curved staircases rise from either side of the room, their stone steps leading up to a second story, where you can see a walkway that connects the upper levels, overseeing the hall below. The space is vast and open, lending a sense of grandeur and faded elegance to the building. But it is the room between the staircases that catches your eye. Massive iron filigree doors, intricately wrought and remarkably intact despite the wear around the rest of the hall, stand before you. Their ornate design catches the light, casting shadowy patterns across the stone floor. Windows on either side of the door are similarly designed with the same iron filigree, but it is the mirrors inside that truly stand out. You peer into the room beyond, and your gaze is drawn to the large mirrors that line the walls, their frames so tall and elaborate they could almost dwarf a goliath. The intricate designs along the frames are faded, but still visible—curved patterns, spirals, and the suggestion of mystical symbols. But the glass itself is strange. For most of the mirrors, you see only a blackened surface, devoid of reflection. The glass appears as if it were once a portal, but the magic has long faded, leaving only empty darkness. You have the sense that there are more of these mirrors, hidden from view. But there is one mirror that catches your attention more than the others. Its surface shimmers slightly, a silver shimmer that flickers in the dim light, as though something still lingers there, just beyond your reach. When you try to approach the door, it refuses to budge, even with your hands pressing against the heavy iron. You can feel the hum of magic, a tingling sensation in the air as though the door itself is alive with enchantment, refusing to let you pass. A chill sweeps over the room, and the air grows colder as a soft, bitter laughter fills the space, echoing eerily off the walls. You turn, and there, standing behind you, is the ghostly figure of a young elf. She is translucent, her form flickering with the faint glow of magic, her expression one of sorrow and regret. She looks at you with sad, ancient eyes, and as she speaks, her voice is a soft whisper, carrying with it an undercurrent of bitterness. “You cannot enter,” she whispers, her voice quiet but unmistakable. “The door is locked. And the key... is hidden.” Her gaze shifts to the mirrors, and she continues, the pain in her voice palpable. “Once, these mirrors were portals, windows to distant lands. We used them to travel far and wide—lands. Places where music still thrived and the hearts of the free were still beating. But when the invaders came, the portals were sealed from both sides.” She steps closer, her form flickering in and out, and you feel a sense of tragic loss as she speaks. “Sealing them from the other side... was a suicide mission. There was no way back for those who went through. My brother was one of them. I hope his death was at least swift.” A soft sigh escapes her, the weight of grief heavy in her voice. “Promise me... promise me that you will bring him home. He went to Týnagarðr.” Her eyes meet yours, desperate. “Promise me, and I will tell you where the key is.”
As you continue your exploration of the guild hall, the vastness of the place seems to stretch on endlessly. The central area with the grand staircase leads you to two main wings: the left and right wings. Each section of the hall feels like it once thrummed with life, now eerily silent, as though the memories of music and laughter still hang in the air. The Great Feasting Hall Heading through the doors on either side of the grand staircase, you step into the Great Feasting Hall. The room feels vast and imposing, with long tables that once hosted the finest banquets. The air carries the faint echo of music and chatter, but now the tables are empty, coated with dust and debris. The stone floors, worn from years of revelry, still retain faint marks from where guests once danced and ate. The far end of the hall opens to a door that leads to the back courtyard, and the kitchens are nearby as well, the heavy smells of spice and roasting meats long since dissipated. You can almost feel the echoes of laughter and toasts to friendship, but now, only silence remains. From the corner of your eye, you catch sight of something that disturbs the stillness—a cellar door, cracked open. When you push it fully open, your heart sinks. Inside, among the crates and bottles long emptied, you find skeletons, the remains of those who tried to take shelter here when the invaders came. The bones are piled together, frozen in their final moments of desperation. The horror of their slaughter is clear, and it’s easy to imagine how they must have tried to hide, only to be struck down in their place of refuge. The Left Wing Moving to the left wing, you notice a stark change in atmosphere. The library stands before you, its shelves still lined with old tomes, many of which are about music, plays, and theatrical performances. Dust coats the covers of the books, but you can feel a certain reverence for what was once here. The air feels heavier, as though the words of forgotten songs still resonate on the pages. Beyond the library, you find several composing rooms, with spilled ink and unfinished manuscripts scattered across desks. Sheet music, half-done compositions, and torn scrolls fill the air with the haunting memory of creativity cut short. The classrooms nearby still have desks where young bards and musicians once learned their craft, some with chalk still marking lessons on the blackboards, though faded by time. Further along, a storage room filled with instruments caught your attention. The viols, flutes, and lutes lie abandoned, their strings snapped, their wood warped, or coated in a thick layer of dust. You can almost hear the soft strumming of a lute or the high trill of a flute as you walk through this room, once a safe place for traveling bards to store their treasured instruments. Another door leads out to the left courtyard. The Right Wing Turning toward the right wing, the atmosphere changes again. Here, you find the rooms where traveling bards would stay during their visits to the guild hall. The chamber doors stand ajar, revealing small rooms furnished with simple yet comfortable furnishings: a bed, a desk, a chest for personal belongings. The windows are broken, but the faint glow of what remains of the light still filters in, casting long shadows on the floor. A doorway leads from this part of the wing to the right courtyard, much like the other side. The Second Story You make your way up the curved staircases, feeling the weight of history underfoot as you ascend to the second story. Here, you find the rooms where the resident bards once lived. The rooms are spacious, with high ceilings and large windows that overlook the courtyards below. The rooms were clearly designed for comfort and creativity, with personalized touches—a tapestry hanging on the wall, an old book still open on a desk, a wooden flute resting in a corner. Some of these rooms still hold remnants of their previous occupants' lives. You find a piano, its keys chipped and cracked, but still capable of a faint sound when you press them. A nearby writing desk holds unfinished poems, scribbled notes in a chaotic scrawl, perhaps abandoned in the middle of an artistic epiphany. The overall sense here is one of unfinished lives—creativity left to decay.
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