Charis - Bookstore

As you navigate the ruined streets near the market square, your eyes fall upon a two-story building, its sturdy stone walls weathered but still standing against the test of time. The entrance beckons, framed by a pair of stone planters flanking the doorway. Whatever vibrant flowers once thrived there are long gone, leaving only twisted roots and cracked soil, now home to creeping weeds that slither through the stone like the grasping fingers of time itself.   The wooden door is aged and splintered, the grain warped by years of exposure to the elements. A jagged fracture runs down its center, as if it had been forced open long ago, the remnants of its once-sturdy lock hanging uselessly from rusted iron hinges. Its handles, though tarnished with time, reveal an intricate design—scrolls, delicately carved, their once-ornate details smoothed by the elements but still hinting at the building’s former purpose.   Above the entrance, a wooden sign sways gently in the faint breeze, its edges softened by decay, its lettering long since worn away by time and weather. The faded remnants of paint cling stubbornly to the wood, hinting at a name that is now lost to history.   Beyond the doorway, the darkened interior yawns, waiting. Dust swirls in the faint shafts of light that slip through shattered windows above, illuminating glimpses of wooden shelves, their contents long disturbed—though whether by scavengers, war, or something else is uncertain.   As you step inside, the air is thick with dust and decay, the scent of molded parchment and stale ink lingering like the ghost of what once was. Your footsteps disturb the thin layer of grime coating the stone floor, revealing faded tile beneath, worn smooth by countless patrons long since vanished.   Wooden shelves, once meticulously arranged, now stand bare and ransacked, their contents either stolen or left to ruin. A few tattered books remain, their pages yellowed and curling, their bindings split and frayed. Some lie scattered across the floor, their spines cracked open, pages torn free and trampled underfoot.   Near the shattered front counter, the remains of ink bottles glisten in the dim light, their contents long dried into black stains, some mingling with the dust in a fragile, crackling crust. Quills snapped in half and parchment shredded into illegible scraps suggest a desperate struggle, one that did not end quickly.   A few display cases, now broken, hold only splinters of glass, their former wares pilfered or destroyed. The scattered remnants of delicate trinkets—a brass inkwell, a tarnished seal stamp—hint at a time when this place was a haven for knowledge and craftsmanship.   And then, amid the wreckage, something more ominous. A dark stain, dried into the stone, stretches from behind the counter and leads toward the back of the shop—a trail of blood, smeared and uneven, like someone stumbled, dragging themselves deeper into the building.   As you step through the door at the back of the shop, you find yourself in a narrow hallway, the air thicker, more stagnant here, as if the past itself refuses to let go. The walls, once whitewashed, are now stained with age, the paint peeling in curling strips, revealing the rough stone beneath.   The trail of blood continues, smeared along the floor and up a narrow wooden staircase leading to the second floor. The steps are scuffed and worn, the railing splintered in places, as though someone gripped it with desperate fingers as they fled.   To your left, an old wooden door, slightly ajar, reveals a storeroom filled with toppled shelves and broken crates. This was where inventory was once kept, now reduced to dusty remnants and forgotten stock. A few rotting sacks of grain and cracked wooden boxes suggest this place might have served as both shop and home.   To the right, another door opens into a small, enclosed yard, the air cooler as you step toward it. Overgrown vines cling to the crumbling stone walls, curling around the remnants of a small garden—now wild and untamed, but once carefully cultivated. You can make out the shapes of herbs and flowers, long since left to the whims of nature. A half-buried watering can, its metal rusted, hints at the hands that once tended this space.   The presence of the garden, the wooden trellis now collapsed with age, and the worn stone path leading to a small bench suggest that someone once called this place home—that the shopkeeper, or perhaps their family, lived above the store.   The blood does not lead here. It continues up the stairs, vanishing into the shadows above.   As you step onto the upper floor, the air grows heavy—thick with the stillness of time long past. The scent of dust and decay lingers, mixing with the faint traces of something… more. Something human, long faded.   The living quarters are small, but comfortable, or at least, they once were. A low wooden table sits in the center of the sitting room, surrounded by a few scattered cushions, their fabric long since faded and torn. A few discarded toys—a wooden horse with a broken wheel, a stuffed doll missing an eye, a set of carved animal figurines—lie abandoned on the threadbare rug, covered in a layer of dust. The faintest smear of a child's handprint remains on the wall, preserved by time.   To the side, a small kitchen holds the remains of simple domestic life. A rickety table with two mismatched chairs, one toppled over. A few plates, cracked and covered in dust, still sit in the dry basin where they were once washed. The cupboards, now hanging open, are barren, stripped clean long ago. A cooking pot remains on the cold hearth, its contents long since reduced to nothing but blackened residue.   A narrow doorway leads to a bathroom—a stone basin, empty, a wooden stool, and a small, cracked mirror still affixed to the wall. A metal washbowl rests nearby, tarnished and forgotten.   Two small bedrooms lie at the end of the hall. The first is simple, a modest bed pushed against the wall, a dusty bookshelf with only a few scattered remnants of paper. A wooden chest sits at the foot of the bed, partially open, revealing rotten and threadbare, folded linens within. A window, its shutters long since broken, looks out over the overgrown garden below, the vines outside creeping inward, as if trying to reclaim the space.   Then, there is the second room.   The moment you step inside, the weight in the air deepens, a cold stillness gripping your chest. The room is small, but great effort was made to make it comfortable. A few makeshift cots, little more than straw-filled mattresses, are lined against the wall, each with a thin blanket tucked carefully over them. A small shelf holds a handful of toys—a carved wooden bird, a tiny clay figure, a worn cloth rabbit, carefully arranged as if to provide some semblance of warmth and safety.   The trail of dried blood ends here.   On the floor, curled against the wall near the closet, as if she had been shielding something, lies the skeletal remains of a Tabaxi woman. Her bones are fragile, brittle, the fabric of her dress has long since disintegrated, but the outline of her presence remains—a guardian, desperate, defiant in her final moments.   The closet door is wrenched open, splintered where it was once forced aside. Inside, three small skeletons huddle together, their tiny forms pressed into the corner, as if they had clutched each other in fear. One of them had been dragged halfway out, a delicate hand still reaching toward the others, before death claimed them.   The silence in the room is absolute.   The dust, the decay, the years that have passed—none of it can erase the horror, the last, desperate attempt to protect those who could not defend themselves.   A chill settles into the room, not the natural cool of nightfall, but something deeper, older, a presence woven into the very bones of the place. The air grows heavy, pressing down as the shadows lengthen, stretching unnaturally across the floor and walls. A flickering, ethereal light glows near the window, wavering like candlelight before solidifying into the ghostly figure of a Tabaxi woman.   She stands tall, but there is a weariness to her—her shoulders sag, her tail droops, her ears are slightly flattened. She is wrapped in the tattered remnants of a once-fine shawl, its embroidered edges barely visible in the spectral glow surrounding her. Her fur, once a deep hue, is now washed-out silver in the ghostlight. Her eyes, great luminous pools, shimmer with sorrow too vast for words.   She gazes out the broken window, her expression distant, as though looking into a time long gone. Her voice, when she finally speaks, is soft, a whisper carried on the chill of the air, yet filled with immeasurable grief.   “They weren’t my children,” she murmurs, her voice hollow, raw. She turns to you now, her pain laid bare, as if the weight of those words alone might shatter her. “Refugees from Blackpool. They had already lost their parents before reaching here.” She closes her eyes, and for a moment, the flickering of her form wavers—as if the memory itself pains her, as if it takes everything to keep speaking.   “Too young for that much sorrow.”   Her claws flex at her sides, not in anger, but in the phantom memory of a desperate embrace. “I tried to protect them. Tried to give them safety, a home, a place to belong.” Her breath catches, her tail curling inward, as though trying to hold together what has already been lost.   “But I could not protect them from this.”   Her gaze shifts toward the small, crumpled skeletons, and her form dims, as if the act of looking at them drains her remaining strength. When she speaks again, her voice is thin, distant, a whisper from across eternity.   “Please…” Her ears twitch, the tiniest movement, as though clinging to a last thread of hope. “Scatter our ashes at the Temple of Ryheia… Return us to the Mother of Cats.”   The room seems to tighten around you, the shadows thickening at the edges, the weight of her sorrow pressing into your bones. She looks at you then, truly sees you, as if willing you to take up the one burden she can no longer carry.   And then, the ghostly wind shifts, her form flickering like dying embers, before she fades back to the ethereal.   As you head back downstairs, the house feels even quieter, the weight of the spectral encounter lingering like a silent fog. The faint creak of the floorboards beneath your feet echoes in the otherwise still air. At the base of the stairs, you turn into the small store room, a space once organized and efficient, now overrun with the dust of ages past. The shelves are mostly bare, their contents either looted or decayed with time. Yet, there is something here, hidden amidst the detritus. In the back corner, a small crate catches your eye, its edges worn, but still intact. As you approach, you see it’s filled with neatly packed metal pens—each one finely crafted, the tips sharp and precise. There are nibs of varying sizes, some still gleaming in the faint light. These pens seem out of place, preserved against the wear of time. They must have been part of something important, perhaps for a task long forgotten.   Nearby, another crate sits, this one filled with several glass bottles of ink. The bottles are carefully packed, their contents still vibrant in brilliant hues of deep blue, bright red, soft green, and the occasional gold shimmer. Though the labels are worn and illegible, the faint scent of old ink and parchment still lingers in the air. This small stash of writing materials seems to have been untouched by time's ravages, an unexpected treasure in a place left to rot.   The books—somehow surviving where most others have crumbled—rest on the back shelf. They are a handful of tattered, yet relatively intact tomes, their spines cracked but the pages still legible.