Charis - Botanical Gardens

As you step forward, the towering remains of the ancient botanical gardens rise before you—a marvel of stone, glass, and iron, though time and conflict have left their mark. The structure’s vast glass panes, once pristine and shimmering, now stand shattered and fractured, their jagged edges catching the light in a way that almost seems unnatural. The glass itself has an unusual quality, shimmering with a faint iridescence, as if once infused with arcane energy or enchanted to protect the flora within. Some of the remaining panes still hold a faint tint of green or gold, refracting the light in a way that paints shifting patterns across the ground.   The entrance, though worn by time, is still a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Delicate iron filigree, woven into intricate floral patterns, frames the grand arched doorway. Vines and creeping ivy have begun to coil around the metal, threading through the delicate patterns like nature reclaiming its own. The once-gleaming doors, made of polished bronze and dark wood, now hang slightly askew, their hinges rusted, but the craftsmanship of the past still evident in their artistry.   Stepping inside, the polished stone floors, once mirror-smooth, are now faded and dulled by time, cracked in places where roots have forced their way through. Faint traces of inlaid silver and jade designs can still be seen beneath layers of dust and fallen leaves, hinting at the elegance this place once held.   At the heart of the garden stands a large, ornate fountain, its waters long since dried up, leaving only a cracked basin and moss-covered stone. At its center, an elaborate sculpture of a dragon, frozen mid-coil, rises above the space. Its scales of emerald green, earthy brown, and rich copper were once polished to a brilliant sheen, but time has dulled their luster, the colors now faded and chipped in places. The dragon’s eyes, once set with shimmering gemstones, have been removed—whether by looters or time itself, it's unclear. Water once flowed from its open maw, cascading over the edges of its wings in a mesmerizing display, but now, only trickles of rainwater and creeping vines remain, filling the basin with stagnant pools.   All around, the flower beds, once carefully cultivated, are now a tangle of wild overgrowth. Blooms that shouldn’t have survived still flourish in the cracked stone planters—deep blue orchids, luminescent ferns, and curling vines with tiny, iridescent petals that shimmer under the dim light. The scent of earth and decay mingles with the faint lingering fragrance of something sweet and floral, almost magical.   At the back of the building, half-hidden beneath a tangle of ivy and the remains of fallen beams, stands a weathered wooden door, its surface etched with faded carvings of twisting vines and delicate blossoms. The hinges groan in protest as you push it open, revealing a chamber untouched by time’s decay—the ancient records room of the garden’s caretakers. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of old parchment and dried herbs, a strange mix of earthy decay and preserved knowledge. Tall wooden shelves, still surprisingly intact, line the walls, filled with ancient tomes, scrolls, and delicate sheets of parchment carefully stored in wooden drawers. Some of the records are crumbling at the edges, but many remain in remarkable condition, as if protected by subtle enchantments. The leather-bound volumes are stamped with gold filigree, their titles written in elegant, flowing script, detailing centuries of botanical studies, magical flora, and alchemical discoveries.   A massive central table, now covered in a thick layer of dust, holds several open books, their pages depicting intricate sketches of plants—some mundane, some unlike anything found in the world. Detailed notes accompany each sketch, describing the properties, uses, and habitats of each plant, from medicinal herbs to magical blossoms capable of glowing in moonlight or enhancing spellcasting. Small glass vials, their contents long since dried or turned to dust, sit beside the pages, once containing rare seeds or pressed petals.   At the far end of the chamber, an archway of carved stone frames a set of stairs leading downward, vanishing into darkness. The stone is smooth and well-worn, the edges of each step slightly rounded from centuries of footsteps. The air that drifts up from below is cool and damp, carrying the faintest scent of earth, moss, and something... older.   The doors at the bottom of the staircase are thick and reinforced, made of dark oak banded with iron, their surface etched with intricate sigils that still glow faintly with arcane energy. The symbols are woven into an elaborate, interlocking pattern, forming a protective barrier that hums softly under your touch. These are no simple locks—these sigils were placed here to protect whatever lies beyond, their magic still potent despite the years.   As you push open the door, the sigils offer no resistance and you step beyond the threshold of the cellar. A sudden change in the air washes over you—the scent of earth and age, but without the rot and decay you expected. The room is preserved, untouched by time.   The space before you is vast. Stone shelves stretch from floor to ceiling, each one carefully organized, lined with sealed clay jars, glass vials, and wooden boxes, all meticulously labeled in an elegant, flowing script. Vegetables, fruits, grains, flowers—seeds of every kind imaginable rest in careful containment, stored in ideal conditions to remain viable despite the centuries. Some names are familiar, but others are entirely foreign, suggesting plants long lost to history.   Dim glowing glyphs shimmer faintly across the ceiling and walls, forming an elaborate network of preservation magic, designed to protect these contents from time’s relentless grasp. The air feels cool and crisp, as though the room itself has remained in perfect stasis since the day it was sealed.   At the center of the chamber, upon a raised stone pedestal, rests an ornate tome, its cover of dark, reinforced leather embossed with gold filigree. The book is massive, bound with intricate metalwork depicting interwoven vines and roots.   As you open the tome, you realize it is a detailed log of every seed stored here—a catalog preserved against time’s cruel erosion. Notes on planting seasons, soil conditions, magical properties, and medicinal uses fill the pages, each entry written with the care of scholars and botanists dedicated to ensuring future generations would one day reclaim this knowledge.