Charis - Farm

As you approach the ruins of what once was a thriving farm, located outside the city gates. The land itself is quiet, too quiet, as though even nature hesitates to remember what was once here. The pastures, wide and open, stretch out before you, but where once there may have been lush green grass and vibrant livestock, now it is overgrown, the land reclaiming itself with tangled weeds and wild grasses.   In the distance, the remains of great fields that once held crops now stand choked by untamed thistles and vines, twisting their way up weathered, broken fence posts. The skeletal frames of ancient barns loom ahead, their timbers warped and cracked, sagging under the weight of years. Yet, the most striking feature of the land is the quiet—the only sound being the rustle of the wind through the long grass and the occasional creak of wood from the dilapidated structures.   As you step closer, you see the skeletons of large bovine creatures scattered throughout the pastures, their bones bleached white by the sun, half-buried in the earth as though left to rot. These skeletal remains are huge, far larger than any cattle you've seen before. They resemble aurochs, though the size of the creatures and the sheer magnitude of their bones leaves you uncertain. Their massive skulls are still intact, with wide, curving horns that point toward the sky, twisted and cracked, evidence of the strength that once resided in these animals. Some still seem to stand, half collapsed in the tall grass, as if waiting for their final breath.   Moving toward the barn structures, you spot more remains—the skeletons of horses, goats, and other livestock strewn across the ground. Some of these creatures were likely once prized for their speed and stamina, their bones now only whispering of their past lives. In one barn, the beams and walls are long rotten, but the skeletons of goats still remain nestled close to one another, their tiny ribs stark against the dark floor. The horses’ skeletal remains are larger, their bones jumbled together in what might have been a stall or pen, perhaps where they were housed before the fall of this place. Their hooves lie shattered on the ground in pieces, long past the point of decay.   The stench of rot, long gone, is replaced by the eerie silence of abandonment. Some of the barns still stand tall, but they are empty, their floors scattered with dried hay, some rotted and decomposed into a thin layer of dirt and dust. The occasional piece of old farming equipment—broken plows, rusted and forgotten—lies abandoned beside the barns.   As you step inside the remains of the farmhouse, the heavy scent of decay fills your nostrils. The air is thick with the dust of years, and every surface is coated in grime. It’s clear that no one has lived here for a long time. The wooden beams that once formed the sturdy walls of the house have been worn down by time and neglect, many now cracked and sagging under the weight of years of wear. Some sections of the walls have completely collapsed, leaving gaping holes in the structure, though the roof still holds, albeit barely.   The main room appears to have once been a warm, bustling area. A long, dust-covered table sits at the center, its wooden surface marred with gouges and stains. The chairs around the table are scattered, some toppled over as if hastily abandoned. Nearby, a rusted stove stands in a corner, its chimney blackened from years of use. The remnants of burnt logs lay scattered across the hearth, long gone to ash.   On the floor, an old rug, now faded and fraying, lies half-rolled at the entrance to what you assume might have been the kitchen. The cupboards in this area are empty, their doors hanging loosely on their hinges, revealing only the broken remnants of what was once a carefully kept household. A few old pots and burnt pans are stacked in a corner, their handles broken and warped by time and exposure.   As you move through the farmhouse, the faded remnants of personal belongings catch your eye. A cracked ceramic mug sits forgotten on a shelf, its handle chipped, a faded design still visible but barely discernible. A tattered cloak is draped across the back of an old chair, moth-eaten and frayed, though it still carries the faintest scent of what might have been once-strong herbs. Old, yellowed books are scattered across the shelves in disarray, their pages brittle and fragile. Some are completely ruined, falling apart at the touch, while others might hold forgotten knowledge—if only they could be salvaged.   You begin to find more signs of the former occupants' lives. In one corner, a wooden cradle, its slats broken and scattered, still bears the remnants of faded blankets and a few forgotten toys. A single tarnished spoon lies beside the cradle, as though it was left in haste.   A flight of stairs leads upward to the second floor, where the floorboards creak underfoot with every step. As you search through the bedrooms, the signs of hurried departure become clearer. Beds are left in disarray, the linen torn or discarded. A broken mirror lies in the corner of one room, its shards catching the faint light filtering through the cracks in the walls. A few personal trinkets and keepsakes remain here—an old silver locket, a small wooden carving of a bird, and a faded portrait of a family, their faces half-obscured by time and dust.   In one of the crumbling bedrooms, hidden beneath layers of dust and scattered belongings, you discover a treasure trove of forgotten lore. Resting on a weathered oak desk is a leatherbound book, its cover embossed with ornate designs that hint at the wisdom of ages past. The pages inside form a detailed bestiary—meticulous sketches and handwritten notes catalog every creature that once roamed this forsaken island. The text, though faded, is rich with descriptions of beasts both mundane and magical, their habits and habitats recorded with unwavering precision.   Tucked between the pages of the book, you find a small, hastily scribbled scrap of paper. The ink is smudged in places, and the note appears to have been written in a rush. It reads:   "The magical harp, known as 'Song of the Wilds,' is said to charm any creature that hears it. Legend says it is hidden within the Temple of Niendruth"   In the back room, what appears to have been a storage closet is now a chaotic mess of overturned crates, many now empty, with some contents spilling out onto the floor. You find worn-out farming tools, old jars of preserved foods, and cloth sacks, some of which have rotted away entirely. There are also signs of something far darker: a bloodstain on the floor in the corner, now dried and faded, though the shape and the nature of the stain suggest someone was injured here long ago.   At the far end of the room, you spot a small trapdoor, its hinges rusted shut. A faint smell of mold and decay escapes from below, suggesting whatever lies beneath has been long forgotten.   As you open the trapdoor and descend into the cellar, a damp, musty air rises to meet you. The steps creak underfoot, the wood warped with age and moisture. The cellar is surprisingly large, with low ceilings supported by thick, dark beams that seem to sag under their own weight. The walls are a mixture of stone and mortar, now cracked and covered in patches of greenish moss that thrive in the perpetual dampness of the place.   The floor is uneven and scattered with debris, remnants of what was once stored here now long gone to rot. The faint smell of mold and decay clings to the air, and the floor is slick with moisture. Small puddles of water gather in the lower spots, the slow trickle of liquid from cracks in the walls echoing in the otherwise still room.   As your eyes adjust to the dim light, you see the remains of shelves that once lined the walls, now empty or sagging under the weight of their own decay. Many of the wooden shelves have split, and what remains is covered in dust and cobwebs. Old empty jars, some shattered and others crushed beyond recognition, lie scattered across the floor. Once-filled barrels stand cracked and leaning, their contents now completely evaporated or spilled over time.   What once was a food storage area has long since turned into a graveyard for spoiled supplies. Canned goods, their metal sides rusted and swollen, have long since burst open, their contents spilling out and rotting into an unrecognizable sludge. The scent of decay is overpowering as you pass a set of old sacks, now reduced to a mass of fibers and dust. What little food might have remained, such as roots and dried grains, have long since rotted away to nothing, leaving only the faintest traces of their former state. The sacks are now a mass of brittle threads and moldy remnants.   In one corner, a wooden crate has collapsed in on itself, and the remnants of dried herbs and spices crumble to dust at your touch. Some herbs still cling to their twisted, dried stems, though they too have lost most of their former fragrance, their scent replaced with the bitter tang of rot.