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Charis - Gatehouse Tavern and Inn

General Summary

As you step into the ancient tavern, the heavy silence presses around you like a weight. The air inside is thick with dust, disturbed only by your footsteps. Despite its age and the elements working against it, the building still stands, its stone walls sturdy but scarred by time. The wooden beams overhead are cracked and bowed, and the remnants of an old chandelier hang precariously, its once-glorious metal frame now rusted and draped in cobwebs.   Long-abandoned tables and chairs lie scattered, some overturned, others broken into splintered remnants of their former use. A massive bar stretches along the back wall, its surface covered in a thick layer of dust, old tankards still resting where they were left ages ago. Empty shelves line the walls, some collapsed, while others still clutch at shattered bottles and decayed remnants of parchment menus. The faint scent of mildew lingers beneath the dust, and in the dim light filtering through cracked windows, you can just make out dark stains on the floor—memories of the last, desperate moments within these walls.   A staircase near the back leads up into shadow, while a side door, slightly ajar, hints at passage into the attached bathhouse. Behind the bar is a door that leads somewhere, likely a kitchen. The feeling of being watched never quite leaves you, as if the tavern itself remembers those who once filled its halls with laughter, song… and fear.   As you step through the door behind the bar, the air grows heavier, thick with the scent of decay and old soot. The kitchen is spacious, but time has not been kind. Several large stone ovens line the back wall, their iron doors rusted and hanging open like gaping mouths. A long wooden table dominates the center of the room, its surface warped and cracked, littered with the remnants of ancient meal preparation—knife handles long since rotted away, rusted pots and pans, and shattered ceramic dishes scattered across the floor.   Against the walls, shelves once stocked with ingredients now sag under the weight of dust and age, their contents reduced to unidentifiable debris. A few rotted baskets sit in the corners, their woven frames collapsing under their own weight. The air is thick with the scent of mold.   In the far corner, partially obscured by a collapsed shelf, a heavy iron-ringed trapdoor sits embedded in the stone floor. The wood is ancient but intact, the metal rusted but sturdy. A faint draft seeps up from below, carrying with it the scent of damp earth… and something else, something faintly metallic, like old blood.
For those with darkvision - As you descend the ladder into the cellar, the darkness swallows you whole. The air is thick and stale, carrying the scents of damp stone, mold, and something faintly sour—like old, spoiled drink. Looking around reveals rows of crumbling wooden shelves and barrels that have long since rotted through, their contents seeped into the cracked stone floor.   Among the debris, a few ceramic jugs remain intact, still sealed with wax, their contents a mystery. Others lie shattered, their shards reflecting the dim light like scattered teeth. The silence is absolute, pressing in on you like a weight, broken only by the occasional creak of wood settling or the slow, rhythmic drip of water from somewhere unseen.   At the far end of the cellar, where the light barely reaches, an unmoving shadowy mass sprawls across the floor. It is difficult to make out—something large, but undefined, its edges blending into the darkness. There is no sound, no movement, but an unnatural stillness clings to it, sending a shiver down your spine.   As you step closer, the shadows seem to shift, but it is only a trick of the flickering light. The mass on the floor resolves into shapes—bodies. Long, long dead. At least fifteen of them, huddled together in the back of the cellar, as if they had sought shelter here in their final moments. Their clothes, little more than tattered remnants, once belonged to villagers—simple linen and wool, now rotted and brittle with age.   One figure near the front of the pile draws your attention. A rusted sword still protrudes from its chest, the blade driven deep, pinning them to the cold stone floor. Their arms are curled up defensively, as if they had been cowering when the final blow struck.  
For those heading up to the second floor. As you ascend the creaking staircase, the second floor unfolds before you—a long, dimly lit hallway stretching out into the darkness, lined with doors on either side. Thirty rooms in total, simple quarters once meant for weary travelers. The air is thick with dust, and the scent of decay lingers, though no bodies remain here.   Most doors hang open, revealing rooms in various states of disrepair. The wooden furniture—beds, chairs, and small writing desks—has begun to rot, some collapsed entirely under the weight of time. A few rooms still hold remnants of their former occupants: a rusted dagger left atop a bedside table, a cracked mirror reflecting the gloom, a moth-eaten cloak draped over a chair.   The silence is suffocating. The only sound is your own footsteps against the warped wooden floorboards.  
As you step through the worn archway connecting the tavern to the bathhouse, a wave of stale, stagnant air greets you. The scent of damp stone and decay lingers, mingling with the faintest ghost of something floral—long-faded perfumes and oils that once perfumed this place.   The bathhouse is vast, its high ceiling upheld by thick stone columns slick with condensation, despite the dry air. The walls, though cracked, remain largely intact, their once-grand mosaics now faded and broken, depicting fragmented scenes of relaxation and luxury. Time has picked away at them, leaving empty spaces where elegant figures once reclined. Large, empty planters stand beneath towering windows, their former greenery long since turned to dust.   Three immense stone pools dominate the chamber, their waters long evaporated, leaving behind rings of mineral stains and grime. A few pools still hold stagnant puddles at their lowest points, dark and murky, their surfaces disturbingly still. Rusted buckets and shattered glass vials lie scattered along the edges, remnants of an age when steam and laughter filled this hall.   Along the back wall, three grand fountains stand silent, their intricate mosaic backdrops almost entirely obscured by creeping vines. Whatever images they once bore are lost beneath the tangle of green.   To the right, a row of warped and splintered wooden benches lines the wall where patrons once rested. Brittle, ragged towels still hang from rusted iron hooks, their faded colors barely distinguishable. Beyond them, a dressing area sits in disarray, its wooden dividers rotted and collapsing. A large mirror leans precariously against the wall, its cracked and clouded surface reflecting jagged, distorted fragments of the room—and of you.   At the far end of the chamber, doorways lead to smaller private bathing rooms. Some doors are missing, others hang open at odd angles, revealing nothing but darkness within. The air here is unnervingly still, the silence heavy, amplifying every step, every breath.   No water drips. No insects stir. Only the weight of history lingers, watching from the shadows.
Discovered By:
Party
Report Date
22 Feb 2025

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