Charis - Hospital

As you step through the cracked stone archway into what was once the waiting room of a grand hospital, the air hangs heavy with dust and the echoes of suffering long past. The large, broken windows that line the walls, once designed to flood the space with warm sunlight, now gape like empty eyes, their shattered glass crunching beneath your boots. Vines and creeping ivy have begun to reclaim the stone, winding through the cracks in the floor and walls.   Despite the hospital's former grandeur, it is clear that this place became a tomb. Rows of rotting wooden benches, once meant to seat the sick and injured as they awaited care, are now crowded with skeletal remains, some still slumped in death as they once sat in life. The sheer number of bodies—some huddled together, others collapsed where they stood—suggests that the waiting room itself had become an overflowing ward, too full to accommodate all those in need.   Near the double doors, a makeshift barricade of overturned benches, furniture, and loose stone was hastily thrown together, but it is clear that it was no true defense. The barricade has been shattered, pieces of wood splintered and scattered across the floor. The skeletal remains of a few defenders, still clutching rusted weapons, are all that is left of those who tried—and failed—to protect the helpless. Some lie sprawled where they fell, their weapons discarded beside them, while others seem to have died shielding the sick behind them.   The silence in this place is unnerving, heavy, and absolute. No wind stirs through the broken windows, no creatures scuttle in the shadows.   The Hallways As you step deeper into the hospital’s shadowed corridors, the air feels heavy. The stone walls, once smooth and pristine, are now cracked and stained, dark patches creeping along the corners where time and decay have taken hold. The hallways stretch long and narrow, lined with doors that hang ajar or have been violently splintered open. Faded tapestries, once meant to bring warmth and comfort, sag with age, their colors long since drained.   The scent of dust, old rot, and something bitter lingers in the still air. Your footsteps echo eerily against the stone, each one punctuating the silence that hangs like a shroud over the dead. The halls are cluttered with makeshift cots, pallets of straw and threadbare blankets stacked against the walls, a desperate attempt to house the sick and injured far beyond what this place was meant to hold. Skeletons remain slumped against the walls, some in patient’s robes, others in the remains of healer’s garb—priests, herbalists, and clerics who tried to tend to the overwhelming tide of suffering.   The Private Patient Rooms Pushing open the wooden doors, you find the private rooms were just as overcrowded. Each small chamber, meant for a single patient, now holds three, four—sometimes more. Beds were dragged in wherever space allowed, and when there were no beds left, the patients were placed on the cold stone floor, wrapped in nothing but rags and desperation.   Some of the skeletal remains lie in their beds, their final rest undisturbed for centuries. Others are huddled together, their bones entwined as though they had clung to each other in their last moments. On a few of the walls, charcoal scribblings remain—prayers, desperate messages, names written by trembling hands.   In one room, a small, overturned stool and a dried-up inkpot rest beside a brittle stack of papers, a final record left behind by one of the many injured. Though the writing has faded, it speaks of dwindling supplies, of lost hope, of waiting for salvation that never came. The Storage Room At last, you push open the door to what was once the hospital’s storage room. Shelves line the walls, many collapsed or looted long ago. The few supplies that remain speak of desperation—scattered bandages, brittle with age, empty glass vials, their labels long faded, and a handful of herbs turned to dust.   A single wooden crate sits in the corner, its lid half-pried open, revealing only a few dried medicinal roots, their potency long gone. Nearby, an old healer’s satchel remains untouched, containing a few dull surgical tools, rusted beyond use.   There are no potions, no curative magic left behind—only the stark reminder that those who once lived here fought to save lives until there was simply nothing left to give.   A Mother's Plea As you make your way back toward the entrance of the hospital, the heavy silence that has blanketed the place seems to shift, an eerie disturbance in the still air. A soft sound catches your ear—a faint, sorrowful weeping. It is barely audible at first, almost as though the wind is carrying the sound from another time. But as you continue, the sound becomes clearer, closer.   The weeping is not natural—it’s the kind of grief that presses down on your chest, making the air feel heavier, colder. You follow the sound, your steps leading you down one of the hallways. At the far end of the corridor, there’s a dim light, a soft flickering glow that seems to shimmer in and out of existence.   Through the door, you can see a figure. She is slumped over one of the skeletal remains, her head bowed, hands clasping the bones of what must have once been a loved one. The ghostly image of a Dragonborn woman appears before you, her features translucent, her scales a faded, almost ghostly shade of blue-green. Her eyes are shut tight, though tears—ghostly tears—fall freely from her face. She wears the tattered remains of a healer’s robe, the edges singed, her claws clenched tightly around the skeletal hand of the body she weeps over.   Her sorrowful wail fills the room again as her voice breaks through the silence:   “Please, no... not like this... not you too...”   She looks up, her eyes glazed with a deep, haunting sadness, and for a brief moment, they seem to focus on you, though there’s no recognition. Her gaze is filled with desperate longing. The air grows colder, the flickering light around her dimming with each passing moment, as though she’s slowly losing strength.   “Did they make it? Did my children... did they escape? They fled east... to the passage to the sea... Please, tell me they made it. Please...”   “I cannot rest... not without knowing... Please, if you can... find them. Find my children... tell me they are safe... Tell me they lived.”   The room grows heavier, colder still. She looks down at the body once more, her claws gently brushing the remains as she weeps in silence. The faint glow around her begins to dim, as she fades away.