Charis - Library

As you approach the remains of the grand library, the first thing you notice is the charred remnants of its once-magnificent doors—great double doors of carved oak, now blackened and split from intense heat, their intricate designs barely discernible beneath layers of ash and soot. One door leans heavily on its hinges, the other has partially collapsed inward, leaving a jagged opening into the darkness beyond. The acrid scent of burnt parchment and old embers still lingers in the air, even after all these years.   The building itself remains imposing, a vast structure of white marble and dark stone, though now marred by scorch marks and deep cracks. Tall columns flank the entrance, their surfaces streaked with soot, their once-proud engravings faded and chipped. The walls, once adorned with intricate reliefs of scholars, scribes, and great thinkers, are now weathered and broken, some figures missing entirely where chunks of stone have crumbled away.   Above the entrance, the something is carved into the stone in an ancient script, though most of it has been worn down by time and destruction. Faint traces of gold leaf cling stubbornly to the lettering, hinting at the grandeur this place once held.   Beyond the broken doors, the interior is swallowed in shadow, but even from here, you can see the devastation within—collapsed beams, shattered glass, and the skeletal remains of towering bookshelves, their contents long since reduced to ashes and scattered fragments.   The silence here is heavy, thick with the weight of knowledge lost, stories erased, and wisdom consigned to ruin. Stepping through the ruined entrance, you find yourselves in what was once a grand and awe-inspiring library, now reduced to a blackened husk of its former glory. The main hall is vast and circular, a towering chamber meant to hold centuries of knowledge. Your eyes are drawn upward to the several levels of open balconies, their once-ornate railings twisted and broken, some sections missing entirely. Jagged edges of metal and splintered wood jut out dangerously from where the structure has partially collapsed. The upper levels, though tantalizing, look treacherous to reach—portions of the staircases are cracked, sagging, or completely gone, leaving gaping voids where steps should be.   The fire that consumed this place was merciless. Charred remnants of bookshelves line the circular walls, their skeletal remains barely standing, filled with ash and the brittle husks of burnt tomes. Piles of blackened paper, reduced to little more than flaking embers, litter the cracked marble floors. In places, it is clear that books were deliberately gathered into stacks and set ablaze, their ashes forming dark mounds amid the ruin.   At the center of the chamber, remnants of once-grand stone planters stand, cracked from the heat. What greenery once thrived here has long since turned to dust, leaving only dead roots and brittle stems peeking through fractured stone. Some of the planters have toppled, their shattered remains mingling with the debris, but a few stubborn vines—withered yet clinging to life—still curl along the broken railing of the upper levels, as if refusing to surrender entirely.   The stench of old smoke and scorched parchment lingers heavily in the air, mixed with the faintest scent of damp stone and decay. The silence is overwhelming, broken only by the occasional creak of settling wood or the soft crunch of ash beneath your boots.   Above you, gaps in the ruined ceiling allow shafts of dim light to filter in, casting long, eerie shadows across the devastation. As you sift through the wreckage of the lower level, the weight of destruction becomes even more apparent. The ashen remains of countless books crumble at your touch, reduced to little more than brittle fragments. Some wooden shelves, though blackened and sagging, still stand in defiance of the inferno that once consumed this place. Others have collapsed into heaps of charred splinters, their supports weakened beyond repair.   Among the wreckage, occasional pieces of parchment survived—barely. You find fragments of burned pages, their words singed and incomplete, ink smudged by heat and time. Some hold half-legible inscriptions—a few lines of arcane text, a snippet of history, or a passage from an unknown scholar’s work—before disintegrating at the slightest movement.   The floor is uneven, covered in scattered debris, including the warped metal bindings of destroyed tomes, shattered glass from long-ruined lanterns, and the skeletal remains of furniture. You notice sections of the marble flooring cracked from the heat, the once-polished stone now fractured and brittle.   Near the base of one shattered pillar, you uncover a strange, melted lump of metal and glass, its shape warped beyond recognition. It looks as though something powerful was stored here—perhaps an artifact or magical focus—only to be consumed in the blaze.   Amazingly you manage to find some tomes that somehow escaped the flames.