Charis - Modest Residence

As you approach the remains of the house, it’s clear that this was once the home of a modest but comfortable family. A low iron gate, rusted and slightly bent, marks the property’s boundary, its hinges creaking softly as the wind stirs it. Overgrown planters flank the entrance, their flowers long dead, replaced by twisted vines and brittle weeds that have claimed the once-tended space.   A short set of stone steps leads up to the front door, worn smooth from years of use but now cracked and uneven, with tufts of grass sprouting between them. The wooden railing on one side has splintered, its remains barely clinging to the posts, while the other side leans dangerously, threatening to collapse with a single touch.   The front door, once sturdy, now hangs ajar on broken hinges, its surface scarred by deep gouges—whether from weapons, claws, or desperate hands, it’s impossible to tell. Shattered windows stare blankly outward, their wooden shutters askew, some barely hanging on by a single rusted hinge. Jagged shards of glass remain in the frames, catching the dim light like teeth, while others crunch underfoot as you step closer.   As you step across the threshold, the air inside the ancient stone home is thick with the scent of damp earth, salt, and decay. The walls, built of smooth, weathered limestone, bear the marks of time—cracks creeping along their surface, vines slithering through the open gaps where mortar has crumbled away. Despite the tropical climate, the interior feels cool and shadowed, the heavy stone construction offering some refuge from the heat outside.   The wooden beams overhead are dark with age, some split or sagging from years of humidity. The once-polished terracotta floor tiles are now streaked with grime and scattered debris, marked by dragged footprints and dark stains that have long since dried. A large woven tapestry, depicting what might have once been a vibrant seascape, hangs tattered on the far wall, its edges torn and partially burned.   Signs of a violent struggle are evident. A wooden table lies on its side, one of its legs broken clean off, its contents—a set of ceramic dishes and a brass oil lamp—smashed across the floor. Chairs have been overturned, some shattered entirely, their splintered remains littering the ground. A cabinet door swings open, its contents—various clay jars and glass bottles—either missing or smashed against the walls, leaving behind faint, faded stains on the stone.   Near the central hearth, a long-dried pool of dark liquid seeps between the tiles, its edges smudged with handprints and drag marks leading toward an inner doorway. The silence here is oppressive, as if the house itself remembers the chaos that unfolded. A single rusted blade, its hilt wrapped in what remains of a leather grip, rests near the threshold to the next room, forgotten in the desperate moments of whatever last stand was made here. Beyond, a hallway leads deeper into the home, its doors hanging open or missing entirely, revealing dimly lit chambers beyond—bedrooms, storage, or perhaps something more. The jungle has begun to reclaim this place, roots creeping in through cracks and ferns sprouting in the corners, yet despite nature's slow encroachment, the echoes of the past remain palpable and unsettling.   As you step deeper into the house, the air grows heavier, thick with the weight of time and sorrow. The narrow hallway ahead is lined with wooden beams, their once-rich stain now faded and blackened with age. Fragments of shattered pottery and broken furniture litter the stone floor, their placement chaotic—not the slow decay of an abandoned home, but the remnants of something sudden, something violent.   Then, a small, crumpled form catches your eye, half-hidden in the shadows near the far wall. The skeletal remains of a dragonette lie motionless, its delicate frame twisted, wings partially unfurled as though it had tried to right itself in its final moments. The bones are fragile, brittle with age, but the impact is clear—a sickening indentation in the stone wall behind it, as if it had been violently thrown with tremendous force. Tiny claws remain outstretched, frozen in some long-forgotten moment of desperation.   The floor around it is stained dark, the remnants of what might have once been blood seeped into the cracks of the stone. A faint scorch mark streaks along the wall nearby, its origin unclear—magic, perhaps, or the remnants of a struggle involving flame.   A few paces away, small, torn leather straps and a rusted metal clasp lie abandoned—a harness, once meant to allow a small creature to grip a companion’s shoulder or wrist. Someone cared for this dragonette.   Beyond, the hallway leads deeper still, the doors ahead hanging open, revealing glimpses of rooms choked with dust and shadow. The house remains silent, but that silence is not empty—it lingers, thick with something unspoken, unresolved, as though the house itself remembers.   As you peer into the first room on your left, the heavy scent of dust and decay fills your lungs. What was once a study or sitting room has been left in disarray—a wooden desk overturned, its drawers pulled free and their contents scattered. Old, yellowed parchment lies crumpled on the ground, some pages torn as if someone had searched frantically for something. A bookshelf along the far wall has partially collapsed, spilling ancient tomes and loose pages across the stone floor. Most are too damaged to read, their covers warped from moisture, ink smeared by time.   To the right, another room stands eerily still. The remnants of a dining area remain—the long wooden table split down the center, chairs shoved aside or broken as if a struggle once took place here. Rust-colored stains mar the stone beneath where the table once stood. A single ceramic plate, cracked but intact, rests on the edge of the table, its presence strangely unsettling amid the destruction. The fireplace, once the heart of this home, now sits cold and choked with ash, long-abandoned.   Further ahead, a staircase of dark stone leads upward, its surface smoothed by generations of footsteps. The wooden railing is cracked, some of the balusters missing entirely, leaving jagged gaps. At the top, the second floor is shrouded in shadow, the faint outline of doorways barely visible beyond.   But something is wrong. The air here feels different—heavier, charged with an almost palpable stillness, as if the upper floor is watching, waiting. The silence stretches, unbroken, as dust swirls lazily in the faint shafts of light filtering in through cracked shutters.   As you ascend the worn stone staircase, the air grows heavier, thick with the scent of old wood, dust, and something faintly floral—long-faded perfume or dried flowers left untouched by time. The second floor opens into a narrow hallway, the ceiling beams sagging, the plaster along the walls cracked and peeling from years of heat and humidity.   To the left, a child’s room. The door, slightly ajar, creaks softly as you push it open. Inside, the room is small but lovingly decorated—or it once was. A delicate wooden bed, its carvings depicting vines and birds, sits against the far wall, its mattress long since decayed. A stuffed toy, barely more than fabric and stuffing now, lies slumped beside it. Against the wall, a small shelf of books, their covers warped with age. One lies open on the ground, its illustrated pages faded but still showing glimpses of fantastical creatures. A mirror in the corner is cracked, its webbed fractures reflecting the dim light in strange, distorted patterns. Something—someone—left in a hurry.   Further down the hall, a bathing room. The clawfoot tub, once pristine, is now stained and filled with a thin layer of stagnant water, the scent of mildew clinging to the air. A copper basin sits on a counter, its surface green with age, and a few glass bottles of scented oils and perfumes remain, their labels long worn away. Finally, at the end of the hall, a bedroom, larger than the others. The door is open, a faint breeze stirring the tattered curtains. The bed, once grand with its carved headboard and silken canopy, is now a ruin of rotted fabric and brittle wood. A wardrobe stands open, its contents looted or left in heaps on the floor, dresses and tunics reduced to threadbare remnants.   But it’s the window that draws your attention.   Standing before it, bathed in the dim, golden light of the setting sun, is the figure of a young woman. Her form is faint, translucent, yet her posture is unmistakably human—rigid, longing, lost. She gazes out into the overgrown garden below, her hands lightly clasped as if waiting for something—or someone. Her long hair drifts as though caught in an unseen breeze, and as she turns slightly, you catch a glimpse of her face—pale, sad, with eyes that hold centuries of sorrow.   Then, she speaks, her voice barely more than a whisper, carried on the wind.   "Did he ever come home?"   As the ghostly woman fully turns toward you, her form flickers, the soft glow of her spectral presence casting faint, wavering light across the ruined bedroom walls. Her face, though translucent, is striking in its sorrow—her eyes hollow with centuries of waiting, her lips parted as though caught between hope and despair.   She steps forward, her feet making no sound upon the dust-covered floor, her gaze searching your faces as though willing you to bring her the answers she never received in life.   "You are not from here… but perhaps you have seen him? Heard his name?" Her voice trembles like a distant echo, fragile yet filled with desperate longing.   She wrings her hands together, fingers ghosting over each other like wisps of mist.   "My husband—my love—he went to Northolde. He rode with the last of our warriors to hold the pass, to stand against the invaders. He swore he would return, that he would find his way home to me…"   Her form flickers, unraveling slightly at the edges, as though the weight of her memories threatens to pull her apart.   "But he never did."   She looks past you, toward the darkening horizon beyond the shattered window, her voice growing softer.   "I waited. I waited until my body could wait no longer. I died alone in this house, watching that road, waiting for his shadow to appear in the distance."   She turns back, her eyes shining with the faintest trace of hope, a hope she has clung to beyond death itself.   "Please. I cannot rest until I know Therrin's fate. Did he fall in battle? Did he escape? Was he captured? Tell me—what became of him?"   The wind sighs through the broken shutters, carrying the scent of damp earth and overgrown flowers from the garden below. After a short moment, the ghost fades away, but you can still feel her presence within the house, waiting.

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Letter found byEldra Stonebreaker    "Therrin, I write to you from Northholde, and I fear these may be my last words to you. The situation here is dire. The army approaching is far larger than we imagined. We had believed we could hold them back, but the numbers... they will overwhelm us, they already are. The walls are hastily repaired, the defenders weary and scared. We don’t have the resources we thought we would. Our scouts have confirmed that if we are overrun, the path to Charis will be wide open, and no one will stand in the way of the enemy reaching the city.     I know you’ve always told me to keep my faith, but I cannot find much hope left in me now. We are outnumbered, outmatched, and the strength of our forces is faltering. We will fight, of course, we must. But there is no guarantee we will make it through this night.     I beg of you—prepare for the worst. If we fall here, you must make sure Charis is ready. They must know what’s coming. Get word to the city. I will hold them off as long as I can, but you may not hear from me again.     If I do not survive this, I want you to know that I never gave up on our people. I never gave up on this land. —Edwin"