Charis - The Cat's Mansion

As you move along the lake’s edge, the path turns to weathered stone, cracked and uneven, with tufts of dry grass sprouting between the seams. Ahead, nestled against the water, stand the ruins of what was once a grand estate, its architecture speaking of a time when beauty and leisure reigned.   The outer walls, though worn by time, still bear traces of intricate carvings—geometric patterns and stylized floral motifs that once gleamed in the sun but are now dulled and chipped. Towering palm-like trees and creeping vines, long untended, have begun to reclaim the grounds, their roots breaking through the stone pathways.   To the side, a pleasure garden sprawls, now overgrown but still exuding a ghostly elegance. Once-manicured hedges have gone wild, curling around broken marble benches and shattered fountains, their basins dry and cracked. A few delicate ceramic urns, faded but still standing, hint at the fragrant flowers that once thrived here.   Beyond the garden, a small dock juts into the lake, its wooden planks rotted and sagging. The remains of a pleasure barge lie half-submerged in the reeds, its once-finely-carved hull now blackened and split, the silken canopy that once shaded noble passengers long since devoured by time.   A wide, elegant staircase leads up from the gardens to the house itself, its smooth stone steps chipped and worn but still sturdy beneath your feet. At the top, an open-air walkway, lined with tall columns, stretches the length of the estate, designed to catch the breeze from the lake. The shaded arches would have once offered respite from the heat, but now they frame only silence, their plaster peeling and ornate mosaics cracked and missing pieces.   The main entrance looms ahead—a set of grand doors, their once-rich wood warped and sun-bleached, hanging slightly ajar. Above them, the remnants of a stone relief, now barely discernible, seem to depict a scene of revelry—figures dancing, cups raised in celebration, a time of joy frozen in decay.   As you step through the grand entrance, the air inside is cool and heavy, thick with the scent of dust, damp stone, and old wood. The remnants of its former splendor cling stubbornly to the decay—elegant columns, vaulted ceilings, and intricate mosaic floors, their once vibrant patterns now dulled and chipped.   The great hall stretches before you, its vast space once designed for gatherings and feasts. A long banquet table, now half-collapsed, dominates the center, its wood warped and splintered. The chairs around it have either been stolen or shattered, and the remains of a once-grand chandelier lie scattered across the floor, its crystal shards glinting faintly in the dim light filtering through the shattered lattice windows.   To one side, a sitting room opens up, the remnants of elegant furniture still in place. A few silk-upholstered chairs, though tattered and faded, remain pushed around a low table. A large mirror, its frame once gilded, has been cracked through the center, warping the reflection. Bookshelves line the walls, their contents mostly plundered, though a handful of weathered tomes still remain, their pages yellowed with age.   Further inside, you find what was once a study. The mahogany desk, though covered in dust and grime, still holds a few scattered parchments and a tarnished brass inkwell. A hidden compartment in the wall, long since pried open, reveals only empty shelves, though the faint scent of parchment and ink still lingers. A portrait hangs above the fireplace, its subject barely discernible beneath layers of dust and soot.   Beyond, a kitchen and pantry bear evidence of desperate scavenging. The cabinets hang open, their contents long since looted, but a few ceramic jars remain, their seals unbroken. Bundles of dried herbs, now little more than brittle stalks, still hang from the ceiling beams, and a heavy iron pot, blackened with soot, sits abandoned in the fireplace hearth.   Deeper still, you find the bedchambers. The master bedroom, once a place of luxury, is now a ruined echo of its former self. The canopied bed, its curtains moth-eaten, remains partially intact, though the silk sheets are tattered and caked in dust. A jewelry box, its lid broken, lies on the dresser, empty save for a single, delicate hairpin, still gleaming in the dim light.   One smaller room, perhaps a servant’s quarters, remains largely untouched. A simple cot, a wooden chest, and a few personal trinkets—a carved sunstone figurine of an elegant cat, a small hand mirror, a pair of embroidered gloves—suggest that whoever lived here left in a hurry or never had the chance.   As you descend the narrow stone staircase, the air grows thick and stale, carrying the scent of dust and old death. The passage opens into a vaulted chamber, its walls lined with shelves that once held treasures now long plundered. The heavy iron door that once sealed the room has been forced open, its hinges bent and broken, the metal rusted with time. Deep gouges in the stone near the entrance tell of a desperate struggle.   And then, you see them.   Skeletons litter the floor, their bones bleached with age, yet undisturbed, frozen in the positions of their final moments. Among them, several feline remains—some as small as housecats, others the size of panthers, their elongated skulls still bearing sharp fangs. A few have delicate, bony wings, their frames so fragile it seems a breath of air might turn them to dust.   Among the humanoid dead, you see Tabaxi, elves, and humans, their remains intertwined as if they had huddled together in their last moments. Some of the smaller skeletons, barely the size of a child, lie close to the walls, as if their protectors tried to shield them from what was coming. At the center of the room, near what was likely a treasure hoard or supply cache, a larger skeleton, broader and more robust, rests near the doorway. The deep clefts in its ribs and shattered forearm bones suggest it tried to hold the line—a final, desperate defense before being cut down.   And then, the temperature plummets.   A deep, unnatural chill settles over the chamber, sending a shiver down your spine as the air itself seems to thicken, heavy with sorrow and rage.   A wispy light begins to swirl in the center of the chamber, coalescing into a great spectral feline, its form half-solid, half-shadow, as if torn between this world and the next. Its luminous eyes burn with intelligence and grief, and as it lifts its head, a deep, rumbling growl echoes through the chamber, vibrating through your chest like a distant storm.   It looks over the fallen, its tail flicking once before turning its gaze upon you. Its voice is not spoken but felt—a whisper in the mind, heavy with sorrow and unfulfilled duty.   "You are not the ones who came before. You are not the ones who brought the slaughter. But you stand among the dead, and the dead remember."   The great spectral cat circles the chamber, its translucent paws making no sound against the cold stone floor. Its glowing eyes drift over the scattered remains, lingering on the larger skeleton near the door before flicking back to you.   "There is nothing more to take. Not here." Its voice is a low, mournful rumble, reverberating through your bones.   The spectral feline stops before the cluster of smaller skeletons, its tail curling around their fragile remains. Its gaze softens—not with warmth, but with something older, heavier, a sorrow long since settled into the marrow of its being.   "I will not ask you to avenge them. The time for vengeance is long past. But there is one last debt to be paid."   The air grows still, the unnatural chill seeping deeper into your skin as the ghostly guardian fixes you with an unblinking stare.   "Take them to Inas. Their bones belong among their own, not forgotten in this tomb. Carry them to him, and I will give you what you seek. The key to my lair and all the treasure it holds."   A soft, spectral breeze stirs through the chamber, though there is no wind. The cat’s form flickers slightly, as if the effort of remaining here is draining what little remains of it.   "Do this, and I will grant you passage where no others may tread."   Its glowing eyes narrow, though there is no malice—only the quiet expectation of an oath yet to be sworn.