BUILD YOUR OWN WORLD Like what you see? Become the Master of your own Universe!

Remove these ads. Join the Worldbuilders Guild

Charis - The Docks

General Summary

As you make your way down the worn path toward the shore, the scent of damp wood and freshwater fills the air. The remnants of the old docks stretch out over the lake, their once-sturdy planks now warped and split from centuries of exposure. Some of the wooden posts still stand, though many lean precariously, their bases blackened with rot where the water has slowly reclaimed them.   The stone foundations of the docks, carefully placed long ago, are now worn smooth by time and the elements, their edges softened by the endless lapping of the lake’s tide. Moss and creeping vines have begun to weave through the cracks, clinging to the damp rock as nature reclaims what was left behind.   Scattered along the shore and the skeletal remains of the docks are the shattered hulls of small fishing boats, their frames broken like brittle bones. Some lie half-submerged in the shallows, their once-bright paint now faded and peeling, while others rest further up on the shore, their splintered wood long since dried by the sun. Among them, the remnants of pleasure barges, crafted for leisure rather than labor, rest in varying states of decay. Once adorned with rich cloth canopies and elegant carvings, they now stand as hollow shells, their decks collapsed inward, their masts broken.   The lake itself, untouched by the ruin that befell this place, remains eerily clear and still. The water is so pure that you can see the lakebed even where it deepens, twisting reeds swaying gently in the current. Schools of small, silvery fish dart between submerged timbers, their movement sending ripples across the otherwise glass-like surface.   Despite the desolation of the docks, there is an undeniable sense of peace here—a stark contrast to the devastation found elsewhere. The water is calm, the whispers of the wind stirring the reeds along the shore, carrying with it the faint creak of wood shifting with the current. It is quiet… too quiet.   As you gaze across the vast, mirror-like surface of the lake, your eyes are drawn to the far side, where a veil of mist rises into the air. The faint roar of crashing water carries over the still expanse, a rhythmic, distant thunder that breaks the eerie silence of the abandoned docks.   Through the haze, you begin to make out a great stone sculpture, half-shrouded in mist and age-worn but still breathtaking in its craftsmanship. A dragon’s head, carved from the very cliffs themselves, looms over the waterfall, its maw open wide as if caught in an eternal roar. The water pours from its mouth in a torrential cascade, as though the beast itself is spitting forth the lake’s lifeblood, feeding the waters below.   As you take in the sight of the waterfall cascading from the great dragon’s maw, a sudden chill settles over the air—not the natural coolness of the mist drifting from the falls, but something deeper, something unnatural. The hairs on the back of your neck rise as the shadows lengthen ever so slightly, and the quiet lapping of the lake against the shore seems to hush, as though the water itself is listening.   Then, from the corner of your vision, a figure stands beside you.   He is thin, weathered, his form flickering like moonlight on water. A fisherman, from the look of him—his tattered, spectral clothes worn with use, a heavy cloak still clinging to his shoulders as though shielding him from a cold he no longer feels. His face is lined with age and sorrow, his eyes hollow but aware, fixed upon the distant waterfall and the great stone dragon’s head that looms over it. When he speaks, his voice is gravelly, raw, as if worn by years of shouting into stormy winds.   "The entrance to the Temple of Middras." His voice carries a weight, the name spoken not with reverence, but with something closer to resignation.   "Middras the Wise, he was called..." He lets the words hang for a moment before his tone sours, hardened with bitterness. "Middras the Betrayer."   He sighs—a deep, sorrowful sound, as though the weight of lifetimes still lingers upon his spirit. The air grows colder still, the mist thickening around his form, swirling at his feet as if the lake itself mourns with him.   "When he sealed the others away, he condemned us to death. No escape. No hope." His gaze does not turn from the falls, as though he still searches for some long-lost salvation in their endless flow.   Then, for the first time, his head tilts toward you, his spectral eyes catching yours.   "Perhaps if we had had the Horn of Vehlross—we might have stood a chance. With its wind, we could have outrun their ships, made it through the pass before the blockade. But it was sealed away..." His voice trails off for a moment before he continues, heavy with regret.   "Sealed in the Temple of Airylth, locked beyond reach. With it, you would command the fastest ship on the seas."   The fisherman’s form flickers, the chill deepening as if his presence strains against the passage of time itself. His fingers twitch, curling as though grasping for the rope of a long-lost sail, for the pull of the oar beneath his hands. Then, he sighs once more, turning his gaze back to the water, his figure growing fainter with every breath of wind.   He does not look at you again, but his voice lingers in the cold air:   "Without it... we never stood a chance."   The man says no more, his gaze turning back to the waters, before he fades away.
Discovered By:
Brona Hethtalos
Report Date
29 Mar 2025

Remove these ads. Join the Worldbuilders Guild

Comments

Please Login in order to comment!