Charis - Warehouse

As you step into the ancient warehouse, the scent of dust, mildew, and aged wood fills the air. The vast space stretches before you, rows of crumbling wooden shelves and toppled crates standing as silent reminders of a once-thriving center of trade. Sunlight streams in through cracks in the ceiling and broken windows, casting long, jagged shadows across the warped floorboards.   Scattered throughout the space are the remnants of goods that once flowed through the city—splintered crates, rotting sacks, and shattered pottery litter the ground, their contents either stolen long ago or long since disintegrated with time. Among the debris, you notice delicate shards of painted pottery, their vibrant patterns hinting at craftsmanship now lost to history.   Near the back of the warehouse, a stark contrast to the decay catches your eye—a small stack of fine wooden boxes, their gilded filigree still gleaming despite the dust that coats them. Unlike the ruined remains of trade goods around them, these boxes are pristine, almost untouched by time. Their craftsmanship suggests wealth and importance, and they rest undisturbed as though waiting to be discovered.   Beyond them, a heavy wooden door stands slightly ajar, leading into what was once the warehouse's office. The doorframe is worn, its hinges rusted, but the door itself remains sturdy. The faintest draft of stale air seeps from the gap, carrying the scent of old parchment and something less identifiable—something faintly metallic.   As you push open the heavy wooden door, it creaks on its rusted hinges, revealing a dimly lit office frozen in time. Dust dances in the beams of light filtering through the cracked shutters, settling over every surface like a burial shroud.   At the center of the room sits a large wooden desk, its once-polished surface now marred by deep scratches and the stains of spilled ink, long dried into dark, chaotic smears. Shattered glass bottles litter the desk and floor, their contents long since seeped into the aged wood. An overturned chair, its cracked leather seat peeling and stiff with age, rests nearby as though someone left in a hurry—or was forced to.   Lining the walls are tall wooden shelves, sagging slightly under the weight of carefully stacked scrolls. Some are bound in ribbon, their wax seals still unbroken, while others are brittle with age, the edges curling and discolored. Among them, several bottles of fine ink remain miraculously intact, their glass vials glinting in the dim light, the liquid inside still rich and dark.