Charis - Wine Hall
General Summary
As you make your way through the overgrown streets, you come upon the ruins of what was once a grand wine hall, now reclaimed by time and nature. Vines twist up its weathered stone walls, their emerald leaves creeping over the crumbling facade as if attempting to pull the building back into the earth. The structure itself is sturdy despite its age, the arches of its windows tall and elegant, though most of the glass is long gone—shattered remnants glitter faintly in the dirt beneath.
The breeze flows freely through the open space, whispering through the empty, gaping windows, rustling leaves and broken shutters that hang askew from rusted hinges. The once richly-painted wooden sign, now so faded its lettering is impossible to read, swings lightly from its post, creaking in the wind.
Beyond the arched entrance, a sprawling courtyard lies in quiet ruin. Here, heavy stone tables and benches, once places of merriment, are now cracked and uneven, half-swallowed by creeping moss. The scent of damp earth and aged stone lingers in the air.
At the center of the courtyard stands a grand fountain, its sculpted centerpiece depicting a jovial, round-bellied figure holding a goblet high—perhaps a god of wine or a beloved historical patron. Water once poured from the goblet in an endless stream, but now the basin is dry, filled only with dead leaves and the occasional glimmer of fallen coins left behind by hopeful visitors long past. The once vibrant mosaic tiles at its base are cracked and faded, their patterns barely distinguishable beneath dirt and time.
The tavern itself looms beyond the courtyard, its arched double doors half-collapsed, allowing an open view into the shadowed remnants of its once lively halls. The scent of old wood, damp stone, and the faintest hint of something earthy and sour—perhaps the last remnants of long-spilled wine—drifts from within. Whatever remains inside waits in silence, untouched by the revelry that once filled these walls.
As you step through the partially collapsed double doors, the remnants of the hall stretch out before you, shrouded in dust and shadow. The air is thick with the scent of aged wood, damp stone, and a lingering trace of sour wine. The ceiling arches high above, its wooden beams blackened with age, some sagging under the weight of time. Here and there, gaps in the roof let in shafts of pale light, illuminating motes of dust that swirl lazily through the air. The vast room is lined with long wooden tables, some still standing, though warped and cracked. Others have collapsed into splintered heaps, their broken legs jutting out at odd angles like the ribs of some long-dead beast. Along one wall, an immense bar stretches the length of the hall, its polished surface now dulled with grime. Behind it, towering wooden shelves, once filled with the finest vintages, stand mostly empty—many bottles shattered, their contents long since dried into dark stains on the stone floor. A few remain intact, coated in thick dust, their labels faded and curling at the edges. To the side of the room, an elegant spiral staircase, its wrought-iron railing twisted and bent, leads to a crumbling upper balcony where private booths once overlooked the lively gatherings below. The balcony’s railing is partially collapsed, and the remnants of overturned chairs and broken tables lay scattered amid fallen debris. At the far end of the hall, a massive stone hearth dominates the space. The grand fireplace is cold and choked with old ash, its once-intricate carvings barely visible beneath the grime. A long-dead fire’s final embers left dark streaks of soot up the stonework, trailing toward the ceiling. As you step deeper inside, your boots scuff against the remnants of shattered glass and scattered pottery, the faint crunch breaking the heavy silence. A single overturned goblet, gilded and fine, rests near one of the fallen tables.
As you push open the heavy wooden door leading to the storerooms, the air shifts, carrying with it a stale, earthy scent mixed with the lingering tang of old wine and mildew. The room beyond is cool and shadowed, the faint light filtering in from the main hall barely reaching past the doorway. The storerooms were once well-stocked, but now they lie in disarray—barrels overturned, crates shattered, and shelves left bare. The few casks that remain are either split open, their contents long dried into sticky stains on the stone floor, or sealed tight, their markings faded and barely legible. A rusted corkscrew sits abandoned atop an old crate, its once-polished handle dulled with time. Large hooks dangle from wooden beams overhead, where cured meats and herbs might have once hung, but now only tattered remnants of rope sway gently in the still air. In one corner, a rotting sack of grain has burst open, spilling its contents across the floor, now a nest for vermin that scurry into the shadows at your approach. A stairway of worn stone steps leads down into the cellar, where the air grows cooler, damp, and thick with the scent of old oak and dust. The cellar is vast, its arched ceiling supported by thick stone columns, giving the space an almost cathedral-like quality. Rows of towering wine racks, carved from dark wood, line the walls, but most are empty—their prized bottles either stolen or smashed. The few bottles that remain, their glass dark and coated in thick dust, rest half-buried in fallen debris. A large iron rack, once meant to store the finest vintages, lies toppled, the bottles beneath it shattered into glittering shards, their labels reduced to unrecognizable scraps. In the farthest corner, where the shadows are deepest, a single, undisturbed cask rests upon a low stone table. Unlike the others, it appears untouched by time or looters, its seal unbroken, its wood strangely pristine despite the decay around it. But there’s something else. A hushed stillness. As you step forward, the faintest whisper of movement brushes the edge of your senses—not of rats, nor settling stone, but something else entirely. As you turn toward the flicker of movement in the shadows, the dim light catches the faint outline of a ghostly figure, standing just beyond the collapsed wine racks. The shape is that of a young man, his form hazy and shifting, like mist caught in a breeze. His clothes are simple but finely made, the vague shimmer of embroidery hinting at once-great wealth. His expression is haunted, eyes filled with regret and sorrow, and as he lifts his gaze to you, his features become clearer—tired, remorseful, and full of longing for a life lost too soon. Beneath him, half-buried in fallen debris and shattered glass, lie his skeletal remains, the bones brittle with age. His fingers are still curled around the rusted hilt of a dagger, as if even in death, he clung to some last shred of hope or defiance. His voice, when he speaks, is soft, hollow, and tinged with grief, carrying through the cellar like the whisper of wind through the cracks in old stone. "We didn’t flee soon enough." He shakes his head, eyes cast downward. "We thought we had time… we thought Northholde would hold. But it didn't. I delayed. I waited too long, hoping… hoping for a miracle that never came." He lifts a spectral hand and gestures vaguely toward the ruin around him. "We planned to take the highway through the Raelgil Mountains. It would have led us to safety. But I was foolish, too proud to leave behind what I had built. And in the end, it didn’t matter. The city fell. My family… my friends… all gone. And I remained here, with nothing but dust and regret." His form flickers slightly, growing fainter, but his voice remains steady. "My wealth does me no good in death. But perhaps it can still serve some purpose in your hands. I hid it in the Raelgil Mountains—tucked away where only those who know where to look might find it. Just follow the signs." Slowly, he raises a transparent hand and points toward the far wall, where a symbol is etched into the tiles, barely visible beneath a layer of dust and grime. It appears to be a simple carving, at first glance just an old mason’s mark, but something about it draws your attention, an intricate weave of lines and curves that suggest a deliberate message—a clue left behind for those who might come searching. As you take in the sight of the symbol, the ghostly figure gives one last, heavy sigh. His eyes soften, as if relieved, and a small, tired smile touches his lips. "Make better choices than I did." And with that, he fades, his form unraveling like mist, leaving behind only the stillness of the cellar and the silent, watchful symbol carved into the wall.
The symbol is intricately carved into the stone tile, its design both angular and fluid. At its center is a stylized peak—a sharp, triangular form that evokes a mountain—surrounded by a series of swirling lines that converge into a circular pattern.
As you step through the partially collapsed double doors, the remnants of the hall stretch out before you, shrouded in dust and shadow. The air is thick with the scent of aged wood, damp stone, and a lingering trace of sour wine. The ceiling arches high above, its wooden beams blackened with age, some sagging under the weight of time. Here and there, gaps in the roof let in shafts of pale light, illuminating motes of dust that swirl lazily through the air. The vast room is lined with long wooden tables, some still standing, though warped and cracked. Others have collapsed into splintered heaps, their broken legs jutting out at odd angles like the ribs of some long-dead beast. Along one wall, an immense bar stretches the length of the hall, its polished surface now dulled with grime. Behind it, towering wooden shelves, once filled with the finest vintages, stand mostly empty—many bottles shattered, their contents long since dried into dark stains on the stone floor. A few remain intact, coated in thick dust, their labels faded and curling at the edges. To the side of the room, an elegant spiral staircase, its wrought-iron railing twisted and bent, leads to a crumbling upper balcony where private booths once overlooked the lively gatherings below. The balcony’s railing is partially collapsed, and the remnants of overturned chairs and broken tables lay scattered amid fallen debris. At the far end of the hall, a massive stone hearth dominates the space. The grand fireplace is cold and choked with old ash, its once-intricate carvings barely visible beneath the grime. A long-dead fire’s final embers left dark streaks of soot up the stonework, trailing toward the ceiling. As you step deeper inside, your boots scuff against the remnants of shattered glass and scattered pottery, the faint crunch breaking the heavy silence. A single overturned goblet, gilded and fine, rests near one of the fallen tables.
As you push open the heavy wooden door leading to the storerooms, the air shifts, carrying with it a stale, earthy scent mixed with the lingering tang of old wine and mildew. The room beyond is cool and shadowed, the faint light filtering in from the main hall barely reaching past the doorway. The storerooms were once well-stocked, but now they lie in disarray—barrels overturned, crates shattered, and shelves left bare. The few casks that remain are either split open, their contents long dried into sticky stains on the stone floor, or sealed tight, their markings faded and barely legible. A rusted corkscrew sits abandoned atop an old crate, its once-polished handle dulled with time. Large hooks dangle from wooden beams overhead, where cured meats and herbs might have once hung, but now only tattered remnants of rope sway gently in the still air. In one corner, a rotting sack of grain has burst open, spilling its contents across the floor, now a nest for vermin that scurry into the shadows at your approach. A stairway of worn stone steps leads down into the cellar, where the air grows cooler, damp, and thick with the scent of old oak and dust. The cellar is vast, its arched ceiling supported by thick stone columns, giving the space an almost cathedral-like quality. Rows of towering wine racks, carved from dark wood, line the walls, but most are empty—their prized bottles either stolen or smashed. The few bottles that remain, their glass dark and coated in thick dust, rest half-buried in fallen debris. A large iron rack, once meant to store the finest vintages, lies toppled, the bottles beneath it shattered into glittering shards, their labels reduced to unrecognizable scraps. In the farthest corner, where the shadows are deepest, a single, undisturbed cask rests upon a low stone table. Unlike the others, it appears untouched by time or looters, its seal unbroken, its wood strangely pristine despite the decay around it. But there’s something else. A hushed stillness. As you step forward, the faintest whisper of movement brushes the edge of your senses—not of rats, nor settling stone, but something else entirely. As you turn toward the flicker of movement in the shadows, the dim light catches the faint outline of a ghostly figure, standing just beyond the collapsed wine racks. The shape is that of a young man, his form hazy and shifting, like mist caught in a breeze. His clothes are simple but finely made, the vague shimmer of embroidery hinting at once-great wealth. His expression is haunted, eyes filled with regret and sorrow, and as he lifts his gaze to you, his features become clearer—tired, remorseful, and full of longing for a life lost too soon. Beneath him, half-buried in fallen debris and shattered glass, lie his skeletal remains, the bones brittle with age. His fingers are still curled around the rusted hilt of a dagger, as if even in death, he clung to some last shred of hope or defiance. His voice, when he speaks, is soft, hollow, and tinged with grief, carrying through the cellar like the whisper of wind through the cracks in old stone. "We didn’t flee soon enough." He shakes his head, eyes cast downward. "We thought we had time… we thought Northholde would hold. But it didn't. I delayed. I waited too long, hoping… hoping for a miracle that never came." He lifts a spectral hand and gestures vaguely toward the ruin around him. "We planned to take the highway through the Raelgil Mountains. It would have led us to safety. But I was foolish, too proud to leave behind what I had built. And in the end, it didn’t matter. The city fell. My family… my friends… all gone. And I remained here, with nothing but dust and regret." His form flickers slightly, growing fainter, but his voice remains steady. "My wealth does me no good in death. But perhaps it can still serve some purpose in your hands. I hid it in the Raelgil Mountains—tucked away where only those who know where to look might find it. Just follow the signs." Slowly, he raises a transparent hand and points toward the far wall, where a symbol is etched into the tiles, barely visible beneath a layer of dust and grime. It appears to be a simple carving, at first glance just an old mason’s mark, but something about it draws your attention, an intricate weave of lines and curves that suggest a deliberate message—a clue left behind for those who might come searching. As you take in the sight of the symbol, the ghostly figure gives one last, heavy sigh. His eyes soften, as if relieved, and a small, tired smile touches his lips. "Make better choices than I did." And with that, he fades, his form unraveling like mist, leaving behind only the stillness of the cellar and the silent, watchful symbol carved into the wall.
The symbol is intricately carved into the stone tile, its design both angular and fluid. At its center is a stylized peak—a sharp, triangular form that evokes a mountain—surrounded by a series of swirling lines that converge into a circular pattern.
Discovered By:
Justin Garrett
Justin Garrett
Report Date
27 Mar 2025
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