Charis

Charis was once a grand city, standing proudly on the shore of Great Wyrm Lake where its waters flowed into the Dragon’s Tear River. Built from stone and reinforced with intricate carvings, its architecture was both imposing and elegant. Towering spires, fortified bridges, and great plazas once showcased the city’s strength and craftsmanship. The streets were lined with statues of dragons and great cats, symbols of the city’s revered patrons. At its heart stood the mighty temple, a towering edifice of dark stone where the rulers of Charis once communed with the forces they worshipped. Across the river, the town of Penrith served as its gateway, but Charis was always the true seat of power in the region.   The people of Charis were fierce, devoted followers of dragons and great cats, seeing them as divine beings worthy of worship and sacrifice. Outsiders feared the city for its ruthless traditions—rituals of blood and fire, where those deemed unworthy were offered in tribute. Their warriors were disciplined and unwavering, bound by a brutal code of strength and dominance. The ruling caste, chosen through trial and combat, ruled with absolute authority, enforcing their laws with a cold, unwavering hand. To them, power was not only a right but a sacred duty, and they would go to any lengths to preserve their way of life.   Now, Charis lies in ruin. Its once-proud avenues are overgrown with vines and creeping moss, nature reclaiming what war left behind. Grand fountains and reflecting pools, once crystal clear, are now choked with debris and stagnant water. The temple still stands, its dark halls echoing with the ghosts of the past, the site of grim sacrifices long since abandoned. The remains of the final battle linger—barricades broken, weapons rusted where they fell, and the skeletal remains of defenders and invaders alike lying where they perished. The wind howls through the empty streets, carrying whispers of a city that once stood as a symbol of power, now nothing more than a forgotten graveyard.