Vyrenthall Morroquill House and the Parlour Where the Last Lamp Went Cold

The parlour of Vyrenthall Morroquill House carries the echo of routines that thinned until they could no longer stand. Cooled tea, wool warmed by lamplight, and the faint mineral trace of long-stilled ink linger in the air. Cushions bear softened hollows where evenings once repeated themselves with quiet certainty.
The Measured, Soft-Spoken Rhythm of Ardenelle Morroquill
Ardenelle Morroquill, modest tutor of handwriting and household arithmetic, lived with her cousin Jareth, a clasp-facer whose work orders dwindled until the workshop closed entirely. She tended the script-hewn alcove with unwavering restraint—quills trimmed evenly, slates arranged by difficulty, blotters rotated so fresh corners awaited the next correction. Each night she paced a small circle before beginning her lessons, murmuring numbers to steady her breath. But as Jareth’s wages dried up and winter stiffened her joints, the structure she depended on began to fray. Slips remained unmarked. Ink hardened at the rim. The alcove slumped quietly out of alignment, mirroring her fatigue.

The Hallway Where Her Certainty Began to Slip
Along the north interior passage, Ardenelle’s boots lean against the wainscot, their laces stiffened into immobile curves. Jareth’s warped clasp-facing blanks litter the baseboard, corners blunted by moisture. A cracked lamp chimney lies beside a dust cloth she dropped during her final attempt to restore order.
The Scullery Yielding Quietly to Time
Inside the scullery, mismatched mugs cradle pale rings of dried tea. A chalk-rimmed kettle stands beside the stone Ardenelle pressed to her aching wrists. A linen apron droops from its peg, its once-crisp pleats surrendered to a soft, collapsed drape.

At the landing’s far end sits Ardenelle’s final corrected slip—ink faint, margin unsteady—beneath a shawl she never reclaimed. Jareth’s unfinished clasp piece remains beside it. Vyrenthall Morroquill House stays dim, still, and indefinitely abandoned.