Brimwraithe Selvorren House and the Parlour That Misplaced Its Last Conversation

The parlour of Brimwraithe Selvorren House feels carved by patterns that weakened too gradually for anyone to notice. Faint traces of cooled tea, thinned wool, and old ink hover above the furniture. Cushions cradle softened hollows where nightly habits once anchored themselves.

The Gentle, Measured Cadence of Eirlanne Selvorren

Eirlanne Selvorren, tutor of household penwork and modest sums, lived with her cousin Thomere, a clasp-drafter whose seasonal commissions dwindled until only scraps of income remained. She kept the figure-bind recess in precise order—slates stacked in graduated tiers, quills trimmed evenly, blotters rotated so clean margins greeted each new page. Before lessons she walked a small, familiar arc, murmuring numbers under her breath to center her thoughts. But as Thomere’s earnings thinned and winter stiffened her hands, the structure she depended on began to falter. Slips lingered uncorrected. Ink rims hardened. The recess sagged into a softened disorder that echoed her quiet exhaustion.

The Passage Where Her Certainty First Softened

Along the east interior corridor, Eirlanne’s boots rest angled toward the wainscot, their leather stiffened by disuse. Thomere’s unfinished clasp-drafts scatter near the baseboard, edges dulled by moisture. A cracked lamp chimney sits beside a dust cloth she dropped during her final attempt at tidiness.

The Scullery Letting Go of Its Old Pattern

Inside the scullery, mismatched mugs cradle pale rings of dried tea. A chalk-rimmed kettle sits beside the smoothing stone she pressed to her aching wrists. A linen apron droops from its peg, its former folds surrendered to limp, shapeless drape.

At the landing’s far end rests Eirlanne’s final corrected slip—ink faint, margin trembling—beneath a shawl she never reclaimed. Thomere’s unfinished clasp draft lies beside it. Brimwraithe Selvorren House remains dim, uninterfered with, and indefinitely abandoned.