Ebonreach Sylthamar House and Its Hidden Parlour Trace

The parlour of Ebonreach Sylthamar House feels shaped by years of small routines now long stilled, its softened fabrics and faint scent of cooled tea suggesting a once-steady life now quietly withdrawn. Dust rises in slow, measured spirals from the rug’s creases, and each hollow in the upholstery hints at movements that ceased without notice, leaving only the suggestion of something hidden within the folds of ordinary days.

The Quiet Calculated Pattern of Elmira Sylthamar

Elmira Sylthamar, tutor of household sums and penmanship, lived here with her cousin Varrin, a novice brass-stamp engraver whose seasonal work seldom held steady.

Elmira arranged the tallywork alcove with exacting care—slates aligned by difficulty, quills sharpened evenly, practice slips tied in graduated bundles. Before each lesson she paced a small circle, murmuring sums to still her nerves. Yet as Varrin’s wages faltered and Elmira’s joints stiffened with cold, her dependable order thinned. Papers remained uncorrected. Ink rims dried. The alcove slackened into quiet disarray, reflecting the unraveling she never voiced.

The Corridor Where Her Rhythm Softened

Along the west corridor, Elmira’s boots rest angled inward, their laces stiff and brittle. Varrin’s engraved blanks—edges blurred by damp—scatter near the wainscot. A cracked lamp chimney lies beside a dust cloth she dropped mid-step.

The Scullery Sinking Into Quiet Neglect

Inside the scullery, mugs retain pale rings of dried tea. A kettle rimmed with chalk sits beside the smooth cooling stone Elmira pressed to her aching fingers. A linen apron hangs without form from its peg, its last neat fold dissolved into soft drapery.

At the end of the landing lies Elmira’s final corrected sheet—ink faint, lines wavering—beneath a shawl she never reclaimed. Varrin’s unfinished brass blank rests beside it. Ebonreach Sylthamar House remains dim, folded quietly into its own forgotten rooms, indefinitely abandoned.