Gloamspire Rynthollow House and the Parlour That Forgot Its Own Footfall

Crossing into the parlour of Gloamspire Rynthollow House, one feels the delicate hush of routines suspended long before their completion. Dust rises in thin ribbons from the rugs; stale wool and cooled tea mingle in the softened air. Every curve and fold of upholstery bears the imprint of repetition—smoothed arms, sagging cushions, warped boards beneath heavy footfall.

Nothing gestures outward; everything folds inward into a muted, rhythmic quiet.

The Measured Domestic Life of Althea Rynthollow

Althea Rynthollow, tutor of household script and small-figure arithmetic, lived here with her cousin Brann, an assistant bookbinder whose wages drifted unpredictably through the seasons. Althea arranged the script chamber with delicate exactness—slates stacked in tidy columns, blotters rotated to avoid overlapping stains, quills sharpened to clean points. Her manner was patient but taut; she counted her steps before lessons, re-tied her apron twice each morning, and whispered sums under her breath whenever expenses unsettled her. As Brann’s work faltered and Althea’s fingers stiffened during winter, lessons thinned. Sheets went uncorrected. Ink rims crusted. Her careful routines, once her anchor, softened into small lapses that settled intimately across the chamber.

The Corridor Where Her Steps Lost Their Regularity

In the south passage, Althea’s boots rest angled against the wainscot, laces stiffened with time. Brann’s stray binding thread curls near a cracked lamp chimney, and a dust cloth she dropped mid-chore lies beside a ledger page softened by damp.

The Scullery Where Work Slowed to a Whisper

Inside the scullery, mugs carry pale residue. A kettle chalked at its rim sits beside a smooth cooling stone Althea once used to ease her aching hands. A linen apron hangs from its peg, its creases long since dissolved.

At the landing’s end, Althea’s final corrected sheet—pencil faint, margins trembling—rests beneath a shawl she never lifted again. Brann’s last half-bound booklet lies beside it, spine unfinished. Gloamspire Rynthollow House continues sinking inward, its rooms dimming softly, indefinitely abandoned.