Vintage Vault

Glarithia is full of art galleries and studios, established by up and coming names in the cultural landscape of the fair city-state. But some choose to conserve art and history instead of producing it.

One such establishment is the Vintage Vault, an antique shop located in the lowest tier of Glarithia. The shop has been established in the same building that once served as the studio of a struggling artist by the name of Larion Voskar, who never managed to find fame. This acquisition saved the structure from condemnation.

History

The stone building that now houses the Vintage Vault was once the studio—and home—of a struggling artist named Larion Voskar. He eked out a living painting unremarkable commissions, his work failing to attract any significant attention. Yet, when he first built the studio, he had envisioned a different future. The structure was designed to serve as both a workspace and a personal gallery, a place where his masterpieces would be admired.
But reality was unkind. As years passed and rejection followed rejection, his dreams eroded. Clients became scarce, his funds dwindled, and the grand studio decayed around him. Cracks crept along the walls, dust settled in thick layers, and an air of turpentine and regret soaked into the stone. Eventually, even the occasional patron stopped coming, leaving Voskar utterly alone with his canvas.
It was in those final, desperate days that he became obsessed.
Neighbors reported hearing him muttering to himself, sometimes in frantic rants, other times in heated arguments—as if speaking to someone. He spoke of a painting, claiming he had “finally captured something real.”
The painting itself was nothing remarkable at first glance: a lonely, moonlit alleyway, its cobblestones slick with unseen moisture. The details were finely rendered, but something about it was subtly off. Viewers often found their eyes drawn to the alley’s farthest point, where the darkness seemed too deep, as though it led somewhere far beyond the boundaries of the canvas.
Then, one fateful night, the neighbors heard it—soft, shuddering sobs, rising to a chilling, wailing crescendo. And then, silence once more. When the city guard broke down the doors, they found no sign of Larion Voskar. The studio was undisturbed except for the painting, which had been moved to the far end of the room, in a position of pride in the middle of his other works. Next to it, scrawled in a tar-like substance across the stone wall, was its title;
A picture of Me.

At first, no one knew what to make of it. A lone, dark silhouette in a moonlit alleyway was certainly eerie, and strangely evocative. It was displayed briefly to the public, an oddity of a vanished artist, nothing more.

But then came the changes—visitors claiming the perspective seemed different upon a second glance, as if the alley had stretched ever so slightly deeper. Others swore the light of the moon had shifted position.
And then the figure began to change.
The silhouette, like a black spot on the canvas, seemed to approach the viewer with each passing day. And that was not the only changes it undertook. Its stance, human-like at first, stiffened and bent into something subtly wrong, as if struggling to hold the shape of a man. Its limbs grew slightly too long, its posture more contorted. The shadow that had once been vague and distant now carried the suggestion of detail—edges where there should have been blur, faint highlights where no light should have touched.
Some claimed its head had tilted, ever so slightly, as if listening. Others swore its arms had moved—an imperceptible raising of the hands, as though reaching. Guards posted to keep watch over it refused to stay in the same room for their whole shifts. Scholars who came to examine it left pale and unwilling to speak of what they had seen. Some visitors simply stood staring, unblinking, from the opening hours to the closing of the studio, at which point they walked away in a stupor.
Amidst all this strangeness, it was decided that the painting could not be displayed to the public. But neither could it be destroyed, for the mere thought of that seemed unthinkable, as if the painting itself did not want it and projected that feeling to those who saw it. Thus, the decision was made to immure it within the studio, sealing it away. Bricks were laid, stone upon stone, until the painting—and the room that housed it—was swallowed in darkness. No record was kept of the final moment before the last brick was placed, and those who had been present refused to speak of it.
When the mortar dried, the building was condemned. Time and dust settled over the abandoned studio, and for years, no one disturbed that house of failed ambition. The story faded into obscurity, into the half-forgotten ramblings of those who still remembered the name of Larion Voskar. It would have been lost entirely—buried beneath the weight of years—had one man not sought to claim the building for his own.
Elric Tallow, a collector of antiquities, saw potential where others saw ruin. He acquired the deed, renovated the building, and named it the Vintage Vault. The walls were reinforced, the decay cleared away, and soon, relics of the past filled the shelves. The past, he says, should not be forgotten. But perhaps some things are better off that way.

Wings

The Vintage Vault is sequestered into two separate wings; one dedicated to the art of paint on canvas, and the other to the craftsmans trade; that of busts, figurines and carvings.

The painting wing houses the works of the greatest masters of the brush that have called Glarithia their home as well as the most prolific of contemporary artists. The walls of the wing are covered in portraits, vistas and masterpieces across all styles of painting.

by Midjourney

_{A section of the painting wing of the Vintage Vault}

The figurine wing matches the painting wing in its splendor, its shelves brimming with masterfully chiseled busts, figurines and pottery. Some of these works are so well crafted that one could believe they were looking at the preserved faces of real people.

by Midjourney

_{One corner of the figurine wing of the Vintage Vault}

Backroom

At the very back of the Vintage Vault, past rows of tarnished trinkets and timeworn paintings, stands a locked wooden door. Sturdy and unmarked, it blends seamlessly into the shop’s old stone walls—just another part of the building’s quiet history. There is no sign to indicate its purpose, no keyhole to suggest it has been opened in recent memory.
Those who notice it sometimes ask the proprietor, Elric Tallow, what lies beyond. His answer is always the same: a dismissive shrug, a vague remark about storage, and a quick change of subject. He does not entertain further questions, nor does he ever seem to venture inside.

But if one were to step beyond that door, past the dust-choked air and the scent of old mortar, they would find a room with a few shelves and crates—indicative of the purpose that Elric prescribes for the space. But, the back wall that is unmistakably newer than the rest, yet weathered as if time itself had tried to wear it away stands defiant amidst the dust-caked paraphernalia.
And from the fine cracks in the mortar, seeping in thin, glistening rivulets, something black and viscous still oozes—thick as ink, slow as blood.

by Midjourney

_{The closed off backroom of the Vintage Vault}

Legacy

Most who visit the Vintage Vault never notice anything amiss. The past lingers in every relic, but only as dust on glass, as prints of long forgotten hands. But there are those—few, quiet, uncertain—who, upon leaving, find themselves glancing back at the building’s façade, at the old stone walls that do not quite match the rest of the surrounding masonry. And some, on rare occasions, return days later with a question they cannot quite get off their minds.
Not about the shop. Not about its wares.
But about the alleyway behind it.
Had it always been there?

I'd be honored to donate some of my works to your lovely boutique, Mr. Tallow.

I would make one request, though. Do not place them in the back.

– Xyp'sho the Elegant, during a meeting with the proprietor of the Vintage Vault

Parent Location

Glarithia