Drake of Ashe House

Ashe House stood in solemn defiance of time, its ivy-clad walls cradled by the ancient orchards where the River Axe wove its quiet song. Generations had passed through its halls, yet one soul remained—unseen but never absent, bound to the land by a longing that death could not quell. The villagers whispered of him in wary tones, the wicked Drake, a man cast from his home in life yet unable to leave it in death. They knew the signs of his restless return—the unseasonal frost in the orchards, the sighing wind that carried his mournful whispers, the slow, unseen circling of Ashe House as he sought a way back inside. Time and again, the Church drove him away with sacred rites, but his exile was never final. For as long as the house stood, the Drake of Ashe would remain, his eternal pilgrimage continuing beneath the weight of regret, yearning for a home that would never again be his.

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