The house was immense, and built like a fortress to withstand violent sieges. More than forty darkened windows watched their insignificant carriage pull up to the front, resembling dilated eyes unblinking in silent judgement. Ivy draped the pale limestone bricks, and wild roses tangled up from the soil. The single turret towered over them, parting the mist. To the left were the burned remnants of a crumbling tower, the walls decaying and blackened. Deathgrips, their still-violet petals a contrast to the dull browns of late autumn, grew like a moat surrounding the house, as if to ward away any wolves that might be growling at the edge of the forest.
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