It used to be a grand mansion, back when Mattelyn and her errant brother, Fortarian had presided over it. In the ages since Mattelyn fled the house had fallen into disrepair. The plaster had cracked, veins snaking over the surface of the walls. Large chunks of ceiling had fallen in allowing the cold and the elements of the prolonged winter to take their toll on the inside of the house. Dust had gathered in rooms that had sat too long without occupants, and there was a general stench that lingered in the house. It was the stench of death. The bodies of those that Gorjugan had fed upon, sating his need for food. His nose crinkled when he thought of the humans he had to summon every few days to feed upon. They were always scared, their feet leading them to the monolith on the hill that all within the town of Anster at the base of the hill feared to go to. Their feet led them there anyway, against their will, ensnared by his darkling wyrd. He’d learned how to control the shadow plague as well.
