And the infamous House Thread....
The house looks like something history hasn't touched in at least five decades. It sits on the top of a mountain, cold and solitary, a beacon to an era that is no more. The stone building stands hundreds of feet tall; a miniature palace with a deco-feel, long columns standing on either side of a singular stone cylinder.
One gets the feeling that they should know Mr. Brushire, as a fallen mogul if nothing else. The rusted nameplate on the high metal gates that circle the establishment reads: The Honorable Mr. Karl Brushire. The gates open as your car or taxi approaches and as the vehicle winds its way up the driveway you can see more of the grounds. Like the rest of the outside of the building, it appears as if the gardens and the grounds were quite magnificent half a century ago but now they're overrun, covered in moss and growth.
The front doors are twenty feet high if they're an inch, and they open when one nears them.
One gets the feeling that they should know Mr. Brushire, as a fallen mogul if nothing else. The rusted nameplate on the high metal gates that circle the establishment reads: The Honorable Mr. Karl Brushire. The gates open as your car or taxi approaches and as the vehicle winds its way up the driveway you can see more of the grounds. Like the rest of the outside of the building, it appears as if the gardens and the grounds were quite magnificent half a century ago but now they're overrun, covered in moss and growth.
The front doors are twenty feet high if they're an inch, and they open when one nears them.