Stephen Brandstetter

An evening at Whitetree manor

Rain lightly pattered against the roof above me while gravel crunched and crinkled beneath me. I peered through the window from the inside of the cold, damp carriage and could very clearly see a a large manor made from brick. At the front was a grand set of stairs leading to double, heavy oak doors, above the doors was a brazen plaque with the name “Whitetree” stamped into it.