The man stood halfway between the rusted iron gate at the edge of the property and the doorway to the huge, sprawling manner house behind him. He had heavy muscles from spending a lifetime building, and his palms were calloused and yellowed from his work. Although he should have been quite tall, the man had a definite slouch to his spine, from where he had spent many years hunched over a desk. His curly brown hair was kept very short, in keeping with the style these days, and his face was shaven clean. Though it was only morning, he did have a slight stubble which was beginning to grow in.
The entry to the house was not a grand affair. No climbing up to a broad set of bright double doors. Instead, a simple doorway without a door stood to welcome them, along with a half circle window above it, outlined in brick. It had no glass in it anymore, although the remnants of a metal frame suggested that it might have once held a picture window. An umbrella rested against the right hand side of the door. On the other side another door made of wood could be seen with a picture of a milk jug on it, but it was unclear in the shadowy contrast caused by the morning light.
His visitors were right on time, and the man appreciated that. He hated it when they were late. To truly survive in this place, one must get an early start. "Welcome," he said in a deep toned voice. His eyes were brown to match his hair, with an intense burning behind them. They were the sort of eyes that could burn a hole through a wall if left pointed at it for long enough. "I am the Architect. Are you ready?"
He didn't bother to ask why they had come. The stories varied, but they were always the same at their core. Fame, glory, adventure and riches. Some quested for magic or other things that could only be found in the house's walls, and some came simply to carve out a name for themselves. He'd even had a few who had come to live in the house and never left, those who had nothing left in their own lives to stay for.
The day was a hot one, and the architect lifted his hand and wiped some sweat from his brow. He was as eager as his guests to get out of the blazing heat and into the welcoming shade which called from the first room. "Follow me," He led them through the doorway into the entry way.
The room was rectangular, with 4 doors crowded right before them. The morning light streamed in through the doorframe, but it was still relatively cool in this area. It was a refreshing contrast to the heat outside. To the right of us stretched the rest of the room, which was rather empty, save for an easel where someone had been painting chinese characters on parchment paper in traditional ink. The architect hid a small smirk, thinking that his guests likely thought he was the artist. In reality, he wasn't quite sure who it was. Perhaps it was the house itself, the place was alive in a way.
The four doors each had a picture on the bronze surface, and a word painted above it in delicate letters. To the left, the first door sported the picture of a drum, the word STORY appeared above it in bold lettering. The next door had the picture of a cup, with the word FABLE. Here in the entry way proper, the picture of the bottle on the door which faced the entry could be seen, along with the word TALE above. The last door had the word "YARN" above it, with a picture of an apple. The man stood back for a moment, letting his visitors look.
"It's easy to get lost," He said to them, "This can be a sinister place."