It is night, the wind blows through the leaves and howls in the distance, the air carries an unnatural chill. A small house sits among the trees, weathered by the centuries, unkempt as if nothing had lived there in years. Shattered windows draped in tattered cloth blowing in the wind. Inside, a black cauldron sits filled with a purple potion, papers strewn about on the floor. The room is dark, lit only by the moon light which enters through the windows and the glow of the potion colors the room a faint purple. The house is quiet, and tension fills the air.