Meet my Overprotective Brothers
Standing before the door was a Grave-Guardian.
It was a ten-foot-tall construct woven from living vines and the bleached, white bones of Northern wolves. It didn't have a face, only a hollow ribcage where a flickering, silver flame burned. As the group approached, the Guardian’s "voice" echoed through the clearing, a distorted, haunting harmony that sounded like Rowena Thorne.
“The shadow has come home,” the Guardian intoned, the silver flame flaring. “But the house does not know you. You are touched by the Void. You are stained by the South. The uncorrupted may not pass.”