This bombed-out factory at the edge of the Ebury Way near Trentford has lain derelict since the end of World War 2. It is said that an old tramp - rumoured to be of the order of the Guardians of the Black Bowers - has lived within the ruins since anyone can remember.
Locals will inform you that this strange and ragged indigent trades in petty hexes and minor sorceries - that for a few coins or a half-bottle of cheap scotch, he will read your fortune, or charge some weak and forgotten spirit with afflicting one who has slighted you with some small inconvenience.
There are those who further intimate that, for a few select clients, this curious vagrant will make available - for a premium - choicer wares...
It is also said those who avail themselves of such offers often find themselves baulking at the price required of them when payment is due...
It is for good reason that the folk of the region are fond of the saying that they would not wish upon even their worst enemy the fate which awaits those who have crossed the Guardians of the Black Bowers.
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