A soft chime from somewhere above. Not a bell, not really. Something more melodic. Windchimes, maybe, jingling very gently as you push the heavy doors open, and step over the threshold.
The scent of cinnamon and something sweeter curls around you. It's warm - not too warm, but almost... cozy. Cozier than you'd imagine a room this size to be. The door swings gently closed, shutting not with a thud or a slam, but a quiet, almost respectful click. There's a soft thrum of chatter in the air, patrons talking in softened voices, sharing laughter. It mingles with the music - some instrumental track that you could've sworn you heard before. The name just won't come to mind.
The lighting is low, ambient, balanced on that perfect line between moodily atmospheric, and bright enough to see clearly. You can see the dark drapes over the tables, the dark rose centrepieces on each of them. The walls are red - or at least they look it, in the light. Intricate, elegant patterns swirl across them. Beneath your feet, dark floorboards gleam as though they're freshly waxed.
Gothic, yes, but beautiful.
The bar runs along the back wall - wrapping all the way along, meeting the edge of a round stage at one side. Sleek black wood, polished countertop, taps that gleam golden in the low light. Behind it, figures flicker - doing little tricks with shot glasses, chatting to patrons perched on red-velvet barstools.
As you watch, the stage curtains lift. Smoke begins to flood free - pooling on the stage, spilling over its edges. The instrumental music fades away, replaced by the opening beats of something new. The patrons fall into a rapt hush.
After all, anyone who visits The Shadowed Rose always insists the entertainment is something... out of this world.
