BarrenThin2
Senior Member
On the rare occasion that parts of this great city slept, all fell silent, an eerie quiet replacing the previously ever-present bustle of the city, though such noises could still be heard in the distance.
Such was the night you wandered down the street, in search of a club you'd heard tell of. After all, a place to get food, entertainment, and rest certainly couldn't go amiss. The cold streets of Millennium City were awash with rain, the quiet drizzle pattering across the sidewalk and the windshields of nearby cars, the steady noise quietly filling the silence of the night on one of the quieter streets of Millennium City. Around you, stores ranging from modest to practically plated in gold rose up towards the sky, some towering many stories up before finally coming to a stop. Most of them were closed, and those that weren't probably would soon. Still, you walked on, searching for this place to put your feet up and just stop for a bit.
Eventually, a noise caught your ear. The not-too-far-off sound of music. It was muffled and hard to make out, but perhaps some of you could recognize it; the smooth tones of the saxophone. Moving closer, believing you had found your mark, you were eventually greeted by the sight a of a surprisingly humble, smaller red-bricked building. The music was definitely coming from inside. Though the place certainly looked nice, the building materials stood out as a relic of the past, surrounded by neon lights and towering behemoths of glass and metal. Shaking your doubts aside, you went inside.
The interior was impossibly huge for what you’d seen on the outside. Where the outside couldn’t have made the place seem any bigger than a hundred feet deep at most, the building appeared to be at least a few times that in size, and, on top of that, an array of sounds, sights, and smells greet you as you walk in.
First and foremost, you were greeted by the music. Smooth as butter, the notes of the saxophone came off the stage, the portly dark-skinned man behind them wearing a tuxedo and dark sunglasses. Accompanying him was several other musicians, playing things from the drums to the piano, though not all were presently active, some seeming to be waiting for a cue to go themselves.
The walls around you and on the inside of the heavy wooden door were covered in deep, red satin, with the room lit up by understated red spotlights that kept the entire place in a sort of colored dim light. The spacious interior was filled with sofas and wooden chairs placed evenly about the room, all facing tables, and most still facing a raised, small-ish stage. The sofas themselves were a dark, crimson color, the fabric visibly very smooth. The tables seemed to made be of a rich, dark mahogany, with glass panes forming the interior. The carpet beneath your feet felt coarse, lighter, wide lines contrasted against the deep purple that made up most of the floor, before it gave way to a dark hardwood underneath the tables.
Finally, you were met by the smell of food. The scent of freshly-cooked meat wafted through the air, and your eyes followed it to a enormous, succulent steak sitting atop a patron’s plate. Across the way, you saw as much as you smelled another eating a platter of assorted cheeses. Yet still, the scent of other foods hit your nose, a splendorous aroma of tantalizing nourishment.
Across the way, a bar was visible against the wall, employees in dress shirts moving about through a door behind it to what one could only assume was the kitchen. The wall behind the bar was lined with assorted alcohols, ranging from the most foul swill to expensive brandies and imported beverages that cost an arm and a leg to get.
Many of the sofas and bar stools were empty, but that more attested to the available space than to how busy the place was. Plenty of patrons sat around, quietly discussing matters among themselves, eating and drinking. For most, their expressions could easily be read as content, the music and food washing away whatever worries they may have. Most of them were dressed very nicely, though not all; some younger individuals sat around a table dressed in more casual clothing, and they didn't seem to be provoking anyone's ire by doing so.
In one corner of the room, a man sat there, clad in little more than rags. His grey beard was almost as unkempt as his shoulder-length hair. The man stared down into his drink, a deep red wine. His eyebrows were furrowed in apparent frustration and worry, his eyes briefly moving towards you and anyone with you as you came in, before he went back to whatever he was thinking about.
Sitting lazily on one of the sofas, a shapely woman in a low-cut red dress watched you intently. She looked to be relatively young, with her long black hair let down to rest against her lower back. Her vibrant topaz eyes looked out from under her mane with an inviting gaze, her red lips curling away with a coy smile. She seemed to be looking right at you. Almost as quickly as she noticed you, though, she looked away, turning her attention back to her glass of champagne.
Another man sat back in a chair, leaning the seat back so that its front legs were dangling off the ground. Wearing a long brown robe, he tapped the table restlessly whilst watching the performers. At his waist, hung a metal cylinder. His eyes didn't turn to meet yours, but you distinctly felt as though you'd been noticed.
For now, though, a woman walked up to you, clad in the uniforms of the staff. Her accent was heavily French. "Ah, hello! Allow me to seat you." Quickly, you were brought to open tables, though it more or less seemed like you had free-roam of the establishment a this point, and, judging by the unmolested individual in the corner, they weren't too stingy as far as how nice you were dressed went. Welcome to Pocket D.
Such was the night you wandered down the street, in search of a club you'd heard tell of. After all, a place to get food, entertainment, and rest certainly couldn't go amiss. The cold streets of Millennium City were awash with rain, the quiet drizzle pattering across the sidewalk and the windshields of nearby cars, the steady noise quietly filling the silence of the night on one of the quieter streets of Millennium City. Around you, stores ranging from modest to practically plated in gold rose up towards the sky, some towering many stories up before finally coming to a stop. Most of them were closed, and those that weren't probably would soon. Still, you walked on, searching for this place to put your feet up and just stop for a bit.
Eventually, a noise caught your ear. The not-too-far-off sound of music. It was muffled and hard to make out, but perhaps some of you could recognize it; the smooth tones of the saxophone. Moving closer, believing you had found your mark, you were eventually greeted by the sight a of a surprisingly humble, smaller red-bricked building. The music was definitely coming from inside. Though the place certainly looked nice, the building materials stood out as a relic of the past, surrounded by neon lights and towering behemoths of glass and metal. Shaking your doubts aside, you went inside.
The interior was impossibly huge for what you’d seen on the outside. Where the outside couldn’t have made the place seem any bigger than a hundred feet deep at most, the building appeared to be at least a few times that in size, and, on top of that, an array of sounds, sights, and smells greet you as you walk in.
First and foremost, you were greeted by the music. Smooth as butter, the notes of the saxophone came off the stage, the portly dark-skinned man behind them wearing a tuxedo and dark sunglasses. Accompanying him was several other musicians, playing things from the drums to the piano, though not all were presently active, some seeming to be waiting for a cue to go themselves.
The walls around you and on the inside of the heavy wooden door were covered in deep, red satin, with the room lit up by understated red spotlights that kept the entire place in a sort of colored dim light. The spacious interior was filled with sofas and wooden chairs placed evenly about the room, all facing tables, and most still facing a raised, small-ish stage. The sofas themselves were a dark, crimson color, the fabric visibly very smooth. The tables seemed to made be of a rich, dark mahogany, with glass panes forming the interior. The carpet beneath your feet felt coarse, lighter, wide lines contrasted against the deep purple that made up most of the floor, before it gave way to a dark hardwood underneath the tables.
Finally, you were met by the smell of food. The scent of freshly-cooked meat wafted through the air, and your eyes followed it to a enormous, succulent steak sitting atop a patron’s plate. Across the way, you saw as much as you smelled another eating a platter of assorted cheeses. Yet still, the scent of other foods hit your nose, a splendorous aroma of tantalizing nourishment.
Across the way, a bar was visible against the wall, employees in dress shirts moving about through a door behind it to what one could only assume was the kitchen. The wall behind the bar was lined with assorted alcohols, ranging from the most foul swill to expensive brandies and imported beverages that cost an arm and a leg to get.
Many of the sofas and bar stools were empty, but that more attested to the available space than to how busy the place was. Plenty of patrons sat around, quietly discussing matters among themselves, eating and drinking. For most, their expressions could easily be read as content, the music and food washing away whatever worries they may have. Most of them were dressed very nicely, though not all; some younger individuals sat around a table dressed in more casual clothing, and they didn't seem to be provoking anyone's ire by doing so.
In one corner of the room, a man sat there, clad in little more than rags. His grey beard was almost as unkempt as his shoulder-length hair. The man stared down into his drink, a deep red wine. His eyebrows were furrowed in apparent frustration and worry, his eyes briefly moving towards you and anyone with you as you came in, before he went back to whatever he was thinking about.
Sitting lazily on one of the sofas, a shapely woman in a low-cut red dress watched you intently. She looked to be relatively young, with her long black hair let down to rest against her lower back. Her vibrant topaz eyes looked out from under her mane with an inviting gaze, her red lips curling away with a coy smile. She seemed to be looking right at you. Almost as quickly as she noticed you, though, she looked away, turning her attention back to her glass of champagne.
Another man sat back in a chair, leaning the seat back so that its front legs were dangling off the ground. Wearing a long brown robe, he tapped the table restlessly whilst watching the performers. At his waist, hung a metal cylinder. His eyes didn't turn to meet yours, but you distinctly felt as though you'd been noticed.
For now, though, a woman walked up to you, clad in the uniforms of the staff. Her accent was heavily French. "Ah, hello! Allow me to seat you." Quickly, you were brought to open tables, though it more or less seemed like you had free-roam of the establishment a this point, and, judging by the unmolested individual in the corner, they weren't too stingy as far as how nice you were dressed went. Welcome to Pocket D.
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