Inside the bar, time and space has warped yet again. The whole placed is swathed in shadow and full of people standing, moving around, mixing within the red brick walls.
The atmosphere is electric, and yet hushed. Music with a furious, swinging rhythm and high pitches careens across the place, and people careen around to its beat, laughing and joking and twirling in short skirts that float up when they spin, and dapper looking suits.
Their clothing is weird, that much is for sure, but so are the furnishings in the place. The place is full of booths, rich red velvet with studs all over them. Some of the booths are circular and occupy entire corners of the twisted and strangely shaped space.
Some booths are like their own little rooms, with high backs to the plush, padded leather seats and heavy velvet curtains pulled open all around the table, able to be drawn shut at will.
A sort of fog hangs over the whole place- Shand inhales and identifies it as smoke, but more of the cigar variety than fire.
There is a stage near the back center of the establishment, sporting the brightest lights in the place, an ornate glass chandelier hangs over it and unoccupied microphone, the baby grand piano, and the other instruments that sit atop an old, worn Persian rug.
And then there's the bar. The place emanates a smooth, easy, suave class. A sight of true glory. It is a dark, rich wood through and through- and made of a huge hunk of it, at that. The bar stools rotate this way and that, all around, made of brassy looking pipe and rich red leather.
Behind the bar is the most ornate, garish looking mirror Shand has ever seen, with gold accents and ornament all along the edges. Shelves sit across this mirror, holding more alcohol than Shand's ever witnessed all in one place.
Some of the bottles are strange, lacking labels, in funny shapes, and containing liquid of colors so bright, they can't be safe for consumption.
Toward the end of the bar, at the back, is an impossibly showy, lush looking collecting of some type of feather that is taller than Shand is. The feathers are white, ridiculously fluffy, and fan out almost as wide as his arms are held out. The soft, thin fibers of the feathers tremble and sway with the sound of the music, so it looks like the whole display is bopping back and forth silently of its own free will.
Trita is there behind the bar, shaking a mixer behind her head and spinning, and tossing, and doing all kinds of crazy, outlandish things that patrons sitting at the bar are cheering at and calling her a doll for.
He is beyond confused. He can't remember where he is or why, and the shrill pitch of what sounds like a trumpet, along with the raucous cheers of the dancing crowd, aren't making it any better.
Then, he hears a beautiful, sweet sound trickling from the speakers when the trumpets subside. He looks up to the stage to see Luna leaning soulfully over the microphone, humming into it, and obviously preparing to sing.
"You just gonna stand there with your mouth open, or are you gonna make yourself scarce and put some eyes on the place, like you're here to do?" Dolan pokes him on the shoulder as he swings past, dressed in a close-fitting suit that looks like it was made just for him. His hair is slicked back weird, and Shand is a little stunned.
"What's going on?" He yells over the noise.
"You've been dipping into the absinthe again." Dolan makes a clicking noise with his tongue. "If you ever own this place one day, you'll understand how furious that makes me. Now get out of my sight. Literally."
At the risk of earning Dolan's ire, he moves against a wall and takes in the scene further, trying to find anyone else he recognizes.