The tavern is clear of people and the barkeep waits, polishing the glaring auburn counter. The deep mustard lighting highlights the reds of the wood. A sweet scent of fermented fruit fills the air with hints of grape, lime and musk. Everything is prepared for your arrival. On each of the tables in the large, open-plan building, an assortment of foods adorns the centre, covered by intricately decorated glass domes.

Every chair is reserved; your name shines engraved on a cream place-holder card, written in a fantastic calligraphy of dark brown ink. Your seat is decked with a firm sponge upholstery, covered in the soft red cotton unique to Andrometre; one might compare it to Kashmir. Obsidian plates sit atop rectangular reed-woven mats, accompanied by the glowing silver of cutlery. Large crystal chalices stand on the tables, above the plates, on round reed mats of their own. Each chalice bears the sandblasted name of their guests.

The air is cool, just enough for comfort, kept so by the strategically-built vents high up on the walls. The crisp fresh breeze of winter glides in, barely noticeable. It accentuates the fermented scents. Soft music plays in the background; a piano ballad of the moons. The bar is stocked with a great variety, anything you desire can be found against the mirrored wall. The barkeep smiles and nods as he notices your presence then continues buffing the bar’s counter. The old clock on the wall above the bar ticks away, inaudible. It’s time.