VESPER
The safehouse in the Red Bloom Court is not an AppleFrog’s. It’s not even remotely close to what the safehouse in the Secret Abyss was. As we grow closer to it, it rises from the trees like something out of the past that I can’t put a name to. There’s nothing like it in Dross. The large building is made up of black iron and glass, the black interrupting the panes as it cuts up and through the design. At the top of the pointed glass building, the iron forms sharp, menacing points where various creatures have met their fate. So many dead and decaying bodies are impaled on the points, I half think it’s intentional rather than accidental. In some spots, dried blood still streaks along the glass pane where the constant rain attempts to wash it away.
“You think they have food in this one?” Locke asks as we stare at the building.
We can’t see inside. The windowpanes are fogged up from the difference in humidity outside and in. What we can see are the various carnivorous plants all along the edges, scraping across the glass, quivering against it as they hungrily watch whatever is inside. Where they press against the window, the fog is wiped away, revealing people shapes moving around inside. There is only a single pathway that isn’t populated with the flora, making it clear that’s our entrance.
“The plants think so,” I answer, watching them carefully before I start toward the door.
I don’t know what kind of building this is to guess at what sort of resources they might have, but it’s still a surprise when we open the door and step inside. The windowpanes look out into the rainforest, letting in light that keeps the place warm and inviting. The windows are definitely fogged up still, but we can see where the plants are wiping the condensation away as they rub against the panes hungrily. It’s almost obscene the way they slide against the glass, the way they lick at it. I’m immediately uncomfortable.
“What exactly is this place?” I ask Cipher as I look around.
Unlike AppleFrog’s, the people here look like people mostly. Their faces are human, but their clothes are from a time I can’t name. We certainly never wore anything like it in Dross, but I can’t help but greedily eye just how much cotton material they’re wearing. A large dress like that could have clothed five people back in Dross.
“Welcome to The Greenhouse Tavern,” a man at the front says with a great gesture toward the lush inside. “Please. Come inside, old chap, and have a morsel.”
The man is dressed in baggy pants, a vest, and a white shirt. There’s a bit of material at his neck that I have no name for, folding in on itself and hanging decoratively. He sports a moustache so large, I worry he’s going to bite it when he speaks.
I open my mouth to thank him, but he’s not even looking at me, only Locke. It’s like I don’t exist.
“Uh,” Locke says, glancing at me. “Thanks?”
“The Greenhouse Tavern is modeled after a mix between a Victorian Greenhouse and an English tavern from the same era,” Cipher finally chips in. “You will notice the clothing is reminiscent of the same time period. In fact, all NPCs here will be very fashionable.”
“And when was that?” I ask, confused. “How long ago?”
“Ah, yes,” Cipher says. “It is currently the year 4576. The Victorian era encompasses the years 1890 to 1910. So that means this time period is from roughly two thousand, six hundred, and sixty-six years ago. At the very least.”
I nearly trip over the wooden floorboards as Cipher breaks down the numbers and informs us just how long ago something like this place would have existed.
“Are there still things like this remaining back on Earth?” I ask.
“No,” he replies, his tone going solemn. “There is nothing remaining on Earth.”
“What happened?”
“A story for another time,” Cipher says, changing the subject. “Player three million, six hundred and seventy-three thousand, five hundred, and seventeen looks like he’s about to get into a scuffle.”
My eyes search for Locke and find him at the bar against the far wall arguing with the bartender. Sighing, I cut through the building, avoiding the large dresses the ladies are wearing, and take a seat at it.
“Lay off,” I tell Locke as I gesture for the bartender to come over.
“Pardon me, Miss,” the bartender says as he approaches. “The seats at the bar are for gentleman only.”
I raise my brow. “Excuse me?”
“Ladies are not permitted at the–”
“No, I heard you the first time,” I grunt, cutting him off. “Why?”
“Ladies are docile creatures and must be protected at all costs. Spirits could cause you to descend into melancholy, or worse, hysteria,” the bartender parrots as if that makes his statement somehow better.
I reach across the bar and grab him by the extra material at his throat, dragging him over the bar to face me. Our faces are only a few inches apart as I bare my teeth at him.
“Do I look fucking docile to you?” I sneer.
“N-n-no,” he quivers, holding up his hands in surrender.
