Skins
Legacy Name: Skins

You push the front door open - it's heavy against your palm but swings surprisingly easily, the gold-plated hinges well kept. There is no bell or other warning sound, nor is there music playing - you struggle to pick up any noise aside from the steady beating of your own heart. It's dark inside, but not unpleasant; lamps placed strategically around the luxurious interior cast a golden glow from filament bulbs. Saying that, though - are those shadows moving a little, over there in the corner?

The soles of your shoes tap against the tiled floor. They're painted, you notice; lavish patterns in dark, inky paint against glossy grey ceramic. The decor is luxe, decadent, and it makes you feel smaller amongst it - a child again, as you move across an artfully placed fur rug. The walls to your right, mostly curtained, are lined in shelves - are they marble? - housing bolts of fabric; silks and sateen, taffeta and velvet. There are more, and you want desperately to run your fingers over them, to feel the prints and embroidery under your fingertips - but there's an unspoken warning in the air, a feeling of expensiveness that tells you that it might just be best to keep your hands tucked away in your pockets.

You look away, taking in the rest of the room. To your left, an indent in the wall - painted black, a running theme - houses a clothing rack. Each item is covered, wrapped carefully, but through the gauzy fabric you can see that every gown is exquisitely tailored. In front of them, more towards the centre of the room, are a pair of dark leather chesterfields, placed at an angle upon which you suppose guests can lounge easily. A countertop is just a tad beyond and you would normally assume this would be the till area, though there is no machine and the surface itself holds nothing but a pair of antique vases.

Walking forward, you notice an entranceway partially covered in a heavy embroidered curtain to the righthand side of the counter. There are no 'do not enter' signs, but you get the distinct feeling that this is not an area for your perusal. Curiosity takes you, however, and you take a cautious step through, taking care not to disturb the curtain as you go.

The room before you is smaller, and not nearly as well lit. This dark is dangerous, and you have to resist the urge to keep glancing back over your shoulder. The walls here are indented, similar to the garment racks of the previous - but instead of lavish gowns on display there are what can only be described as skins; animal furs by the dozen, all varieties, more than you can name. Some look worryingly fresh, and your eyebrows furrow as you take them in.

"Can I help you?" A woman's voice, lilted and sharp. There's the slight pang of an accent, mellowed with time, though the origins of which you cannot discern. The hairs stand up on the back of your neck. "You seem to have found your way into my private collection."