Everything slowly came back into focus, like waking from a dream.

Isaac’s head pounded. Distantly, he registered speaking below him, like he was in an apartment or hotel with loud downstairs neighbors. The surface beneath him - a mattress? - was kind of lumpy and uneven, but it was very soft. He was tangled in similarly luxurious sheets, laid on what felt like one too many pillows, and very, very naked.

Well, at least one thing was familiar.

He opened his eyes and blinked to clear the fog. He quickly spotted his glasses on a nightstand and slipped them on. Flickering firelight from a series of hanging lanterns illuminated a fairly large room. It had a low ceiling, all four walls and the floor were made of the same polished wood as the ceiling, and combined with the lantern light and the deep purples and reds of the bedsheets he was swaddled in, it created quite an intimate atmosphere. Some soft and floral scent drifted through the air, its source seemingly the burning incense set up atop a vanity nearby. In another part of the room there was a large, empty silver basin, set up next to a stool, bucket, and a few small cloths. The floor had many richly colored rugs, except around the apparent bathing area, and tapestries of some kind covered sections of the walls. There was a seating or dining arrangement of some kind that took up some floor space - set up for two but with extra chairs nearby.

The most striking fixture in the room was an eight-foot brass automaton standing in front of the door, head down. It was clearly Arthus, not a single light glowing except for a tiny blinking lavender dot in its central eye.

Isaac, unsure if the machine was awake - or whatever passed for awareness - wrapped a lavish royal purple sheet around his body, suddenly feeling very nervous and uneasy. It was odd, in front of his friends and lovers, nudity wasn’t something that bothered him, but here and now, he needed to be covered. Probably something to do with the strange machine and the strange place. He shakily stood out of the bed and discovered that every muscle in his body ached. He didn’t see any wounds, but he felt like he’d fallen down the longest set of stairs. He worked his way to the vanity. Atop it was the incense burner, his Wraithrider, and a stack of clothing, but it wasn’t familiar. He looked into the attached mirror and touched his face. He had a bit of stubble, like he hadn’t shaved in a few days, and a distinct weariness to his gaze.

“What the fuck happened…?” He muttered as he scratched at his stubble. He recalled the last few moments before he’d…. Apparently passed out. “I’m in the old world, I guess, but now it’s just me and the **** bot?”

There was a sharp whirr and Isaac whipped his head to see Arthus beginning to straighten up. Its lights all glowed that same blue except for a tiny purple spark in its eye. It hummed, whirred, rattled, and finally spoke. “Master Wells. It is good to see you up and moving. I trust you’re not too harmed from the violent failure of Declan Grimm’s arcanotech inter-world portal.”

Isaac blinked slowly, stunned by its sudden activation. “Uh. I’m sore, but… fine.”

Arthus nodded as it began to roam the chamber, footsteps surprisingly gentle. “Splendid. Now, I am sure you’re wondering where we are?”

“Very much so.” Isaac looked between the clothes and the robot. “Do you mind, uh…?”

“I am not technically a sapient entity, and I have no concept of shame or embarrassment over the concept of nudity, but whatever will make you comfortable, Master Wells.” Arthus dipped its head and turned around, facing a wall. “We are currently resting in the VIP suite of Madam Tempest’s ‘Tempest Cabaret,’ or simply, ‘The Tempest Cabaret.’”

Cabaret… cabaret… That was some kind of fancy show, right? A nightclub? Isaac pondered the name as he started getting dressed in the light, loose linen clothes that had been left out for him. A billowy white shirt that could be laced over the chest - if it had the laces - and hung open quite a lot. Brown linen pants, secured with a simple leather belt. Nice, if worn, boots and socks. Judging by the term ‘suite,’ Isaac knew this was probably some kind of hotel.

“Yes,” Arthus continued, as if it hadn’t paused. “One of Madam Tempest’s employees - I believe she referred to the woman as one of her ‘girls’ - cleaned you and took care of you after we arrived. She has been very involved in your stay since we arrived.”

Isaac furrowed his brow. and checked his face again. He wasn't terribly comfortable with the thought of a stranger cleaning his body, but it wasn’t a big deal. Couldn't they have at least shaved his face, though?

Never mind that. A few things were lining up, now. “Arthus, never mind why you’re here with me and no one else is. What kind of establishment is this place?”

“This would be a brothel, Master Wells. And I was instructed by Lady Conrad and Master… Master Jones that you were to be brought here.” Arthus turned back to Isaac. Despite having such low exposure to the machine, seeing it in a tamed, subservient stance instantly threw Isaac off after seeing it attempt to **** Tyler. “See, I was… a standard Worldkiller unit. Then Declan Grimm did… something… to me. Lady Aoife… fixed me. Never mind that!” Arthus started toward the door. “I shall inform Madam Tempest. There should be anything that you need within this room, but your old clothes - or what remained of them - are being washed. I will return soon.”

Arthus marched out of the room, so Isaac took a better look around the room and realized, with new context, how intimate the room truly was. The bed was massive, flush with pillows, quilts, bedsheets of all kinds. A certain part of his mind told him that five people could easily lie beside each other in that bed - or four and Ophelia.

The rugs were all flowery designs, mostly roses and lilies, and the lanterns had similar designs. The flames in the lanterns burned clean and bright, without any fuel. The tapestries on the walls were intimate and, quite frankly beautiful. They were artful, erotic depictions of women and men, human, elf, monster, in various states of dress and intimacy.

The basin was silver, with runes of gold set into the rim. Isaac wasn't educated enough to read them, but he gathered they probably did something to the water that would be in the basin. It was large enough for three people about Isaac's size to share, and on the side of it that wasn't visible from the bed were various bottles and vials, as well as a bar that was presumably soap, wrapped in wax paper.

Isaac returned to the vanity. In one drawer was jewelry. In another was incense and another incense burner. In a third were more vials, filled with substances that moved thickly, like oils. There weren't any other clothes in the room, but presumably they could be delivered, or they were just somewhere he couldn't see. It was an opulent room, and the picture of a luxury brothel. The kind of place Isaac might have written about, if he ever ended up writing that adult fantasy novel.

Wow, that was strange. Remembering that just a week or so ago, he was writing in his home. Hopefully, he could get out of this insanity and get back to that. But despite that hope for a return to form, he knew that he needed to help Ophelia with this crisis. But how was he supposed to help? He was just a guy - now, presumably, separated from his friends and allies.

He sat on the bed and took off his glasses, rubbing his face. “Fuck.”

The door opened and Arthus stuck his head back in. “Good news, Master Wells. Madam Tempest wishes to speak with you.”

Isaac stood up again, centered himself, returned his glasses to his face, and followed the automaton out of the VIP suite.