DINING ROOMS

Feast in halls where the air hangs heavy with the scent of ancient wine, its bouquet a memory of vintages poured centuries ago, now turned to vinegar in the crypt below. The table, a slab of blackened oak, groans under the weight of spectral banquets—platters of phantom pheasant and goblets that refill with a crimson liquid no one dares to sip. Tattered tapestries line the walls, their threads unraveling like the sanity of those who dined here, while chandeliers above drip wax like tears, illuminating the empty chairs that creak with the presence of unseen guests.