Archaic Basement

The basement air is thick with the musk of aeons past. Around you, taut threads of time twist and distort. You catch warped and adulterated audio through the almost subsonic hum of the time machine. For once, it seems every entry is more or less visible. From Crafts, you hear faint laughter and the tinkling of glasses. From Ware comes far-off strains of experimental music.

A rich, savory smell cuts through the sharp iron stench of burnt time. It mingles with something that reminds you of fabric softener. A kitchen timer dings.

Locked metal cages seem to fill much of the space, hiding treasures and secrets. You check your pockets, but have no key.