You see many men, all of them sitting on chairs or playing cards at tables. Each of them is armed.
They make no attempt at concealing their weapons; if anything, they are kept where they can be drawn quickly and easily. It is not mere bravado that prompts this casual display, but rather a wary caution.
There are rows upon rows of additional weapons mounted upon the walls, all within easy reach. Only one door leads from this room into the conservatory. It is large and covered in thick iron bars, not unlike something you would see in a prison.
It all reminds you of something. You cannot remember what.
A man built like a bull sees you and beckons you over.
“You want to go in?” he asks you. His neck is as thick as your waist. There is nothing aggressive in his tone, in fact he seems (in a quiet, gruff kind of way) to be quite friendly. But you can tell that this is a man who is prepared for violence and skilled in its usage.
You nod at him.
He grunts in response.
“Better you than me,” he says.