It is the year 2046, and in the basement of an old, ruined church, located in what was once a poor suburb of Boston, an old man manages enough strength to push open a dusty door. Its jam falls before him and creates a dust cloud which causes him some respiratory distress, and he hesitates to enter until it clears. He withraws a small flash light from a fanny pack and illuminates the room on the other side of the door as best he can. He moves inside slowly, making his way carefully through the dust and debris which covers an old cobblestone floor. He flashes the light against the walls on either side of himself, each lined with racks and bottles, indicating it’s one time use as a cellar. He looks to the far wall before him but is unable to make it out, so he carefully, slowly trudges forward, brushing away dust and cobwebs from an old doorway. The room on the other side is better appointed, though no less dusty. Behind him, a young, female, appears.
Young Female: “Take a look at the table. Strange.” The old man obliges her and looks carefully to his left. He looks at an wood table and a set of matching chairs. Upon it sits a half empty bottle, a triangular object with strange writing, and a clear, spherical stone of some sort, and a dusty old book. The young woman picks up the bottle and uncorks it. She then brings the spout to her nose and is clearly offended. “Oh. That is rank.” The old man picks up the book and gently dusts it off. The cover reads: A Memoir, Nickolas Xanatos. The old man sets the book down and goes back out to the main cellar. The young woman follows.
Old Man: “It’s a beautiful day. You should head to school now. I’ll take care of things here.
Young Female: “Careful in here Dr. Brandt.” As she speaks, he walks over to one of the racks and takes a bottle out. He dusts off the label and sees that it is a pinot noir. he returns it to the rack.
Old Man: “…Mmm. Yes. If you happen to run into Derek, could you tell him I’m here please?” He heads back into the ante chamber as the young female exits.”
Young female: “Will do.” The Old man once again looks upon the racks and pulls out a bottle and cleans the lable. It reads: Claret Mendocin 1998.
Old man: “Yes.” He looks about the racks in the room with his flashlight until he sees what might be an old, two handled corkscrew. He waddles over and picks it up. He dust it off on his trousers. “Now were getting to it.” He turns to move back toward the table and chairs when he notices a strange pedestal before him, and on it he notices what appear to be feline toes. He follows them up to see a statue of a large, winged, female figure, beautifully proportioned, but whose face is obscured by the shadows associated with the position of her head, and it’s engorgement by cobwebs attached to the ceiling of the room. He looks down at the pedestal to see an old inscription. It reads: ‘Demona. Once sorrow’s song, she rides the wind in search of trumpet’s bellow and hero’s recompense.’