A cascade of song sparks through the air, thanks to a tiny crimson songbird in a wicker cage. Enameled pots filled with miniature orchids in a pastel rainbow of hues are suspended from gossamer silk hangers along the rear of the tent, and luxurious carpets of pure white shearling cover every inch of the floor. The walls are hung with finger cymbals and toe bells, jangling belts of beads and coins, and little hand-held drums -- all the accoutrements of the dancers that Isfahni cultivates as customers. You also see the tent flap, a crystal case with some stuff on it, some rosewood shelves with some stuff on it, an ebony stand with some stuff on it and a white coral stand with some stuff on it.
Obvious exits: none.