A place for libation and fraternization. And possibly for forbidden things.
The regulars, even the elite, fashion-sleek regulars, knew the second part of the bar's name: *lydia lithos*. Though different people attributed different reasons for it. Some focused on the bar itself, some focused on the bar owner. Amelia was a reclusive but tough sort of woman that took no **** and exuded a present, self-possessed charm. And legs. Legs for miles. Homage to these things was the abbreviated nick name for the place: DSL.
If you didn't know better... DSL was just a bar. A bar with great, old-world, thick walls that were excellent at temperature regulation. It retained the heat in the winter, and remained cool in the summer. The place was comfortable for everyone, and the drinks were debatable the best in the city. There are two bartenders: Moriah (a buxom, rockabilly red-head that often sported a Black Sabbath crop top under overalls) was a master of her art. Julian was a mixologist genius. "Make me something that reminds me of spring and debauchery... something with Benedictine, Julian." His shock of black rocker-hair and trim black beard went a little hipster when he wore a pineapple-print Cuban shirt with powder pink suspenders, but his smile was quick so Amelia forgave him his fashion transgressions. Neither would make you a long island or a Ramos gin fizz. For very different reasons.
But the bar had other things going on. Something that thrived in a slow, heart-beat pulse. Like something slithering and growing organic from the cornerstones of the wold. From the ground. Something cathonic lurked in the very skeleton of the bar. In its bones. In the wood and the mortar. Even the brick and interior was a little more earthy and old than it should have been. Perhaps that was why the rumors about the magic here included death, and bodies, and the dark. And the cold.
