Descend the stairs at the parking lot attached to that shopping strip on J Street near Big Brother Comics, and you'd find a door. Once the door was boarded up and the stair well was a veritable jungle of urban detritus. Now its clean, washed, and gleaming in the night. The door isn't boarded up either: its big and black and heavy and tonight opens inward - a dark portal to a hidden underworld, promising adventure. Band flyers frame that door and someone thought it artistic to stick a line of Tarot cards and Faerie pictures along the lintel. Who knows how long they'll last there.
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Within its tastefully dim, with the stone walls giving off a welcoming, wholesome glow in the low light. A natural glow of ancient rock, evoking ancient caves. Plants sprout playfully from the walls, as do more pictures taken from the Tarot and prints of various artists of Faerie; most line the walls in a curious pattern if one is willing to take the time to figure it out. Depictions of the god and goddess, along with ancient symbols of truth, peep out from hidden crevices, illuminated by stray light, reminding or perhaps signalling the actual affiliation of this place.
The club evokes the sense of a tavern of old, hidden from the main street with a low barrel ceiling: at once tomb, barrow, and secret place. It is home to the alternate, the urban pagan, those who wish to dream.
Over at the modest stage, a pagan folk band plays.
AndCrowleySaul Springfield is its master. He's over by at the bar, by the way, demonstrating that a king must serve.