Grove St Bar

Welcome to the Grove Street Bar.
A seedy dive bar that's surprisingly roomy. It doubles as a well-populated church on Sunday mornings, but during the night she hosts some of the wildest patrons on the East Coast. Tucked between the outskirts of Washington D.C.'s industrial district, where all the movers and shakers of the world spend their days, and .lust green forests lost along the Potomac River, Grove Street sees a rather varied clientele. You never know who you might find when the taps are flowing. The only rule the bartend keeps is the hand-painted, wood carved 'No Mauling' sign hung properly on the top shelf, just below a pair of shotguns which, for one with keen senses in the room, just might be able to smell the sliver and gold shells inside.

Roof Top Access
There's a few old milk cartons that look like they've seen some asses recently. A small table too with a deck of cards that's missing an 8 if anyone were to count. A string or two of old dollar store Christmas tree have been used to keep anyone that comes up here from being completely in the dark, but most of one's sight comes from the skyscrapers of civilization in the distance or the slivery moon over head.

Basement
Ol' Johnny in the back doesn't care who comes down here if they want some private time. Just as long as you keep your hands to yourself and don't mess with the taps.

There's few pools of stained blood in the corner and a set of chains hanging from the ceiling in the distance.

But boy don't ask too many questions, you might not like the answer.