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    The West

    The western part of the city is often home to the poorer residents. Here there is a certain grunge that permeates the town from the graffiti on the once cleaned brick buildings to the broken and unmaintained architecture. Crime runs high within the western half of town, making it the home of supernatural gangs of illicit activities. Such activities are rarely reported however, and most residents are distrustful of individual's of authorities, instead letting the powerful supernatural beings sort things out amongst themselves. Be careful wandering the Western streets after the sun falls.

    What's You'll Find Here

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    Noah's Ark

    owned by Aiden Tetradore
    1 employees

    Noah's Ark

    Resting upon the harbor, Noah's Ark appears to be little more than an abandoned cargo ship. Accessible from an entrance hidden in the shadows, The Ark is a veritable Were-playground that specializes in fighting tournaments for all creatures great and small. With both singles and doubles tournaments to compete in, the title of Ark Champion is hotly contested amongst the Were population. If anything illegal is going on in the city it's sure to be happening within the back rooms or behind the ring-side bar.

    Owner Aiden Tetradore

    Co-owner Tobias Cain

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    Warehouse District

    Warehouse District

    The warehouse district rests just upon the harbor within the city. Many of the warehouses belong to corporate companies although some are used for less the legal means. Be careful when wandering this district at night for many groups meet within those dark, dilapidated buildings. There are also whispers of hard to obtain goods being sold behind those closed doors but you have to know who's who to get an in!

I know we're the crooked kind; On April 13, 2017 at 9:25 PM by kearn.

it's a shallow little world

He’s a harbor rat and this is his warren, knotted blocks of shipping containers and bars that stayed loud until it was pushing dawn, air that smelled of salt and fish and industry. He was only a human and yet he knew these narrow streets well enough to move like a shadow - well enough to not be afraid.

Now if only he could say the same for her.

Oh, sure, Florentine was a quick study and had no trouble picking up his tricks, but half the time he couldn’t get her to listen. And now she was keeping him waiting, long after the last shipments of the night had come in and the workers had stumbled to the bars, and even those weren’t far from closing. He shouldn’t have let her go alone, even if it was an easy job. She was only eleven, for god sakes; never mind that he’d started before that age, too.

Impatience (not worry; he is not so sentimental for that, even for Flora) kept him pacing, down between the pools of weak street lamp light where the tide was a distant murmur. His hands are folded behind his back, his head bent low and his cheekbones sharp enough to cut in the dimness, and that’s when the noise comes.

Maybe not a noise, so much as a feeling; there’s no echo off the tin of the warehouse walls, no pause in the jangling music from the nearest bar. But something has made him freeze, something has drawn his hands to his pockets where his fingers brush the smooth wood grip of his pistol. He does not draw it, but Kearn is wary as he inhales a breath and smells something like gunpowder, something like petrichor.

Something unnatural.

Head cocked like an animal he searches in the new stillness, and his gaze is drawn to a shadow moving against the stone wall of an abandoned warehouse.

Kearn, who believes no senses but his own, still has to shake his head and look again before he believes that what he is seeing is a naked girl. A woman, rather, and though sense says he should sink like a rat back into the network of alleys and shadows, before the scent of a thunderclap fades he’s crossing to her, transferring his gun from his coat pocket to his pants.

Before he thinks better of it he’s at her side and slinging off his coat as neatly as a magician’s trick; he keeps his gaze on her face as he puts it around her shoulders like a cape. It isn’t modesty that keeps his eyes from straying - he’d like another look at that curious scar - but whatever she is, she isn’t human, and that made her automatically dangerous.

He has to lean in to catch her words and a muscle ticks in his jaw before he answers, “If you are I’d be obliged if you could conjure us a castle.”

There is no dreaming in this part of Sacrosanct.

His voice is low when he speaks again, loud enough for her to hear and quiet enough that no one else could. “Who are you with?”

Not even human harbor rats walked alone in this part of town.


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