The east side of the city is the very heart of Sacrosanct - it's unique skyline is a clash between modern sky rises and small Victorian-inspired storefronts. In the heart of downtown, the sleek colored glass buildings reign supreme though their old-world roots can be seen in the most peculiar places from the lamp post styled electric street light to the stone sidewalks. The old world architecture slowly returns the further from downtown you travel, however. It's here that magic thrives, it hums in every stone and can be felt in every breath. Often, newcomers to the city may become overwhelmed by such sensations but, eventually, it becomes an ever-present feeling that's hardly noticed.
City Creek Center
Dark Hunter Department
Red on the Water
The City Creek Center is an upscale open-air shopping center centered in the heart of downtown Sacrosanct. With its numerous fountains, foliage-lined walkways, and bubbling streams, City Creek Center offers three blocks of chic boutiques, delicious dining, and the newest showrooms.
The City of Sacrosanct's Dark Hunter Department's primary concern is the safety of all of Sacrosanct's residences. Their public safety responsibilities include code enforcement and supernatural crime prevention. The Sacrosanct Dark Hunter's Department follows the directions of the International Dark Hunter Council and serves as a local point of contact for any Dark Hunters working within the Council's ranks.
The Inner Sanctum is an independently's owned specialty coffee company and cafe with a singular focus: quality. A hidden gem on the side streets of the busy downtown, the Inner Sanctum source's the world's finest beans and local treats. From it's delectable pastries to the exquisite latte art, the Inner Sanctum is dedicated to both its craft and the customer's experience. With beans roasted in house and every cup prepared by the best baristas, you will never be disappointed at the Inner Sanctum.
Owner Alexander Macedonia
Nestled in a pleasant alcove that is but a stone's throw away from the dazzling labyrinth of downtown, Red on the Water is a spectacle in its own right. Renovated in the style of a classic Irish pub with a dash of modern flair befitting the city that boasts it, this up-and-coming venue is the perfect place to snag an impeccably prepared home-cooked meal and enjoy the city's most impressive collection of brews from Ireland and beyond. You and your guests are sure to be mesmerized and invigorated by the energetic offerings of the live Celtic band to be found here every weekend.
Home of: Elysium
Owner Isolt Griffin
With one hundred floors and a 125-foot spire, the Starlight Tower rises high above the Sacrosanct skyline. More than just a landmark, the Starlight Tower offers a unique mix of restaurants, shops, and offices spaced throughout the building. Organized into nine verticle zones, each of which features a sky lobby and a light-filled garden atrium which merge the upscale interior with a faux landscaped exterior setting.
The smell of the freshly-extinguished flames is assaulting, putrid as it curls into her nostrils to lick at the delicate flesh at the back of her throat. Though barely does Anastasia note the taste of it upon her tongue, more so is her attention monopolized by the pinch of a fistful of needles as the hairs upon her neck pull themselves to attention and the sound of the grumbling voice at her back that bids them to do so. Long ago had Anastasia conditioned herself not to allow her eyes' aversion to life's darkened corners to hinder her or send her careening down the short, steep avenue to fear as it very well might have done. There is much more than sight, moya Anya, you need only to focus. The words of her father echo from the boundless depths of recollection, the seemingly simplistic mantra one that she had clung to with almost desperate dedication throughout the decades.
"Candles are to be lit for the souls of the dead, Grigori," she purrs in a manner so outwardly unperturbed, the smooth blade of the dagger sliding from its holster within her sleeve and into her waiting fingers, "and, despite your best efforts, I am still very much alive." Such a small sentiment to encompass a tenebrific history that spanned beyond the sprawling breadth of a century, the man at her back having afforded the later portion of his mortal life to first infiltrating and then systematically dismantling the glorious and historic dynasty that was the Romanov Empire. Such a manipulative parasite was he that her parents had placed near-absolute faith and privilege into his gnarled, blasphemous hands. They had peeled back the proverbial iron curtain of secrecy and had allowed this vermin into nearly every aspect of both their political and private lives. They, her dear ones, had trusted him without fault... all with the exception of Anastasia. She had not been blind to the inherent darkness that seemed to bleed from every last pore of this supposed holy man.
The tenor of her uncle's voice rises as if from the ether beyond, he draws nigh to them with every passing moment- she can hear the muffled thud of his rubber-soled footfalls against the marble tiles of the cathedral, though she makes neither shift nor sound to acknowledge his approach. Rather does she afford him silent gratitude for the distraction he proffers up for the self-proclaimed mystic who casts the domineering length of his shadow over her. "WE are in the midst of a conversation. A reunion of sorts, good sir, and I daresay your interruption is quite unwelcome." It is only this that she needs, this single, small moment of modest distraction as he goads her uncle. She strikes quickly and with a precision that is so very glorious that it might have appeared effortless, an homeage to the years of training, years of conditioning that she had undergone beneath Alexander's vigilant and watchful eye.
The sweeping arc of her dagger is decided, sincere in the connection that it makes as it drags against Rasputin's leathery skin with the ease of a knife through softened butter. Though Anastasia cannot see the wreckage that she has made, she knows that her mark has been met for she can feel the soft, immediate give of her opponent's eye beneath the pressure of her blade, the tepid spray of his lifeblood unto her wielding hand. A great, bellowing roar erupts form Rasputin as he retreats a number of paces, one claw-like hand pawing at the damage wrought upon his face. A more leveled playing field. The notion hovers at the forefront of the Duchess' mind as she slides nearer to the spot where she had last heard her uncle, a single, seeking hand stretching forth into the obscure darkness.
Grand Duchess of Imperial Russia