Sacrosanct contains four distinct neighborhoods, each with their own specific kind of houses and residents. Explore our districts, view lists of our citizens and enjoy our block parties!
Situated above the daily life of the city, Anacosta Heights is a tucked away suburb featuring extravagant neo-gothic inspired mansions. The inhabitants of this neighborhood often show their overwhelming wealth with sports cars lining their long, circular driveways, large pools, and manicured gardens. The homeowners of Anacosta Heights treasure their privacy as seen by the high iron gates to the security personnel present at every entrance.
Dupont Circle is a small suburban neighborhood settled within the serene portion of the southern portion of town. These four-bedroom, single-family homes feature back yards, porches, garages, and far more breathing space then the Village offers. This neighborhood often is more family orientated and even has organized events for children and the neighborhood as a whole.
Settled in the middle of downtown, Hawthorn Village consists of several victorian inspired row houses just off the main street. Due to it's convenience to just about everything, the village can be a tad expensive to live within. However, the residents of this neighborhood often have two to three-story townhouses, often with a one to two-car garage. Many of the houses feature bay windows and/or rooftop terraces with a small fenced-in 'yard'.
River Dale primarily consists of apartments that, despite their age and industrial appearing interior, still hold to the Victorian history that permeates the town. These apartments are often the cheapest option and sport scuffed, older wooden floors, open floor plans, visible beams, and the occasional brick wall.
It's tough to be a god
He had seen that raven-haired woman within his visions. Over and over again. Dancing in and out of those shadowy tendrils and thickened black darkness that he had long since learned had come to represent those of a vampiric nature on most occasions. Yet, even despite the clarity of his visions, the woman whom all but stumbled through that door to meet his gaze with some mix of disdain and agitation and hunger and relief was...a shadow herself of the woman he had left behind the last time. Gone was that determined, defiant edge, that brazen resilience and that bold assurance that she would neither bend nor break nor chip beneath that onslaught of Risque and everything within that vile place. Harley instead appearing exhausted, worn, battered- and clinging near desperately to those pieces of herself that had surely been chipped away at. To expose someone to that sort of violence, to leave them starved and alone with nothing but their thoughts in the wake of it, was a different kind of torture. One Darcy excelled at. The very kind that wore away at a mind and so began to snap those tendrils of hope one at a time. Hunger, in turn, so only added a different sort of potency to those thoughts. A desperation of sorts One that Frenchman had seen at work so, so many times upon so many whom had fallen beneath Darcy's thumb. How it....pained him to see Harley now. A mere fragment of what she had been before and yet- that fight existed still. Broken and battered though it was. Her words still laced with that shame sharpness, that same will and too that delicate, fragmented hope. Hope, after all, was surely all that left her clingy to those broken pieces of herself. Matteo wholly determined in that moment to do as he had done for some twenty years with his own son and hold those pieces together for her, at least until she was ready to hold them again for herself. Sometimes another so merely needed a little assistance, a little protection an that knowledge that someone, somewhere, would surely fight in their corner.
That bluntly uttered 'what the fuck' was all but ignored by the near ancient Fae as he continued to lean upon that kitchen bench, the spoon within his hand turned smoothly through that soup. Matteo casting a watchful eye over that meal before his attention returned in full to harley herself. The woman seeming to waver upon whether or not she desired to sit down, lie down or fall down. His own features remained near neutral. Matteo so refusing to allow but even a glimpse of that pain at her appearance to decorate his own facade. Harley did not need pity. Not from him. The Frenchman far more determined to lend her his strength when she so needed it most. His features so betraying nothing but his own determination and too that warm simper for her he so eternally seemed capable finding. Aiden had been young, painfully young, when so much had occurred to him. In some ways it was far easier to embrace a child. A child merely desired to cry- and how Aiden had cried- wrapped within Matteo's arms night after night. The Were-Boy having needed that security, that saftey, for Matteo to physically hold him together when he could not do it himself. Harley- was no child. The near ancient Fae prepared for a different sort of battle tonight in his efforts to restore her own tenacity. A battle he would not allow Darcy to win. Her words so prompting that soft sound of amusement to his own lips as his head simply shook.
"You do not have to deal with, how you say, 'me-ness' tonight. Tonight, Mon Cherie, I am not here to tease you. I am here to make you dinner because you are hungry and because the world is far less terrible when one is not hungry."
It was, for once, a distinctly direct answer from the Fae. The man mildly amused by her efforts to describe him all the same. A task a great deal seemed to struggle with even if he himself perhaps did not understand why. Had Dorian not once said much the same? That he was difficult to describe? Matteo's own head shook lightly once more, the aged-Fae peering into the pot again before gesturing toward that coffee and cake that rested upon the table. Harley seemed to waver once more, as if unable to decide what she desired and yet Matteo so hardly pressed any further. Those choices, after all, had been returned to her and for now, exercising her own choices, no matter how small, was a subtle return to her confidence all the same. The Frenchman instead was perhaps far more inclined to prepare for that argument of sorts he had anticipated well without any need to peer into the future. It was the same argument he had held with Alex, Dorian and Aiden over the years when it came to which parts of those future he shared and which he did not. Harley's near biting words spilling for that fight as she asked whether or not he had enjoyed that show. His own words remaining distinctly level and wholly calm as he turned to face her once more.
"No and yes."
It was, perhaps, something of an unanticipated answer and yet what was he if not unanticipated? Matteo so regarding that violet-eyed beauty before him again, her blood-stained clothing and tattered jacket paling in comparison to the damage he knew had been wrought within her. His very accented words then so giving away just as he knew she had suspected. That he had seen, and known, just what her night would entail before it had occurred.
"You shocked them both, Tybalt and Darcy, when you stood up for yourself in Tybalt's office and refused to become a bar dancer. I enjoyed that look on Tybalt's face."
That flicker of amusement danced loosely across his lips as Harley so at last seemed to decide that sitting down was, perhaps, a good idea. The young woman meandered across that room. Matteo content to watch her each and every step with readiness just in case she should fall before that hat was hung upon the back of the chair, that curious box was placed to the side and Harley herself all but collapsed into it. How very angry she was. At the world. At herself. At Darcy. At him. Matteo, in that moment, content to present himself as just that target for each and every one of those volatile emotions he knew bubbled beneath the surface like the lava of a volcano so waiting to explode. After all, to lash out at him was far better then for her to lash out at those she cared for within her life, better then lashing out too at Darcy or Risque whom would deliver her only more or that treatment. The Frenchman wholly determined to be whatever she might veritably need tonight- even if she was so unlikely to see it. Harley insisting she would glare at him from her newfound seat, his own eyes rolling loosely.
"Very well, if it suits you to do as such."
That dinner was, in the least, very near ready. It was hardly his best work, he had been given truly little time to prepare such a thing to its full grandeur and yet that dish possessed within it everything Harley so sorely needed while remaining gentle upon her stomach all at once. Her efforts to nibble at that cake likely enough to spur that desire for more food. A good meal likely to improve her mood in turn and kick-start that healing she so desperately needed. Along with a shower. Dried blood was a decidedly....seventeenth century look. Matteo making no comment on it now as he reached for the nearest bowl, the Frenchman beginning to spoon out that beef soup so laden with that thick broth and sauce and vegetables simmered to their fullest flavour and yet he had withheld that red wine he might have otherwise added to that dish tonight. Such richness unlikely to appeal to the young woman's stomach here and now. The first notes of Harley's true irritation towards him becoming apparent then. Hmm. A few bites of cake, it seemed, was all she needed to find that sharp tongue again. In the very least she seemed set to recover. Her words prompting that frown to his lips all the same before he turned to face her.
"I am here, Harley, because I promised to help you. Here. Do not eat it too quickly."
Matteo moved smoothly across that kitchen then, placing that bowl down before her along with that spoon. His own affinity so briefly extended once more, a several slices of fresh, thick cut buttered bread appearing within his hand before being placed neatly at the side of that very dish. Matteo nothing if not determined to insist upon presentation no manner who he was feeding. The Frenchman reached easily for his own piece of cake, Matteo disappearing abruptly only to reappear at the other end of that small table within his own seat. It would be decidedly obscure, after all, for him to merely watch Harley eat. The Fae determined to prompt at least some conversation from her, no manner her outrage, the edition of food, he had found, so often seeming to encourage those words. His silver eyes shifted to her own then, that veritable 'spark' of fire within that woman he had come to enjoy needed a little...fuel he was sure. How much remained to be seen. Matteo determined to return that energy to his companion one way or another.
"As for my pretending to give a shit, as you call it, I am not quite done just yet. Nor am I very good pretender but that is another matter. You can shout at me all you like or you can say nothing at all. You can glare at me, you can cry, you can eat or you can sleep, you can talk or you can laugh. Mon Cherie, you can do anything you please- and I am going to sit with you while you do. I am going to sit with you until you tell me what happened even if I have already seen it."
Wounds on the inside, after all, so tended to become....infected far more potently then those outside. He had seen corruption. He had seen it fester and rot. Those thoughts, the very same that turned within Harleys mind were the very sort of corruption likely to infect that damage done within. Her mind would give out far faster then her body did. Unleashing those words, those emotions, or whatever else Darcy might have summoned into play was akin to exposing a wound to the air. It would help her, in the end, even if she did not care to see it now. Those words, those thoughts, those emotions so often seeming far less dangerous when shared between two.
"You survived, Mon Cherie. That is more then so many before you have done. These things that you feel now is what he, Darcy, wants you to feel. I know it is hard, I know, but you cannot let him win."