The western part of the city is often home to the poorer residents. Here there is a grunginess 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, and often let the powerful supernatural beings sort things out amongst themselves. Be careful wandering the Western streets after the sun falls.
What You'll Find Here
Cull & Pistol
Just like any city - Sacrosanct is not without it's deep, dark underbelly. Hidden in the graffiti-ridden streets of the West, behind closed warehouse doors, lies the Black Market. Forever moving, it's nearly impossible to find without knowing someone who knows someone. Anything you desire can be brought for a hefty price within the Black Market - be it drugs, weapons, or lives.
What You'll Find Here
Edge of the Circle
Cull & Pistol
Hidden within the dark alleyways of the Western Ward, Cull & Pistol is a dim, often smoky bar. With a small variety of bottled and craft beers, Cull & Pistol is a quaint little neighborhood joint. With its no-frills moto, the dingy bar offers little more than liquor, music from an old jukebox, and a few frequently occupied pool tables.
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.
Note: This is a Were only establishment. All other species will be swiftly escorted out.
Within the turbulent industrial district lies this club. The warehouse doesn't look like much on the outside but it provides a memorable experience from the state of the art lighting, offbeat Victorian-inspired artwork, comfortable black leather lounges, and the infamous 'black light' room. There is a wide variety of alcohol that lines the shelves of both of the magical and ordinary variety. It is a common stomping ground for the supernatural who want to let loose and dance the night away to the music that floods the establishment. Humans are most welcome if they dare.
That toothy grin Darcy afforded that table at large was hardly returned. Those mutters of disdain fall from the lips of those three other man as they begun to push their chairs away from the table. Their pockets were significantly lighter now, their ego's thoroughly crushed and that desire for revenge burning hot enough in their veins that in a week or so they could easily be coaxed back to his table to play his game again in some foolish hope they might prevail. Texas Hold'Em Poker had been that game of choice tonight- and just like tonight, they would lose all over again. The vampire lent easily back within his chair then, one long leg folding over the other, his boots coming to rest on the table top as he reached for that nearly obscene stack of money he'd earned in the space of a few hours. His fingers moved deftly, counting those bills with practiced ease. He'd always liked numbers. Numbers made sense. Numbers were easy. It hardly took an affinity or supernatural talent to win at those card games for which he was named. It merely took an eye for numbers. An understanding of patterns and a sharp enough mind to put them together. Darcy having become very near unbeatable at those games. So much so he had become one of Syn's star attractions- so provided you had the money for that buy in. Darcy hardly bothering with those games unless they were worth his time. Yet that was the veritable beauty of it. There was always some poor fool willing to lose his money, to take on that legendary gambling vampire, the once-famed Ghost of Gettysburg who'd moved from camp to camp and soldier to soldier in depths of the civil war, playing them for every dollar they had- before betting them their very lives. How he missed the war.
Half of that money was laid to one side of the table- Risque's cut for the evening. The rest folded and tucked neatly into the inside pocket of his leather jacket for himself. Risque paid him well. Better than any other and yet the extra cash he made every other night only furthered his already substantial funds. Hmm. If only his parents could have seen him now. Fucking fools the both of them. Rotting away on that ranch. Working hours and hours and hours a day for barely two dollars to rub together. Not that they had ever spent money even when they had it. At least not on him. High school was to much. Couldn't afford it they said. Needed him home on that ranch. Cheaper than hiring another man he was. That irritable snort left him then. The vampire reaching for what remained of his whiskey. He was still fucking mad about it all. Even after all these years. He was their only son and he hadn't been good enough to send to school? It was almost as if they'd wanted him to grow up stupid. Like them. He'd gone on to see the world with Risque. They' gone on to rot in a hole on that same fucking ranch they'd never left. The very thought prompting the vaguest of simpers to his lips before the sound of his name shouting above the music of that club and the crowd below saw that look quickly fade. Cobain.
Darcy drained what remained of that drink. The glass was returned to the table before he angled his head back, his mismatched gaze meeting that of the vampire boy whom waited at the bottom of the stairs that led to the platform Darcy's less private card tables lingered on. Cobain knowing well enough that he was not permitted up those stairs. That whelp at least having the sense to stand at the bottom of them like some sad little puppy waiting for his Master to throw him a treat. Why Risque even kept the little fool remained to be seen. That Maker/Progeny bond one he had failed to experience since Beau's death well over a century ago now. How privileged Cobain was to be her progeny and yet how he seemed to scorn the idea in nearly the same fashion Tetradore rebelled agianst it. How blessed they were to hold but even a tendril of Risque's affection and how it irritated him. Cobain was so....unworthy of it. Would Risque feel it if he ended the boy? She probably would. The very notion he might cause his lover pain in that fashion was....displeasing to him. Still, would a little pain not be worth the ultimate reward of being rid of Cobain? She would forgive him, in time.
"'Risque 'as a job for da two of us ta 'tend to.' Piss off, Cobain."
He merely mimics the boys words back at him, putting on a high-pitched, near squeaky voice in what he was mostly assured Cobain sounded like. The boys vampire ears more than capable of hearing him over that crowd. They were busy tonight and yet with the recent...temporary closure of Haunt, most of their business had shifted to Syn in turn. It was unlike Risque to partner him with Cobain for any task. Darcy inclined to suspect whatever this was.....was far more likely a task for Cobain that she hardly trusted the boy to carry out. His supervision so apparently required. Either that- or she wanted Cobain to learn some kind of lesson Darcy was entirely inclined to teach. The younger vampires near goading words were all but ignored. Darcy making little move to rise from his chair as he merely continued to eye the other man almost lazily.
"Maybe if yar did a lil more ass kissin' yar'd be da one sittin up 'ere and not standin' down dare with da rabble."
The vaguest hint of a simper so managed to dance upon his lips once more. Darcy inclined to merely sit for the sake of it. To make Cobain wait because he could. Those seconds dragging into minutes before Darcy at last eased himself upward from his seat, his boots falling back onto the ground with a thud. It would displease his Darling Risque if he did not watch over the little wretch. Darcy strolled down from that platform and down those stairs at last before coming to stand beside Cobain. Those mismatched eyes cutting abruptly sideways. That near ominous southern drawl leaving his lips then.
"Dun annoy me tonight. I ain't got time for yar shit. What's dis job she wants doin'?"