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.
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.
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.
Home of: Nightshade
Owner Aiden Tetradore
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.
Owner Risque Voth
Marcelo is a genius in different ways. As it were, Marcelo remains geniuslike because he believes himself to be such, and perhaps he really is a genius, after all, but with him, what lies between fact and fiction is a blurred line. And as he looks to others he so believes himself to be better than them. Even if it may not be true. He is the birthplace of pride, the black whole through which all light--light here being a clever metaphor for compassion and tact--vanishes, and is crushed. He is a creature that exists outside the bounds of societal norms because there is something so innately charming and carefree about Marcelo, something that states to reprimand him would simply be a waste of time and fall upon deaf ears.
And Marcelo would just smile, in that almost cruel way that promises nothing in the means of friendship or companionship. Cruel in that his eyes gleam with a strange mania, the way his lips curve just so, a perfect, practiced smile with all the charm of a snake weaving to and fro in front of a mesmerized mouse. He weaves his web of lies with precision that makes his fingers ache, sews every stitch exactly in place. There was no denying Marcelo was pleasant to be around, the wild party animal with friends in the right places to fulfill any crazy adventure. It was only the morning after when they realized. No one will find love or compassion (perhaps only his fairy friend) in Marcelo's heart, only contempt. 500 years will do that to you. The bronzed haired boy was no exception.
Summer was certainly Marcelo's favorite season, there was no denying. Warm summer nights, tanning, sun dresses, and partying, lots of partying. He keeps grinningâ€"foxlike, surrounded by the tense potential to be dangerous but, for the most part, a kind, if not self-righteous, longing creature that just wants something to fill the empty hole immortality has given him. Marcelo has never been able to decide whether or not if he is evil. Wicked, surely, mean-spirited, perhaps, but he is not evil. Marcelo would never hurt another, unless they posed a threat to one Marcelo found those sneaking protective instincts for, or perhaps if his future Alpha ever ordered him to. (Oh, Frost, perhaps the one person who may be able to yet rein that jackal in.) But he is wily, and snakelike as much as he is foxlike. The woman he has his sights on rolls her eyes, which he has to admit, he expected. It was a fairly typical female reaction when his presence was noted. He pierces his lips together to suppress another one of those wild grins, the dirty blonde not giving her another reason to roll those dark eyes towards the back of her head.
To be fair, the brandished golden haired boy was used to such reactions from the more feminine gender. But, what mattered in the end, despite the sable haired woman's roll of her own earthen eyes, the sable haired woman decided to join him anyways. Her hand extends towards his own and he takes it within his grasp. "Im honored," he says with a wink and a grin poking through once more. He hears the chorus of giggles going on behind her and catches the eye of a fae. "I'm coming back for you," he says before continuing to pull Nadya towards the floor.
She makes a pit stop at the DJ, before continuing to follow the brandished golden haired were onto the dance floor. It is when Marcelo hears that sound, a distinct tango beat. Now, the Spanish blood within the boy bubbles to the surface. Marcelo was more familiar with the flamenco, as was always popular whenever he would visit his birthplace, but his time spent in South America had taught him the tango, maybe less his time in South America and more the women he met. That distinctly young, charming face was just so hard to say no to.
He knows the pattern, her body slides close to his and he watches her as a smirk finds her own features. The boy with those dirty golden locks takes her hands within his own. "Oh I am so eager to learn," he says with a wink. A mischievous smile finding his lips. It really had been far too long since he had engaged in such steps with a good dance partner to boot.
So easily Marcelo falls into the pattern of movements, and while the male was supposed to lead, there was a certain communication he could find with an experienced woman as a dance partner. Suddenly he spins her, before letting her fall back into his arms with a dip. "I'm Marcelo," he says before raising her back up and spin out of his arms at the conclusion of the song. Still, the boy with hair of brandished gold holds onto her hand, allowing his lips to gently brush against them for a fleeting moment. "It was certainly my pleasure, I am sure, to have danced with you tonight. Thank you," he says with a grin before dropping her hand and moving back. Careful Marcelo, your age is showing.