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.
Bartender Raylin Chike
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
Alistair glanced down at the manila envelope in his hand as his lips pressed together in a small frown. 'Tetradore' was the only word written upon its yellow surface - the name altogether foreign to him and yet his superior had insisted that he spend his Saturday afternoon playing messenger for the Dark Hunter Council as their newest member. His emerald eyes slowly turned upwards to eye the giant cargo ship in front of him. Azrael had told him the Ark was impossible to miss. He hadn't expected for the name of the damn ship to be brazenly painted upon the side of the dilapidated boat. Alistair hadn't thought that, when his own maker had brought him to the headquarters of the Dark Hunters, he would be signing up to play courier. After all, Adrien had all but impressed upon him the importance of his transformation into such an immortal species. He'd been informed well of their duty to protect the sanctity of life from the vileness of the supernatural. Although Alistair had gotten the feeling that his own maker had abhorred the otherworldly race more than necessary, there was no changing the fact that the artist needed the man and so, for now, he agreed to go along with...well, all of this.
It was with a soft sigh that Alistair moved up the gangplank and into that smaller side door of the cargo ship - the Dark Hunter presented with the fairly empty hull of the ship. His verdant irises scanned the converted room he found himself within - a large arena or sorts was settled in one area of the room, only for several tall bar stools and tables to congregate on the opposite side. It was the sound of glasses, however, that drew his gaze to what he could only assume was supposed to be a bar of some kind - a plethora of liquors filled the wall behind it. This was, admittedly, rather unexpected. His gaze fell upon the young blonde woman behind that bar, the girl clearly occupied with some sort of task. She was pretty, even he was willing to admit that though there was something...off about her - something that just didn't sit right with him. The Artist cleared his throat as he made his way towards the counter she stood behind, though it took him several steps before he realized just what it was about her that so set him on edge. She was supernatural. Her very existence seemed to prompt those instincts of anxiety within him, the very sorts he was still struggling to adjust to. What she was, he couldn't tell, and yet Alistair could hardly help the tenseness that filled him as he paused in front of her. Adrien had warned him that he was likely to be an unwanted presence amongst the other races. She certainly didn't look like the type that might try to kill the newly turned Hunter but...he knew well he was a poor judge of character, to begin with.
"Uh....hi? I'm supposed to give this to someone named Tet...how do you even pronounce this?" He offered her the manila envelope, the man altogether baffled on how those letters could even make up a real name. Really, the first names that parents were giving children these days. Azrael certainly another one that had prompted his eyebrows to raise. That name, however, wasn't the only thing he found himself questioning as his gaze shifted back to the arena behind him. "What exactly is this place?" He inquired, hardly attentive to the simple fact that the Dark Hunter hadn't bothered with those pleasantries and how-do-you-dos'. After all, as soon as he could get those tasks for the Council done, he could spend his weekend on the things that actually interested him - particularly, those jars of paint within his loft that had gone untouched for far, far too long.