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 (known simply as The Ark) is a sleek superyacht known both for its fight rings and recent...renovations, of sorts. 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
The Dark Hunter was well aware of that hint of inquisitiveness that was mirrored within the depths of the slender woman's hazel irises as he placed the manilla envelope on the solid bartop in front of him. The mesh of the syllables printed neatly upon the yellow envelope all but baffled him, the Hunter quickly finding himself in a world with peculiar names and an equally as curious interplay of supernatural politics - one that he was struggling to find his own place in. Thankfully, the woman behind the bar hardly seemed to fault him for his distinct naivety, her pronunciation flawless despite that audible southern tang. A small frown tugged at the corners of his features as Alistair repeated the word, clearly testing out those sounds within his own baritone voice. The feminine tone to her voice, combined with that smirk she provided him with caused the artist's frown to twitch upwards in an altogether weak simper. He hardly dwelled upon the Alpha's name, however, his attention instead turned towards just where he was. His inquiry of what the cargo ship was, however, was met with the declaration of the boat's name - a fact he had already discerned from the large painting on the exterior. The woman hardly seemed terribly perturbed by his sarcasm, however, her nose merely wrinkling in response before she continued, informing him of what, exactly the Ark served as.
He had, of course, vaguely heard of the looming boat within the West, though never by name and certainly not recently. In his younger years, there had been whispers of an underground fighting ring for Weres but as an attendee of a prestigious school for humans in the North, Alistair had never had any place visiting the depths of what was viewed as Western depravity. Oh, how far he had fallen since then. Her declaration of 'a good time', however, prompted a vague hint of intrigue from the Dark Hunter as his eyebrow rose ever so slightly. The gesture, although small, seemed to prompt some further explanation of just why the Ark had become such a hotspot for the Were community. The fights, inevitably, drew a great amount of notice and yet, at the end of the day, the Ark was still just a bar. How many times had Alistair himself sought such an establishment - a dark corner where he could drown his sorrows at the bottom of a bottle where those bruises he'd once routinely sported would not go asked after. His shoulders lifted in a vague shrug, "I could see that." Alistair responded simply, the man merely accepting the allure of a bar and a stiff drink - even if the establishment was rather species-biased. Alistair was, admittedly, inattentive to the woman's own observation of the very extent at which he didn't belong within the industrial vessel. Her inquiry of the contents of the envelope, however, immediately caused his attention to refocus upon the manila envelope between them.
Without hesitation, the Dark Hunter slid the envelope towards her, elaborating upon what he had gleaned of its contents when it had initially been given it. That distinctly feminine giggle upon her lips caused Alistair to pause, his mouth turning upwards ever so slightly in a vague hint of a simper. The artist was well aware of how utterly ridiculous it was for the Dark Hunter Council to care about speeding tickets. Wasn't this something that the regular police were supposed to take care of? And yet here he was, supposed to be fretting over parking fines. Thankfully, the woman seemed to take a hint of pity upon him, promising to at least deliver the envelope, all guarantees of that payment aside. "Thanks, that's good enough for me." The artist retorted as his emerald irises watched the yellow envelope slide across the bar to the side.
The last thing he anticipated, admittedly, was for that conversation to continue, and yet that thinly veiled intrigued cause his own features to wrinkle ever so slightly. A soft sigh echoed as he reached up to rub the back of his neck. "Uh...not entirely," Alistair admitted. He had, after all, spent the majority of his life within the city limits. The Northern side had become synonymous with 'home' for him, the precarious balance between the mortal and supernatural somehow hidden better behind the guise of civility than in the West. "Just new to this whole....supernatural thing, I guess." He was still uncomfortable reflecting upon his own transformation though, at the end of the day, it was all said and done now. His verdant irises fluttered towards the glasses placed upon the bar, the Hunter well aware of that silent offer and yet, he found himself hesitating all the same. Was he allowed to drink on the job? And even if he did, was he comfortable putting his senses at risk on the offhand chance his walk back to his own flat went...poorly? How much his maker had impressed within him how his very species now warranted his hunting as much as it did he would be called upon to hunt the other species. Still...maybe it wouldn't hurt to have one. "Do you have some sort of specialty drink in a place like this?" He inquired, his gaze slowly turned upwards towards her. It was unlikely he'd get a chance like this again, best take advantage of it and taste all that the Ark had to offer.