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
Earthen eyes never move from her own. Marcelo trusted his feet, his body, he knew the steps as easily as he breathed. He has been dancing since he was small. From a tiny baby, his mother held him in her arms and danced around their modest, village home. Marcelo went from being in her arms, to moving on unsteady legs as she held her hands in her own. As Marcelo grew and his sister was born. When she took those first wobbly steps he held her hands and danced around the room with her. Marcelo has quite literally been dancing since before he can remember. Music, dancing, laughing, loving, it was entirely engrained within him. And you know what they say about old men, they do not so easily change their ways.
He pulls her close then for a single moment, a final moment before he lets her drift away from him, content to believe this will be the end of their meeting and any future meetings unlikely in a city as big as Sacrosanct and Marcelo's desire to explore the entirety of it. It was so rare that he repeated a bar or club. Still, if he had a dance partner like that, he could, perhaps make an exception. "He is quite lucky," he says and his grin grows sleazy as his focus is then entirely controlled by Lola.
The meeting with Lola is short lived. He quickly follows after the shady figures attempting to make a quick exit from the club. Hunters. Why were they all such party poopers. If you hate it so much, then don't go, it was simple. Still, Marcelo already accomplished his goal of dancing, perhaps he could go for a little bar brawl to celebrate. It couldn't hurt. (Well, it could absolutely hurt, but at least he wouldn't die, right?)
If he were not so busy trying to fend off his own hunter, Marcelo would have been entirely all to impressed by Nadya's ability. She could really clean up. Who was this girl? He lets the hunter slump to the floor. The jackal ignores her words of protest and reaches to the knife on his chest and with a strong yank, pulls it out with ease. He lets it fall from his grip and it clatters the ground. His hand reaches up to his shirt as if he would simply be able to brush it off, but only succeeds in coating his hand in blood. To which he quickly wipes on pants as if it were no more than water and not his own blood.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says with a smirk as his hands gently take her own and move her away from his chest she so desperately tried to stop from bleeding. His heart gives out and there is no beat, he is, for all purposes, dead. "We only shared one dance, you cant be attached already," he says, wolfish, arrogant grin that has caused many women to smack him. It is with his smile that the blood stops flowing, just before his heart starts beating once again. Immortality at its finest.
He gives a lazy shrug of his handsome shoulders, blinking his dark eyes. "I got jealous, looked like they were trying to dance with you," he says in that drawl of his voice, young and masculine. "Before I tell you, you need to calm down," he says, and it sounds so much like a command, but Marcelo has always been so devastatingly charming it becomes difficult to discern exactly what he means, whether demand or simply a suggestion. "Wanna know the secret?" He says looking at her with a boyish smile. It was so rare he got to share his juiciest (second juiciest) secret of all time. "I can never die." He whispers before eyes widening. "Isnt that great? It means you will get to look at this handsome face forever!"