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
Hair like brandished gold, beside him sits his sister with those same brandished gold locks. But where his eyes are earthen and dark, hers are blue and bright. They sit on a hillside and watch the sun come up. "Will you leave home, brother?" She had asked him. "I think so, I would like to explore the world, it's bigger than they say, you know?" He says. "Will you fall in love one day, brother?" She asks, peering up at him from those layers and layers of golden hair. "No," he says confidently. "Women are far too much work."
Indeed, he was coming to find, they were.
Why he would go such great lengths to insure that no one would hurt Iliana is uncharacteristic of Marcelo for those who have known him the last few centuries, but to his family, perhaps, they would find the behavior nothing more than typical. Marcelo protected those he cared about, it just so happened that in his life lately, there weren't all that many that he actually seemed to care for. Why care when they will only slip away from him? Buried beneath time and soil as he lives on. He didn't need that, he didn't need them. But something tells him that he needs Iliana.
So he stands inside the vampire club, looking for the one in charge like a hungry jackal who had the taste of blood upon his lips.
He peers around with dark eyes, watching and waiting for him to come, there had been faint traces of his scent left upon Iliana's skin, but so far, his nose was unable to pick it up. Oh he couldn't wait for it though. He was practically salivating at the thought of launching himself onto the vampire with jaws opening wide and ripping apart his head as he would devour him to make sure that he never came back and never rested another hand upon the moonlight girl that Marcelo has taken under his care and protection.
She finds him.
They always do.
Women, so predictable.
Any other time, literally ANY other time, Marcelo would have shown some sort of excitement upon seeing Risque, that sexy body was just begging to be hit on by a young (I use the term lightly) male like himself. But, this was not any other time, this was an entirely different moment all together. He does not flinch, does not grin, does not laugh, there is just the subtle twitch of his nose as those heightened were senses reach out to assess her as he spins around to her words.
There is a tiger near him, feline. Marcelo wants to desperately shift, but instinct tell him, for now, it would be safer to remain in his human form. "More like a watchdog," he says, brown eyes narrowing towards her. "I wanted you to notice," he argues back. What was she talking about? "Well, maybe not so much you exactly," he says with another twitch of his nose, confirming he cannot trace the scent of the vampire back to her.
He remains sitting, a vulnerable position, but Marcelo, for the time being, believes she will not attack him just yet. Call it canine to expose your belly to the predator with promise to walk safely. The same could not be said when he would find the vampire he was so desperate to hunt. "I am looking for a vampire, I know they congregate here," he says in an almost accusatory tone. "He's the one who has decided to take an interest in my fae," he says, emphasizing 'my,' because as far as he was concerned, Iliana was as free as a summer breeze, as ocean waves, but he would watch that freedom and make sure it stayed just so. "If he is your vampire you best keep him away otherwise I will return only his head to you, bagged and bloodied," he speaks with a feral growl rising in his throat. Marcelo not one to be around the bush in these situations it would seem. "Is he here? Do you know who I speak of?" He asks, that old way of speaking finding its way to his tongue. "Tell me where he is." He ought not to command her, but he does all the same.
It wont be his funeral.
But that doesn't mean it isn't a death sentence all the same.