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
He hates her smile he finds, wants to rip it off her face like he rips apart prey. Dark eyes narrow in her direction. That smile, Marcelo will come to learn, will haunt his thoughts as he tries to cover it up, to keep the other pack members from seeing how she terrorizes him from the inside out.
The boy with locks of brandished gold has faced many monsters in his long life. He has escaped vampire sucking him dry, had survived the attack by a were, has survived how many dark hunters now as they try to destroy him. But none, none of them has he felt such rage towards, such fire such hatred, as he does with this woman and her sickening grin. It burns him so that he feels like fire long after he teleports away, not from the pain, but he thinks he is smoldering from the inside out.
Her smile saves him, the boy with brandished gold hair. It is only Iliana's smile that appears to him and it is like a cooling mist, soft and soothing, the only thing that can quell a fire of wicked flames and choking smoke. It is her and her alone that can bring Marcelo to salvation. If he wasn't so intrigued by the fae girl, he would like awake wondering why someone like her held such power over him, but as it is, Marcelo can do nothing but surrender.
There is worry etched secretly in the lines of her face, and Marcelo finds himself hating it more than the smile he had just witnessed. He doesn't want her to worry, doesn't want her to hurt. He doesn't want to smile, but it finds him anyway, anything, anything to balance the look that ghosting her face like a phantom. "I'm okay," he immediately reassures her. His fingers come to point at the smile on his face. "See?" He says, grinning wider. "I couldn't possibly be truly hurt if I can smile, right?" He says to her, those dark eyes locked on her face. He didn't want her to feel like this, not Iliana. This was all that vampire's fault. Both of them. Marcelo would like to their heads separated from their bodies. There is a brief moment that he hopes, wishes they would find him, only so he could tear them apart.
But one look at Iliana, the thought is gone.
He would not endanger her.
Anywhere, they can go anywhere. His rogue eyes search her face for a hint of where she would like to go. He waits with anticipation as she sits there and ponders until finally it seems as if an idea has come to her: Ireland. His face splits into a genuine smile at the idea. '"Ireland," he repeats excitedly. "We can do Ireland," he says. "Okay," he sets it up. "We are going to go right now, you ready?" He asks her with excitement. "You have to hang onto my hands and you cant let go." His instructions. Marcelo had spent some time in Ireland, met some weres, all of them either long go or too old to recognize his youth. Marcelo takes her hands in his as he concentrates on an object that was long forgotten by most, but the jackal had a terrible habit of leaving things every where for people to find. He concentrates, and a pocket watch springs to mind and not a moment after, the pair are hurtling in teleportation and landing with a quiet thud in the middle of a potato field. Marcelo lets go of Iliana's hands and spreads them wide, at the less than ideal sight surround them.
"Welcome to Ireland."