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
It was a distinctly quiet Saturday in the Western ward, the prevalence of a virus striking the city's populace with enough fear that a majority of the populace remained indoors in some vague effort to escape that impending illness. Alistair's fingers curled around his hot mug of tea, the Dark Hunter merely sipping on its contents as he stared out the large windows that lined the living room of his industrial flat. He could see the crashing of the waves upon the harbor, the Hunter fortunate enough to acquire one of those rare apartments close to the seashore. Accompanied by the dark clouds that hung overhead with the promise of rain, the scene was near...perfect for sketching. A small frown tugged at his features in consideration, the Hunter desiring a far better view then his flat offered even if the beach was 'forbidden'. Still, as a Hunter apart of the Council, he had been given an exception to any recommendations of quarantine. After all, were they not the police of the supernatural? It might have been a slight abuse of his 'power' and yet...after all the working he'd done of late...surely the council could forgive this.
Alistair hardly bothered to further contemplate the consequences of his actions - his mind made up as quickly as he had considered his desire to get out. His cup was placed on his countertop. He reached for the trench coat hanging over his barstool, the Hunter pulling the woolen material over his shoulders. Although it was spring, the hiding of the sun and the inevitable rain had left a nip within the cold spring air, one that demanded a jacket of some sort. He grabbed the paperwork the council gave him, in the unexpected event that a policeman happed to intervene on the Artist's act of rebellion. He tucked the page into his sketchbook, his graphite pencils snatched smoothly before Alistair grabbed his keys, closing and locking his flat behind him. He maneuvered easily down the stairs, Adrien's training regimen certainly paying off to get the Hunter into shape. He'd never been particularly...pudgy, per se, but he was certainly gaining muscle definition where there hadn't been before.
The Dark Hunter stepped out of his apartment building, crossing the street with little worry. After all, he'd hardly seen a vehicle venture down his street for the better part of an hour. Alistair's gait was entirely lackadaisical as the man made his way down towards the beach. His emerald irises drifted down the shoreline as he settled on a park bench. It was...odd not to see the hulking form of the Ark in the distance. He had become strangely used to the presence of the giant cargo ship - it's sinking several weeks ago creating quite the chaos within the West. The supernatural had become increasingly...violent in the wake of the Ark's disappearance, as if the ship and it's pack had somehow kept things in check. It was hardly that delicate ecosystem that Alistair cared for, however, the Artist instead inquisitive if Carolina had escaped safely from the ship's watery demise. He had found, in the aftermath of their meeting, that he had decidedly liked the girl. It was a rarity for him, even on the level of an acquaintance. Even so, Alistair pushed her from his thoughts as his pencil finally touched the empty page in his sketchbook, that watery scene flowing so effortlessly from his pencil as he simply lost himself in drawing.