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
He could smell it in the air - that scent of rain all the more poignant than he had ever remembered it before. There were times when Alistair simply...forgot the intensity of those new Hunter senses, times when he was once again taken about by the potency of those colors, smells, and sensations. Softly, he inhaled a fresh breath of air, basking in the petrichor upon the squall as opened his sketchbook, sifting through the pages for the first empty one. He was entirely oblivious of the woman who watched him as he plucked a graphite pencil from its place, the vibrancy of his gaze instead lingering upon the crashing waves of the seashore in front of him as Alistair started yet another seascape. They had, since his move to the West, monopolized those freehand sketches, each one different, and yet, they'd somehow served as a calming way to clear his proverbial slate when whatever work occupied him had become a challenge. The sound of his pencil effortlessly brushing against the thick page of his notebook was drowned out by the violent crashing of the waves. That sound near all-encompassing and yet, it hardly stopped those Hunter senses that all but slammed into him.
Alistair was still terrible at ignoring them, his head lifting near immediately from his work as his gaze scanned the beachside. It was the sight of movement out of his peripheral that garnered his attention, the man well aware of what she was quite before he realized he also knew who she was. With the woman at what he deemed a safe distance away, and her own attention primarily preoccupied with the ocean itself, Alistair saw little reason not to return to his own affairs. The emerald of his gaze returned to his sketchbook as he began to give the vague outline of those waves far more detail, his pencil moving deftly, bringing a hint of hyperrealism to that black and white sketch. Alistair paused yet against as those instincts became far more nagging, the Were was clearly closing the distance between them. He glanced up, the emerald of his irises effortlessly refinding her petite figure before that recognition hit him, quite at the same moment that she too seemed to truly notice him. What were the coincidences of this?
"Carolina." He offered in response to her, his gaze altogether attentive to the way the corner of her lips seemed to perk upwards. It was her comment of his 'rebelliousness', however, that brought the first true hint of bemusement to his features as the Dark Hunter chuckled. Oh, if only she knew! Alistair was quite certain his own father would have deemed him the epitome of rebellion. "Uh...something like that...what about you? Should you be......" His voice trailed off as he glanced down the dockside. At the Ark. Shouldn't she be at the Ark? "What...happened to the boat anyways?" He inquired, his eyebrows knitting together ever so slightly in vague curiosity. Alistair, after all, was rather...out of the loop when it came to news both in the West and within the ranks of his own species, his knowledge of the missing floating cargo ship entirely restricted to the vague realization that something felt off about the city's skyline before he realized what it was. It was her comment of where he lived, however, that prompted a small shrug on his shoulders. "Oh, yeah, I moved in about...a year ago now, I think." Just before winter...just before he had been turned...though those details hardly mattered now, he supposed.
Alistair had, admittedly, almost forgotten the sketch he had been working on now that Carolina had joined him. For a moment, he glanced down at his work, only to look back up at her in a far more judgmental stare than he had ever offered her before. After all, Alistair trusted...distinctly few with that book, those pages filled with his illustrated thoughts and dreams, drafts for his clients' projects, and other mindless doodles he so rarely shared with the world. Still...Carolina was...different than the last woman who had asked after that same thing. For one, she wasn't inebriated. "Um....sure." He commented at last, handing her the singular book that was perhaps the most important thing in his world. After all..what was the worst she could do? Throw it in the sea? Actually...maybe he shouldn't consider that....