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
Alistair could hardly help that soft chuckle upon his lips at Carolina's insistence of his apparent defiance. Oh, if only she knew the lengths he had once gone through to, albeit subtly, defy all that his life had once thrown at him. And now what was he, the protector of humanity? How things had twisted in ways he had not anticipated. Idly, he inquired after the fate of the Ark, the Hunter certain that she should have been safely tucked away in its depths....were it not missing, that is. How her features shifted at the very mention of it, that smile faltering as her brows knitted together in such a way that suggested the girl still harbored some feelings over its loss. The jade of his irises left the skyline, the man instead scrutinizing her features as her crystalline gaze turned to stare at that empty space upon the docks. Her insistence that it 'sank' seemed...rather obvious and yet, she either seemed ignorant how or unforthcoming on the topic. "Oh." He commented with equal feebleness. For a moment, there was a pause between them, Alistair contemplating if he should offer her some sort of apology for her loss, not that it would terribly help her or her situation.
The artist hardly had a moment to offer his condolences, however, before that smile once again alit her sweetheart lips. The sarcasm within her voice prompted an immediate snort from Alistair, "Oh yeah, we go from fines to taking out whole boats." He commented in a near-effortless retort. Alistair was almost grateful for the shift in topic, her inquiry as to how long he'd lived within the West was one he answered easily enough, though her mutterance of it being a small world prompted his brow to raise almost inquisitively. It was only her apartment number that prompted the Hunter to put together the pieces. They lived in the same building? Instead of on the Ark? It was a small world then. A soft exhale left his nose, his head shook ever so slightly in his disbelief. "310." He responded. Being on opposite sides of the building, he expected, explained some of their obliviousness to each other's proximity. He was hardly prepared, however, for that query that left her lips next. It was hardly the first time that anyone had asked to see his work, nor was he terribly private about his capabilities in general. After all, this was his day job. Still, there were distinctly few that he ever trusted with his notebook entirely. It and the personal drawings within were something he was far more...possessive over.
A soft breath left his lips as his gaze turned near critically towards her, the man judging whether or not he was willing to put his faith in her. Still...they were in the middle of an empty beach...and Carolina, although playful, had been...respectful, thus far. His hesitance was surely obvious, even as he handed over that notebook and the page he had been diligently working on. Alistair watched her as her fingers ran over the edges of the page, her gaze eying those penciled lines astutely. His irises lingered upon her as she pivoted upon her feet, only to lower herself onto the sand beside him, her feminine figure but a mere inch away from his own. His gaze briefly met her own as she inquired after him selling the work. While certainly not unheard of, sketches such as these were hardly things Alistair ever bothered 'putting on the market' so to speak. "You can have it, there are at least five others in there and two canvases at home," Alistair responded with a flippant wave of his wrist. The man leaned back in the sand, using his arm as a pillow as he stared upwards at the stormy sky overhead. For several silent moments, there was little save for the noise of the crashing waves and the flipping of those pages in his sketchbook. It was that soft inquiry of what was 'this' that saw the man raise to his elbows.
He instantly recognized the drawing she was referring to, though the artist was admittedly surprised how far back she had gone in that notebook. "It's Yale." He commented, pausing in consideration before he added. "It was in the courtyard, my roommate and I were meeting up after class one day and he was late...again. I got bored." A small shrug crossed Alistair's shoulders, the man entirely unsure what else to say of that magnificent building displayed on the page, even if he had taken certain...artistic liberties with it. Okay...maybe a lot of liberties.