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.
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
There was a uniquely rare sort of comfort to be found in that blissful movement with the ocean's dull roar filling the silence between them. The stark emptiness of the beachside smoothed his often aloof demeanor, the storm brewing somewhere above them equally as tempting to his often turbulent soul. He found a sense of ease in it all, in the waves, the wind, and the quietness, as he leaned back upon the sand. Alistair listened in silence to each page turn of his sketchbook, the man entirely aware of the sort of things she'd find within its depths - from the uncharacteristically happy work for his clients, to the darker sketched out nightmares of his mind and the doodles that fell somewhere in between. It was, perhaps, far more sharing of his very soul then Alistair ever might have otherwise given. It was her inquiry alone that prompted the artist to shift, sitting up to glance at the page that had fascinated her. The building was one he knew well, Alistair having spent far more of his time there then he'd cared to consider. He had become accustomed to that hint of surprise that so many seemed to hold when he admitted his own higher education background - that mixture of classes a sharp contrast between what was expected of him and what he enjoyed.
It was, perhaps, only natural for Alistair to inquire after her own schooling. It was curious she'd turned down the opportunity to study at such a pretentious establishment and yet...as Alistair knew well, such an ivy league college often held it's own array of strings associated with attendance. Her features betrayed her, though, Alistair was effortlessly able to detect that there was far more left unsaid of her choice not to follow through and venture off to Harvard. He had little inclination to pry, however, instead, providing her with a low chuckle and the insistence that they were almost enemies. Her retorted prompted a small simper to his features and yet, how all joy seemed to drain from her face. "Perhaps," Alistair responded simply, that fleeting glimpse of bemusement fluttering away as abruptly as it had come. He allowed Carolina those moments of silence, however, his own jade-colored irises turned towards the ocean. How eager the wind seemed to embrace the pair, whipping at Carolina's hair with a frenzy. The storm was rolling in, of that Alistair was acutely aware though he hardly made an effort to leave the beachside either.
Rather, his attention pivoted back towards the young woman at his side as Carolina inquired after his feelings of being a hunter. A small, indecisive shrug crossed Alistair's shoulders. "I don't know. I've not actually really...hunted anything yet....but it was either this or death so...I chose this." He glanced towards her, entirely aware that it was her kind that he should be dedicating his life to keeping in line. Still, his maker hardly seemed to hold the same disdain for weres as he did vampires...and Alistair, in turn, had followed much in the same footsteps. Though he supposed given his near-death experience with the undead, it was only natural he might detest them so. "Do you like being a were?" He inquired, turning that query back on her. He knew, admittedly, distinctly little about her kind, he'd certainly never seen one shift before. In a way, she was perhaps as intriguing to him as he was to her.