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
The drone of the delivery truck's engine was the first thing that stirred him. He blinked his blue eyes, groaning as he rolled over on the wet concrete. Ben sucked in a deep breath. And then, splash.
The box truck drove by, its heavy tire falling into one of the many potholes hidden by the murky seaside scum water. And yeah - fucking splash. He closed his eyes tightly as the brown, warm liquid soaked his face and chest. "Bloody hell." He grumbled, as a gloved palm reached for his prickled face, wiping the grime away. He slowly moved into an upright seated position, and pressed his damp, sweaty back against the cold, moist brick wall behind him.
He squinted into the shattered screen of his phone, which told him it was 4:45 a.m. The sun was already beating on the back of the skyscrapers in the distance, on the east side of downtown.
He couldn't stay here.
But where was here? He ran a grimy hand through his oily blond hair, and pushed his cream-colored, and now stained, sweater down over his abdomen. Ben was new to town, but this certainly did not look like River Dale, or whatever neighborhood that studio apartment he'd put a deposit down on was in. A commotion nearby startled him, forcing him to his feet. A man in a mechanic's onesie shot his head out of garage door and they locked eyes. "Get out of here before I call the fucking cops, you bum."
Did he say that out loud, or..?
The Pacific Northwest was about as far away as he could afford. At least that's what the woman at the ticket counter back at Gatwick told him when she ran his credit card. Anything to get him on the "other end of the pond," or so the Americans like to say. And now he was here. He had an apartment - somewhere - but he wasn't sure where. At this odd hour, Ben wasn't sure if he'd even been there before. He jogged down the block - away from the car repair shop, and patted down his damp jean pockets. Besides his phone, all he could feel was the plastic prescription bottles and the pills rattling around in there. He clenched his jaws and trudged on down the filthy street.
He kept walking. stoptalking.stoptalking.stoptalking.stoptalking. He tried not to argue with himself. A diner on a street corner several blocks away had their lights on. The sun was bright and oppressive on its way up. More people were seen mingling in the street, here and there. He went into the diner and sat down.
A chill ran down the length of his spine, feeling the air conditioning hit his sodden clothes and body. The waitresses stared at him. They made bets on who would draw the short straw and have to wait on him. The cooks in the back eyed him through the order-up window. One wondered if he'd have to kick him out. But did they say that out loud, or?
A skinny, older woman approached his booth timidly. He tried to smile but his gaze shot back down to the speckled table. Coffee? She asked, or he thinks she did, and he nods before burying his dirty face in his filthier hands. "Yes, yes, yes. Please."
Ben Collins | Fairy | Vinyl