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
The potent scent of the inevitable storm filled the already sea-salted air, the wind whipped over the beach, curling the rushing waves in on themselves in a sort of angry frenzy that promised time was of the essence. Alistair reached upwards, pushing his brunette locks from his face as his gaze turned upwards towards the foreboding sky above with it's dark, bulging clouds. His brows furrowed ever so slightly and yet, his thoughts were torn away from the tempest with a singular inquiry of his status as a hunter. It was, admittedly, a rather cliche story, if he had ever heard one. How many mortals, after all, had met their demise at the fangs of a vampire? How many had fallen into those traps and walked down darkened alleys believing themselves to be invisible to the horrors of the night. It always happened to other people, surely not to him. How naive he had been. His shoulders rolled in a vague sort of shrug as Alistair admitted that he had hardly been given a choice in the matter. It had, quite literally, been a moment between life and death and Alistair had taken the only opportunity to continue the doldrums of everyday life.
How very revealing his answer was and yet, Alistair saw little reason to conceal the truth from her. She had hardly made an effort, after all, to do little more then befriend the Dark-Hunter, the lines as enemies one both seemed willing to cross over and over again. Alistair was well aware of that inquisitive look in the depths of her turquoise irises, questions that he too knew she was unlikely to ask. It was a hint of his own curiosity that prompted Alistair to inquire after her own experience as a Were. She was, in some ways, as much of an enigma to him as he was to her. Alistair had never involved himself with the supernatural until he was quite literally thrust within their world, the man entirely aware that he had much to learn if he truly wished to survive as a Hunter. Alistair watched inquisitively as her sweetheart lips pulled into a warm simper. Her admittance that she enjoyed who she was, at least now, was altogether curious to him. Perhaps, one day, he too might reach a point like his own maker where he relished in being a Hunter, a killer of the vile races and a savior of the good. One day. For now, however, he was far more interested in the story that Carolina's own turning hinted to. A transformation that was not her choice either? How unfortunate to be bitten only to discover that it had far more drastic consequences then damaged skin.
It was Carolina's insistence that they both merely had to make the best of the twists life threw at them that caused Alistair's brows to rise ever so slightly. "Yeah...I guess so." He muttered simply, hardly entirely likely the idea. How he wished he could save them from such positions in the first place - before they were forced to merely make the best out of them. It was a soft, low rumble of thunder overhead that drew Alistair's gaze upwards, the skies somehow marginally darker than the last time he'd looked at them. "I think...for now, making the best of what we've got means heading inside though," Alistair commented, pulling himself upwards and onto his feet. The intensity of his gaze returned to her, however, as the Hunter offered her his hand though whether it was to assist her in getting up, or the return of his art book, was entirely up to her.