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
How aware Alistair was of the effect that overly loud peel of thunder seemed to have upon the young woman, that once jovial simper that had so alit her features in spite of their utterly drowned state had dissipated in a matter of moments. The vibrancy of Alistair's gaze briefly turned towards the window behind him, the Dark Hunter certain they were safe in the comfort of Carolina's apartment flat, even if the thunder and lightning outside seemed determined to insist otherwise. It was the sound of her soprano voice that drew Alistair's attention back towards the young woman and the book that was handed back towards him. The very presence of his notebook once again within his grasp prompted a certain level of...ease to his otherwise tense frame. Alistair flipped open the notebook, his fingers lightly ruffling across the pages as he thanked her for not throwing the book into the ocean, the tease somewhat...light and yet...how real of a fear it was for the man whose life was sketched across it's pages. A small simper crossed his features as she insisted it was the least she could do, though truly, Alistair suspected she had little idea of how grateful he was. Trust was not something the artist easily offered.
A heady sort of silence seemed to befall the couple as they stood in the relative dimness of the apartment. How well Alistair knew this moment, the anticipation that seemed to bubble in the air around them as Carolina's bright blue eyes stared upwards at him - waiting for him. How...dry his throat felt as those silent expectations pressed upon him - ones to take her into his arms, to press his lips against hers in a passion that drowned out the storm that hovered over them. He knew those storybook romances, he'd listened to his sister both sigh wistfully and loudly complain of the tales deemed 'acceptable' for her, depending upon her mood. Alistair knew of that role he was supposed to fill as the enigmatic, dark prince charming and yet...such had never been how the artist thought of himself. His attempt to break the quietness was undoubtedly awkward, even in spite of his attempts to remain...friendly, in some regard. She hardly seemed to miss a beat, instead offering him a light smile that made him almost pause. Had he...misread the situation? Alistair would hardly be surprised. Women had...always been something of a mystery to him, the artist frequently missing their advances altogether.
He watched as she made her way towards the door, light so brightly flooding the small space as she flicked on the light switch nearby. Those words no sooner left her lips than another loud crash of thunder echoed overhead. Alistair was well aware of the way Carolina seemed to flinch as if she anticipated the skies above to somehow bring about her demise. "I won't." He promised, reaching down in his notebook to tear the picture he'd promised her carefully along the perforated edges. "Here." He commented, handing it to her as he closed his sketchbook with a soft thud. "And um...if you need anything...just...let me know?" Alistair offered. After all, he could tell she had some apprehension from the storm, and yet...it certainly wasn't his place to intrude...