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
I don't think I'll make it out alive
It hadn't been a compliment, not in its entirety, that was true. But it was something close to one, perhaps. Still, he would be lying had he denied she looked very... fashionable tonight, all dolled up. He was sure whatever occasion she had dressed for (aside from the murderous one) that she would certainly garner much attention, what with her shock of white hair against the dark dress at the very least. It certainly made the picture of contrast. He gave a noncommittal noise to her retort about flattery, eyes flicking skyward briefly. This one. This one always had a retort. He should be used to that by now, what spending so much time with Askaree, but this one was different. Askaree was quick to resort to bared teeth, thinly veiled threats when he pushed back too hard. This woman, in all her flippant behaviours, was quick with her wit and seemed to prefer wit or subtleties. It was... a change in pace. Not necessarily a good or bad one, just a change.
Not that he would have time to reflect deeply on any of that because his "change in pace" was rapidly pulling him toward somewhere he didn't want to be and she had a firm hold on his arm. Oh, oh he was fool. He should have noticed the trap. He should have picked up the warning signs early, even as far back as the shop. Damn it all.
Then, they were inside.
The look she gave him... was that something mimicking adoration? Oh, this was going to take some getting used to. He was comfortable and accustomed to the disdain, the annoyance, the frustration or even outrage. He was not accustomed to this look of... desire or interest, even if it was fake. "I never thought you would have an interest in those types of services, 'Mrs Ashley Johnson'." He scoffed lightly, though he was admittedly mulling over the probability of her actually giving him a tip. Still, part of him dreaded what stupidity (it almost was certainly nothing sexual despite her innuendo) it would entail for her to deem something to be worth it. No, no, he would stick with the 'get the fuck out of here soon as possible' plan. Stingy personality? Well, not an entirely inaccurate assessment.
Spencer eyed her warily as she gave him that smile, the one that promised trouble. His suspicions were confirmed as she walked her fingers up his tie then to his shoulder, the man certain she could feel his discomfort as she pulled him down closer to her. It was, admittedly, a bit of a feat since she was so much shorter than him, even with her heels. Spencer was trying hard to not roll his shoulder away in attempt to dislodge her hand or not to shift backwards a step. For one, he knew if he moved away she would have undoubtedly won this little powerplay, but who was to say she wasn't winning by simply holding him in place? He seemed to be thoroughly trapped no matter his option. What was worse, by making them a - ugh - married couple, couldn't they risk drawing more attention if it seemed they were in conflict? Goddamn this woman. If this was a chess game, he was well and truly fucked.
"Hm, I would be inclined to lend that more belief except you told me to dress nice before I ever 'threatened' you. So I think you've had this planned all along." Spencer practically purred in response, eyebrow arched with a slightly smug smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. He still could call bullshit on her lies no matter how pretty she tried to dress them, at least. Still, his relief was almost palpable when she released her hold and allowed him to pull back to a comfortable distance, the man shuffling back half a step as he reached up to fix his tie. He wasn't sure if she had actually messed it but better safe.
When 'Ashley' began detailing her job (yet again breaking his personal rules), his arms folded over his chest as he listened. His head turned to the side slightly so that he could pinpoint the group she was speaking of from his peripheral, brow furrowing briefly as a slight frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. He didn't say anything as she spoke, instead electing to stay quiet and process the information as well as begin scanning his surroundings for the first time. His posture shifts so that he is standing more at her side than in front, body angled so he had a better view and no longer had to rely on his periphery vision to see things.
His eyes, which had been so focused on the details of the room, snapped to his companion at her stumble over "own-boss", though he showed no outward expression. Own-boss. It could possibly be a simple stumble but the pacing had been to steady, her voice too even, right up until that word... Then too much of a rush to fill in boss. Stating 'my own boss' too, no one did that. They said "my boss" or "the boss", not "my own boss", especially not in a conversation where only one of them had been speaking about any sort of bosses. Perhaps there was more to her story than he had assumed of this little assassin. If she wanted him for his attention to detail, she was going to have to accept that he may catch more than she wanted. However, he said nothing to interrupt her, his gaze holding on her for a beat longer before slowly drifting back to the room.
"Sounds charming." He grunted as she expanded about the trafficking dealer, looking over the group of men once again. Aside from this Mr Stanley and his too-tight vest (he should get the name of the tailor, the fact that those buttons were able to hold!), there seemed little to be remarkable about the group. She truly had drug him into the lion's den. He was sure there were worse things that he was going - yep, there she just dropped the kicker. He was going to be the unfortunate bridge.
"You seem rather confident that I can attract and hold his attention. Wouldn't it have been easier for you if you know you're his... type?" He questioned, voice low in their private conversation. Turning to drift back toward the partygoers and the swarm of artifacts scattered about the room, Spencer paused before, hesitatingly, offering his arm to her if she should like it. Part of him was cringing at it, the thought of inviting her to invade his space, but it seemed he had a role to play. When her arm slipped around his, he guided them to one of the near exhibits, stopping near it briefly to give the impression that he was actually examining it (he wasn't). "If I was to bet at the auction and - God this is fucking hideous - to bet at the levels you need me to, I hope you are willing to put some funding forward in case I find myself needing to pay for any of these... things." He gestured vaguely at the room, wondering if he was the one man in this room who could not care less about the items surrounding him. He was leading her to another display, preferring to select the ones less popular.
"I suppose I could always just take up his offer for you, Mrs Johnson, if I'm short..." Spencer shrugged, his tone a little too light for their usual barbed banter and his lips twitching up briefly into something that almost... Was that a smile? Had he attempted a joke? Seeming to come aware of this strange turn, Spencer quickly snatched two flutes of champagne - why was it always champagne- from a passing waiter, holding one out to her as he took a (rather large) gulp from his.