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
He awoke at his usual hour, emerging from within his dark, dank chambers in his historic brownstone and moving into his office. He had a busy agenda ahead - community workshops, lunch with the police chief and an afternoon spent tied up in the city commission meeting. The vampire mayor's dark eyes glazed over as he opened his inbox, scrolling by email after email - some were important. Most were hate-fueled, racist nonsense from the very citizens of the town he swore to represent.
But one peculiar message stood out.
He read it carefully, but quickly, and deleted it almost immediately. Despite the cryptic address - of which Dareios had a gut feeling was untraceable - he knew exactly who the message came from. It'd been quite some time since the successful antiques reseller and notable illegal dark magic dealer had to rely on an outside source to track down someone he was curious about. But the tall, lean ancient vampire named Erik Tolgan was someone he wanted to know more about.
The vampire had been on his mind ever since Sorcha made her unannounced return to Sacrosanct. The charming witch seemed to stick mostly to the southside this day and age, but her random and long disappearance was just too tempting not to investigate further. Dareios wanted to know exactly where she'd gone when she did in fact, up and leave Sacrosanct. Was it this blonde viking of a vampire who had drawn her back? Erik first appeared early in his search, when a few hired photogs captured photos of him out with Sorcha. Intrigued, Dareios pressed his sources to find out more. Discretely, of course. What Dareios' intentions were, he wasn't sure. He just knew he wanted to protect Sorcha this time around, if he could.
The heated commission meeting went late into the night. But finally, it ended, at least until they picked it up again next week. Dareios checked his phone when he felt it buzz away in his trousers pocket. The message was short, but direct. Erik was out downtown, at a nightclub of all places. Dareios grit his teeth as he fumbled over what to do with this information. Perhaps against his better judgement, he called a car and listed the nightclub's address as his intended destination.
He could continue to monitor the vampire's whereabouts. He could have sent a liaison to make initial contact. Either one of those posed less risk than him reaching out to Erik himself, and at a nightclub, of course. But as the car rolled to a stop outside the club, Dareios hopped out. He smoothed over the edges of his lapel and strode briskly inside, his gaze peeled for the taller, and much older vampire.
He found him without much effort, and moved through throngs of faceless people to reach him. Erik kept moving, pushing past body after body. The closer Dareios came to reaching him, the more foolish he felt. What the hell was he going to say to him, at this point? It was too late now. A stiff, undead hand landed firmly on the other's shoulder. He stared at him for a long moment before moving closer, shouting over the loud, thumping music. "Erik, is it?" He said, laced in his Irish accent. "Can we speak a moment?" And he pointed toward the roped off VIP section, where his assistant had already reserved them a table.
Dareios Auerbach | Vampire | Vinyl