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
my monsters are realthey're trained how to kill, these monsters can fight
they'll never say die, there's no goin' back
if I get trapped I'll never heal
The call had come early that morning, that nagging sensation in the back of his head that forced him awake even though he'd only just fallen asleep only thirty minutes prior. He knew that pull, just like he knew ignoring it would result in a migraine that even sleep could not fend off. How many times had he ended curled up on the floor of his bedroom cradling his head just out of sheer effort not to answer that call? Tonight, however, Tetradore had conceded. Tonight, he had pulled himself out of the soft, warm, welcoming blankets of his bed, dressed in something Risque was unlikely to deem acceptable (specifically a pair of jeans and a black fleece hoodie that read 'I'm great in bed, I can sleep for hourzzz' on the front in a bold white font), and finally showed up in depths of the closing dance club. She had, at least on his initial appearance, hardly been prepared to see him at first - his Mistress had been locked away in her office dealing with 'matters'. For a while, he had lingered around the bar, the club far more enjoyable after hours when the usually pounding base had fallen into hushed silence. He'd watched the bartender clean up for at least twenty minutes, so too had he seen the remains of Risque's last appointment, his Mistress seemingly in a fickle mood for the evening.
Tetradore had, admittedly, hardly anticipated Risque had much use for him at all. Of late, she'd taken to merely calling him just to leave him waiting for hours on end only to conveniently 'forget' he was there at all. It was, he knew, a ploy to remind him of how very shackled he remained to her, to this life, even in spite of the long leash she had gifted him with. With such a pattern of late, Tetradore was caught off guard when a request finally came of him, albeit by messenger rather than the Vampire Queen herself. It was a simple request, really, even if it left him with a hint of anxiety that Tetradore did his best to subdue - wait for her in her room. Such was exactly how he ended up in his present location, flopped unceremoniously upon a victorian inspired crimson chaise lounge beside her balcony window. A yawn echoed upon his lips as the vibrancy of his gaze starred up blankly at the ceiling above him. It was...unusual for the Were-King to be here - well, that is ever since Darcy had made himself comfortable within Risque's bed on a more permanent basis. In the past, he'd spent more than his fair share of time within Risque's bedroom for any various reasons. None of them were terribly sensible, as far as Tetradore was concerned. But this...tonight...was out of the ordinary and that set the Alpha on edge.
Was there a point to this? Where was Darcy? Had she even planned to see him or was this anxiety her very purpose? Risque, he knew, had a liking to making him...uncomfortable...even if it was the subtlest of ways. She knew what made him tense, regardless of all his efforts to hide behind that facade of apathy. Though lately that mask of indifference had become harder and harder to don, the pack...his family....Mira....those people that he surrounded himself with outside of this hell hole had made him feel again. A soft groan of frustration left his lips as his arm lifted up to rest over his eyes, officially cutting off the light in the room. Maybe he should just sleep it off here. Dozing within Risque's office, at least as a feline, was an art he had mastered. It was, however, the sudden sound of heels upon the staircase that drew the Alpha's attention and immediately, Tetradore's gaze flickered open as he shifted slightly on the chaise, simply listening to the approaching steps. There was no doubt in his mind they belonged to her. And, by the sound of it, she was alone. He shifted from his once comfortable position, his sneakers hit the floor as he sat up, his elbows were placed upon his knees as he hunched forward ever so slightly. Tetradore had no sooner shifted then the door of Risque's bedroom swung open, his Mistress herself stepping within and yet, Tetradore hardly uttered a word, the Alpha far more content to simply eye her in weary silence as he waited for her to acknowledge his presence in the very way he had been trained to do.