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
The rumble of thunder seemed a near constant companion to the pair's conversation. The storm had quickly fallen upon the metropolis, near hovering over them with it's steady cracks of lightning that alight the entire dim apartment. Alistair was well aware of the near skittish demeanor that had befallen the young woman before him, her fear near palpable to his Hunter instincts, even if the artist did his best to ignore it entirely as he flipped open the notebook that again rested securely within his hands. With meticulous care, Alistair tore out the page he'd been sketching, only to hand it to Carolina as he had promised her he would. The emerald his gaze watched as she carefully cradled the page in her hands as if it were a treasure to behold then merely a halfhearted sketch to distract the Dark Hunter. For a moment, Alistair was silent, almost unsure if he should comment upon the tenseness in her frame that was near impossible not to notice. He was aware of the way her gaze seemed to flash towards the windows with each bright streak of lightning and each low grumble of thunder, the young woman entirely capable of appearing like a deer rather than any vicious predator. There was a hint of hesitance to his baritone voice as Alistair offered his assistance, should she find herself in need of...well....anything.
She thanked him for his offer, though hardly took him up on it and slowly, Alistair's shoulders shrugged. Those storms had never prompted the same level of fear in him as they did the women that surrounded him. Quite on the contrary, he lived for nights like this, when the Artist could get lost in his artwork, accompanied by the violence of the skies. Nevertheless, he watched as her sweet heart lips pulled into a small smile, her figure only tensing again at another brilliant flash of lightning. For a moment, his gaze turned towards the window as the artist confided in his own childhood memories of storms exactly like this - memories when his sister and himself would sprawl out in his bedroom with those classical tunes his mother had taught him playing loudly on the speakers of his sound system, much to his parent's annoyance. He hardly expected Carolina's own childhood story, the fact that the girl had a sibling had gone entirely unmentioned, much, he supposed, like his own. A small ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips - the sisters ritual so very much alike the meeting Carolina and himself had upon the ocean shore. She sighed a soft, wistful sound as she led him towards the door, only to comment that, perhaps, she'd consider Debussy tonight. "It can't hurt." He offered with a small raise of his shoulder, making his way out the front door.
The sound of her voice made him pause, the artist turned slightly as she helped up the sketch with a far more carefree grin. Her words prompted an audible snort of dubiousness from his nose. "You might be holding onto that for a while," Alistair commented with raised brows, only to shake his head ever so slightly. "Good night, Carolina." He called behind him as the Hunter turned, content to retreat back into the hallway and towards his own apartment. The evening had hardly held the same peaceful retreat he had hoped for but...even Alistair was willing to admit to himself that it had, perhaps, been better than he expected, even if it turned out vastly different.