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
Hardly a sound left the lips of the Alpha as he hunched forward, his elbows rested upon his knees as the emerald of his irises followed his mistress around the depths of her room. He watched her pause before her large mirror, her fingers diligently toyed with her hair while Tetradore's presence wholly ignored in favor of Risque's own appearance. To the ignorant, Risque almost seemed...peaceful, humming softly a sweet melodic tune as she primped herself to perfection. The Were-King, however, was well aware of the metaphysical electricity that crackled around his mistress, her very aura somehow demanding and dreadful, chasing away the felines in the room as they hid within their various nooks and crannies. Had she not demanded his presence, the panther might have joined them in some search for a darkened corner high above to simply be forgotten - a wish that was wholly feeble. He watched as she pulled out a box from her vanity, only to slowly open the lid and reveal the reflective glean of silver. His mistress remained nothing if not steeled as she reached for each piece of silver, her fingers slowly decorated with each magnificent talon that only spoke volumes of Tetradore's demise.
The Alpha remained nothing if not poised upon the lounge he had perched upon, that facade of apathy ever present as he merely waited. His mistress, after all, was likely to turn her attention upon him at some point, though, tonight, he was ill-inclined to rush such a thing. He watched as she flexed her fingers, the silver glinted ominously in the low light with every single movement before her attention turned back to her mirrored reflection. How keen she seemed to draw out that moment, to linger in the comfort of her own suite and yet....how used to this Tetradore was by now. That patience was something she had beaten into him at a young age till this waiting game no longer phased him quite to the same degree. It was nearly half an hour later before Risque returned to the wine she'd initially selected, only to pour it in her glass and eye it with meticulous care. Abruptly, those icy blue eyes turned towards him, the intensity of her stare caused even the Alpha to pause, his breath seemingly caught in his throat as she finally stepped towards him. Her heels echoed in the quietness of her room, the silence stretched between them before she halted in front of him, her wine glass still held delicately within her hand.
His gaze turned upwards towards her as she took a sip of her drink, only to place it on the table beside the pair of them. Expectantly, those pale blue eyes turned towards him and though Tetradore knew well what she desired of him, the Alpha hardly moved from his seat. That greeting was one she had forced of him many times before, the near revenant bow of his head as if she was the veritable center of his world. How rarely he was inclined to freely give her such a greeting, the Alpha blood that flowed thickly within her veins utterly despised providing any sign of submission. Tetradore hardly flinched beneath the sharpness of her gaze, nor her equally as barbed words. His tongue flicked across his bottom lip as his mistress chided him and slowly, Tetradore's gaze turned downward. Tetradore's voice was a soft mutter, that greeting he provided her hardly what he knew she desired out of him and yet, it was often the least he could get away with providing. He reached down towards the bottom of his hoodie, the Alpha peeling away the comfortable fleece material she seemed to abhor as he deposited it on the chase beside him. He could sense his mistress' fickle mood, Tetradore, in turn, ill inclined to have her ire turned upon him, not when it had so often worked against him of late.
The bright emerald hue of his irises remained focused downwards and towards the ground underfoot, even though he was well aware of her eyes tracing his naked flesh. It had been some time, admittedly, since Risque had relished in his refined physique, Tetradore inclined to keep it that way. It was moments such as this that he was almost thankful for Risque's involvement with Darcy, at the very least the vampire managed to keep the woman well satisfied. Her hand reached out her fingers near hovering above his skin before a single sharpened talon pressed against the skin beneath his chin. The press of that silver against his flesh prompted a small wince from the Were-King, though it was surely nothing in comparison to all he had endured over the years. His chin rose, the vibrancy of his eyes turned upwards towards Risque, even as that scent of his own flesh burning filled his nose. Her command caused the corners of his lips to press downward ever so slightly in a frown and yet, how aware Tetradore was of her power as it filled every corner of the room. It was her insistence that his only purpose within life was the worth that Risque deemed it to be that caused his gaze to narrow. It was hardly the first time that Tetradore had been told how very worthless his life was, once upon a time, when he was far younger, he had believed those very words. Now, however, the Alpha was ill inclined to allow his thoughts to tarry upon his value. After all, it wasn't as if it ultimately mattered, in the end. His purpose. His value. It hardly affected the simple fact that he still awoke every single day. Such a philosophical notion didn't matter when so many still depended upon him. He still had promises to keep - family dinner on Friday, the new coffee shop he'd promised he'd take Mira to in the morning, that game Tobias kept wanting to beat every evening. However worthless he viewed his life, however worthless Risque viewed his life...it was meaningless in the wake of those others he promised he'd be there for. A soft growl reverberated in the back of his throat, his lips curled with a hint of disgust,
Tetradore was well aware of her silver spiked fingers as they bore into his flesh, the pressure of her talon finally enough to split his skin, though he hardly reacted at the scent or sensation of his own blood. How she seemed to inhale the smell of it, as if she treasured the scent of it before her painted lips parted to inform him of the very precipice he stood upon. His gaze deviated from her, his tongue shifted within his mouth and yet, how well he knew she would see through that promise. His very defiance would be his undoing tonight. A soft puff of air left his nose as Risque pulled her hand away from his chin and slowly, the Were-King shifted to his knees on the hardwood floor. His very features seemed stone cold - hardly from that indifference he so often strove for so much as a simple distaste for the situation he found himself in and the woman he would have to bend to tonight in order to regain the comfortable solitary he found himself desiring more then the rebellion he so often showed her.