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
How well aware the Alpha was of her icicle gaze roving over the plains of his bare chest with far more appreciation then he was inclined to feel comfortable with. He knew it was all a part of her game, the one she both mastered and relished within. She enjoyed seeing him uncomfortable, in any way possible and so, instead, Tetradore retreated behind that facade of apathy he had once worn like a second skin. The emerald of his gaze turned down towards the floor underfoot in some feeble attempt to placate her - the Were King was entirely aware of just how far he had...pressed his Mistress of late. Ever since her return into his life, he had been nothing short of obstinate at every opportunity. His freedom had stroked a fire within him, one that she had only just begun to work at quelching. Tetradore had known, to some degree, that the metallic hue of her decorative finger pieces would, at some point, find the pristine caramel of his skin - though he hadn't expected it quite so soon as her faux claw reached out to press against the flesh beneath his chin. He winced at the sensation of silver against him, burning it's way through his jawline. Tetradore hardly fought against that pressure, however, as the emerald of his eyes turned upwards towards her. The Alpha was altogether used to those threats his mistress provided him as....incentive to give into her whims. She would hardly hesitate to carry them out to the letter, though so too did he risk her ire irregardless of how much he pleased her, particularly when she was in this mood.
A small frown crossed Tetradore's features though he said little of his own thoughts. Rather, the Were-King listened in silence as she informed him of how worthless he was, and of how little value he held, beyond what she had given him. It was a sentiment that Tetradore had heard most of his life - one he had dwelled on in his younger years and, though he might not acknowledge it outright, it too was one that had become ingrained within the man, even though he insisted to himself that it hardly mattered weather or not his life held any value at all when he still had promises to keep. A soft growl reverberated within the back of his throat, even as he hissed that he remembered well just how much of his life was dictated by the feline queen herself. He had, after all, spent more of his life within the depths of her hellish dance club than he had any other single place in his life - that long leash he now wore was something he once could only dream of, and how he so refused to return to his life at Syn now that he'd seen a glimpse of what the outside world had to offer him. It was that very desire to return to the Ark and his own sanctuary, however, that caused the Were-King to do little beyond that sound of irritation.
He was well aware of the sharpness of Risque's gaze as her pale irises stared at him, there was a goading hint to her voice as she dared him to growl at her again. Tetradore knew better than to rise to her provocation, however, the Alpha answered only by the way of the potent silence he allowed to linger between them. Her inquiry of his training was a question he had heard many times before - those early years in his life were ones near impossible for the Alpha to forget, even if he frequently, of late, pretended otherwise. Tetradore knew the sort of greeting she desired of him - it was one the Alpha refused to give her more often than not. How often he pushed the envelope of what he could get away with, those tiny rebellions so quickly escalating into far larger ones, no matter the extent he suffered for them. The sharpened point of her silver talon continued to dig into his skin, though he offered her little reaction beyond that initial flinch as the letal sizzled at his flesh, drawing that first hint of blood as it trailed down the metallic ornament that adorned her finger. The very scent of his blood seemed to prompt a soft inhale from his Mistress. How she seemed to relish within that unique perfume.
Her hand slipped away from his chin as she demanded for the Alpha to fall to his knees. A soft sigh left his lips before Tetradore slid off the chaise he sat upon. His head inclined ever just so as he kneeled in front of her, the emerald hue of his irises purposefully turned downwards in some display of submission he all but loathed. That rhetorical question was one he failed to answer - Tetradore so strikingly used to simply ignoring his Mistress' words even if that inner dominance so harshly rebelled against each and every action she demanded of him. Tetradore was well aware of the way she stood over him, appraising him before she insisted that this was how she expected him to greet her. Admittedly, Tetradore had little intent to see through her desires, even with the threat to confine him to Syn on his hands and knees. Darcy, he knew, would be ill-inclined to allow that, particularly now that the pair had become a cemented couple. He was curious, admittedly, if Risque would risk the ire of her lover just in an effort to punish him. Such a consideration, however, was one he might have to test later. Presently, the Alpha offered her not a syllable in a response, falling back to that carefully contrived silence he so often existed within.
He listened wordlessly as she insisted she had been far to lenient with him of late, her first request was one that seemed simple enough. That title she preferred was one that had been practically beaten within the man - the word 'Mistress' left his lips far more frequently then her own name. If this was all she required of him, then perhaps appeasing her tonight would not be all that difficult after all. "Yes, Mistress." His rich baritone voice intoned, lacking even the barest hint of any true emotion. His features remained wholly apathetic as Risque commented upon the destruction of the Ark. He had already suspected it had been her doing, Matteo had practically confirmed it. The news, therefore, was hardly anything new to him. His pack, after all, had survived, along with his cars. His replacement of the boat would see they came out of the disaster with far more to show of it, even if his bank account had taken a significant hit in the process. Rather, it was her comment of a gift that provoked the barest hint of surprise within him. Tetradore glanced up at her, his brows furrowed ever so slightly and yet, within the depths of those emerald eyes, was notable suspicion. "....a gift?" He repeated, eying her wearily. A gift did not sound promising in the least.