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 electricity within the air was palpable to those near animalistic senses. He could feel the volatility of his mistress presence as she stood over him with those daming icicle irises. How her gaze seemed to rove the caramel hue of his skin as Tetradore remained, unmoving, kneeling upon the hardwood floor of her bedroom. The vibrant emerald of his gaze remained trained upon the floor, purposefully turned away from her in a gesture of impeccable obedience - one that raged against his every instinct. Her voice was a melodic whisper in the oppressive silence, though he met those barbs with little more than continued apathy. Tetradore knew well what she desired from him at the mention of the Ark's demise - a reaction of some kind. Oh how she loved to watch him waver, to gain even a glimpse of his steadfast soul faltering. Had she summoned him in the precarious aftermath of his ship's sinking, she might have even seen just that. Tetradore had feared that night that she was demanding his constant presence back within the demonic dance club - that was a life he could not bear to return to. Fortunately, with his pack's happy survival and the rescue of those treasured sportscars, the sinking of the Ark had lost a measure of the impact he was certain she had wanted of it.
It was the mention of a gift, however, that finally saw some emotion flutter across that facade of chilled indifference. There was a certain weariness within the depths of his gaze as his eyes turned upward towards her. His brows furrowed ever just so in suspicious consideration while his baritone voice repeated those very words. Tetradore had spent enough time within his mistress' care to know that the word 'gift' was hardly any altruistic present for his enjoyment. That word so often meant the exact opposite - it promised pain and torment only for Risque's sick sense of pleasure. It was with pointed effort that the Alpha's features returned to that apathetic composure as Tetradore strove to steel himself for whatever his mistress had in store. That amused simper that fluttered across her painted lips only further cemented a sense of certainty within him and yet -- at least within the confines of her bedroom, her options were decidedly more...limited. Already his mind was turning over those memories of past night's he'd spent within this very room, the were-panther made some effort to guess those thoughts upon her mind as he ruled various previous punishments he'd endured.
There was a saccharine sweetness to Risque's soprano voice as she interrupted his contemplations - her biting remark was one he knew better than to answer with anything other than reverence lest he further angered her.
The almost singsong reassurance upon her lips drew his gaze upward towards her a second time. He eyed her with a subtle hint of disbelief, all the while searching her fair features for any hint of whatever meaning he was supposed to derive from her delight. His silence, however, persisted, even despite Tetradore's assurance that it would hardly hurt was entirely inaccurate. Her voice twisted almost abruptly, that gentle attempt at comfort replaced with an authoritative tone he knew all too well. The Alpha remained where he was, his gaze followed his Mistress as she moved across the room. The sway of her hips prompted no lustful desire within him - though Tetradore was perhaps the exception. Rather, he was far more interested in what she was grabbing from the opposite side of the room. The silver rod within her hand was eyed wearily, far more so than the mysterious black box. The sharpened point, after all, was certainly capable of piercing flesh. How Tetradore remembered the agony of dozens of those silver spikes digging into his skin during Risque's last birthday. The vibrancy of his irises remained upon her as she moved to stand in front of him again, only to open the velveteen box within her hand. She seemed...pleased by it's contents, though given his current position he was incapable of seeing what produced such a look of satisfaction within her.
The command upon her lips caused the Were-King to shift ever so slightly. His palm was held out towards her, only for her to place a distinctly small silver ring within the middle of his hand. His brows furrowed ever so slightly as he stared at it - the metal already had begun to cause his skin to turn red and sting beneath it. Her insistence to keep his hand as it was caused his gaze to flicker up towards her once again. What the hell was this? Her pale blue eyes seemed to eye him with great consideration as her tongue brushed over her bottom lip. Risque's inquiry, however, prompted a brief rise within his shoulders. His opinion, he knew, hardly mattered. If he had one she was more likely to purposefully do the opposite of what he requested as she was to give into his preference. It was, bizarrely, her insistence that it would make him look 'edgy' that seemed to finally prompt some understanding within the Alpha as to her intent. The very idea that an earring would make him look 'edgy' was enough to make Tetradore roll his eyes, though he was certain Risque hardly was interested in hearing his thoughts on the matter. Fashion, after all, was something he was eternally uninterested in and yet...if he could survive tonight with just a fucking earring then perhaps it was not as doomed afterall. He could pull it out of his ear the moment he escaped her watchful eye. This, it seemed, was a 'gift' Tetradore was willing to tolerate.