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
Bjørn is on the docks tonight, on the look for a group of vampires. Word has it that they were shipping in something ancient... something dangerous. The call had gone out for a hunter and the man had quickly grabbed his gear and left before the others returned home. That is how he found himself here, perched on a roof top a fair distance away. The outfit he wears is meant to help conceal the hunter in the shadows. Gray hoodie and black faux leather jacket are accompanied by black pants and soft soled black sneakers. Across Bjørn's back is buckled a black scabbard, his trusty silver sword waiting to be called forth. Finally, the insides of his jacket are lined with small wooden stakes, just in case he needs to kill some vamps.
Right now, he waits and observes, making sure to stay down of the group. There is a fine line with the distance he stays out at, too far out and he won't be able to hear them, too close and they will know a dark hunter is watching. Bjørn stays there for hours, moving his position when needed, gathering intel on what they are bringing in. Eyes closed, the hunter listens to the movement of boxes, the subtle creaking of a box lid being pried open slowly every time more boxes are unloaded has a smirk crossing his lips. He wonders if whoever is doing it knows just what they are messing with. A disgruntled voice rings through the night, questioning someone and the answering voice has Bjørn quickly making his way toward the sounds.
Silently, nimbly, the hunter leaps from roof to roof, the choked sounds that follow the angry voice driving him to move faster. The wind shifts and Bjørn hears a startled call of, "Hunter!" Well shit. So much for a surprise attack. Leaping to the ground, the dark hunter sprints toward the commotion, one hand unsheathing his silver broadsword while the other reaches for stake. Rounding a corner, Bjørn finds a group of three vampires staring daggers at him. Near the back, he spies one with its hand encircling the throat of a young man. Straightening his posture, the hunter rumbles out, threateningly, "Let the kid go and I won't kill." Truthfully, Bjørn knows they won't let the thief go, that these smug assholes will laugh in his face for even suggesting such a thing.
And Bjørn prepares for it.
The nearest vamp darts a glance to another and a grin tugs at its lips. They start to laugh and, the vampire holding the kid loosen his grip slightly so the thief can grab air. Good. The hunter moves. Darting forward, Bjørn swings the sword in a downward arch, catching the smug vamp across the face. Flesh curls away from the wound and the sound of sizzling meat can be heard. The vampire screams out in pain, hands reaching toward his face in a vain attempt to stop the pain. Wooden stake flashes forward, abruptly ending the agonized screams forever. The next vampire stumbles back a step as the dark hunter sprints toward him, silver sword moving back upward in an attempt to maximize energy spent while inflicting the most damage. Sword slashes a deep grove through the suit and the vamp's flesh causing the creature to twist over from the pain of the searing metal.
Feet shift sideways to place Bjørn near the doubled over vampire's head and the hunter slams his knee hard in to the vamp's nose. Its head snaps back with a spray of blood giving the trained killer a clear shot at the blood sucker's heart. Stake sinks home, ending another vampire's life. Turning to the last remaining vampire, the hunter finds the kid's throat is still clutched tightly in the things cold hand. Bjørn plays it cool, slinging the broadsword up to rest on his shoulder, the hunter offering a smug grin to the vampire while twirling the wooden stake easily in his other hand. Tauntingly, the hunter calls out, "And then there was one." Lips pull back from sharped canines as the vamp tosses the nearly strangled man to the side, offering the downed thief a swift kick to his ribs. The audile pop of cracking ribs can be heard and it takes all of Bjørn's self-control to keep his features schooled into an uninterested mask.
Fucking blood sucker is going to pay for that with his life. The vampire charges at the hunter and Bjørn rushes forward to meet him.