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
The kid is obviously in pain. The broken rib(s?) make movement painful and Bjørn winces in sympathy as the kid reaches forward to grab his knife, his forehead crinkling as he attempts to control the pain. Hazel eyes search the thief's face as Bjørn speaks of the black box, looking to see how the man will react. If the kid lies to him, the hunter will take him to the doctor and then wherever he wants but that will be the end of the conversation. He watches as the young man weigh his options, Bjørn keeping a neutral, almost bored, expression on his face. The smirk and rough words that are ground out through the thief's swollen throat have the hunter's mouth twitching up. Maybe this kid isn't so bad after all.
Slipping the black box into one of his jackets hidden inner pockets, Bjørn steps back from the man, Tipsy, to exit. One eyebrow lifts, as Tipson gives his name, the hunter unsure of it is his real name or a fake one. Ah, what the hell? Might as well show the kid some trust. Deep voice rumbles out as the hunter says,
But still, Bjørn has always been uncomfortable receiving others gratitude. He is cursed with this immortal life but that did not change who he is. As the pair move, the hunter keeps close to the injured Tipsy, while also trying to give the young man space. He worries he might scare the kid off, so he takes everything slowly like he would with a wounded, vicious animal. Tipsy's rough voice catches the hunter's ears and Bjørn has to stop himself from gently scolding the injured man for talking with a swollen throat. The kid seems more at ease talking, and the hunter decides to indulge Tipsy curiosity. Usually, he would prefer silence, years (or was it decades?) alone have taught Bjørn how to be at peace with himself, to be comfortable when there is no noise expecting the beating of own heart.
A smirk plays across the hunter's lips as Tipsy questions him and Bjørn says,
As the pair approach the car, Bjørn fishes the keys from his pants pocket and hits the button to unlock the doors. Opening the passenger door for Tipsy, the hunter turns around to look at the young man and says,