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 shares about the box and why the vampires had been there and Tipson is quick to point out that there more boxes back in the creates. Raising an eyebrow, the hunter simply gives a small dip of his head and says,
As the duo make the uneventful trip to Bjørn's car, the hunter makes sure to keep alert... just in case. Once there, the hunter opens the door for Tipson and then turns around to state his rules. Carefully, the hunter watches the kid's face, reading Tip's minute facial twitches. Most people cannot read the unspoken signs faces give away. However, the hunter knows these secrets. Even if the person is a skilled actor and is practiced at putting on masks, certain areas can twitch without there knowing. Bjørn has lived a lifetime and, one thing he had taught himself during that time, was how to read those tells. The way the muscles on Tipsy's right cheek twitch and jump speak of the uncertainty Tip feels about agreeing to the rules. The grin that the kid throws on to try and charm the hunter does not fool Bjørn but he plays along. Giving a firm nod, the man steps away as the door as Tipson slides into the passenger's seat.
Bjørn walks around to the driver's side door, casting a glace back toward where they had come from. The cleaning crew would be there soon and any trace of the vampires and their cargo would be gone within an hour. With that, Bjørn opens the door while unbuckling his scabbard and pulling it from his back. As he slides into the drives seat, the hunter places his trusty sword by his left leg and, when the door closes, the hilt is propped up for easy access. Putting the key into the ignition, Bjørn turns it over and the car rumbles to life. Tipson's roaming eyes do not go unnoticed by the hunter and, as he throws the car into gear, he rumbles out,
The car is spotless, no trash or coins anywhere to be seen. It is immaculately clean, the dash sparkling under the street lights as they pass, the windows bare no smudges either. Bjørn prides himself on keeping things clean and in order, his townhouse is in the same state. There are no personal items in either, just functional things used for their primary purpose. Sure, the hunter has amassed a moderate fortune over his unnaturally long life but he does not buy flashy things. It's just... not him. Instead, Bjørn gives his money to those in need. Homeless people and animals have more of his money then he has ever spent on himself. Tipsy speaks of opening the box and Bjørn shakes his head with a grin. His voice rumbles out, as the hunter says,
When they finally make it back to the road, Bjørn points the car toward the outskirts of the city, opting for a smaller, quieter place for a doctor to inspect Tipsy. Once they are moving toward their destination, Bjørn says,