West

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.

What You'll Find Here

Black Market
Cull & Pistol
Noah's Ark
Syn

Black Market

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.

What You'll Find Here

Edge of the Circle

Cull & Pistol

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

Noah's Ark

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

Co-owner Tobias Cain
Bar Manager Mira Ramos
Bartender Henry Tudor
Waitress Carolina Bedford

Syn

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

Manager Darcy Blackjack
Cats Aiden Tetradore
Cats Harlequin Westward

There is no God and we are his prophets [open]


Posted on December 18, 2015 by Cormac Taylor
West

How does a man decide in what order to abandon his life?




I don't normally take trophies. There are usually few details I care to remember about those I hunt. But on this particular night, I took a vamp's ring. It was plain, just a dark gray metal band thick enough to fit around my finger. What I liked about it is what was scribed around it. "Between the wish and the thing, the world lies waiting." It's a line I'd underlined until it'd ripped a hole in the page of my worn copy of All the Pretty Horses. It was a line I scribbled over and over on the walls of my cell during my tenure in prison. Why this vamp had it around his finger, I'll never know. I don't care to know. But I wiped the blood off it and slid it down my finger.

I fiddle with it, the fumbling, thick fingers from my other hand are twirling it, feeling the cool metal against my skin, while I sit, elbows planted on a dirty bar top. This place is noisy and full of smoke. The divey joint is just where I want to be after a kill. No one here will bother me. I sip from a tall can of PBR, waiting for the old bartender to return with a shot of whiskey. This is what I do, when I'm paid and have a few extra dollars to spend before rent is due at that shitty motel. It's what I do while waiting in between assignments. Sometimes I take refuge in that shitty room and I read. Sometimes I go to the cafe across the street where the coffee is only 99 cents to refill. Sometimes I splurge and take the train to the library on the other side of town. But most of the time I come here, fill my insides up with some whiskey and stagger home, no longer afraid of the biting cold.

I let out a deep exhale and raise the shot glass to my lips. I silently pay homage to the Taylor men that came before me, the alcoholic genes that course through my veins, and I knock the rest of the drink back. The whiskey is still hot on my breathe, its spices warming my chapped lips with every exhale. I relish in the burn as it tears down my throat. The buzz begins to set in and I relax, my knees widen further from one another and my back presses more deeply into the chair I'm sitting in. I have a few more hours here in the bar - away from the cold outside - before I'll return home. I'll try to keep the drinks coming slowly, but I know better. It's something I tell myself. I repeat it over and over in my brain as I drag my heaving body here almost every night after work. Just one tonight then I'll go. But that one always turns to four, or five or six. I'm always looking for another reason to stay here longer. To mix with the company of people with menial jobs - who have people to go home to after this and won't try to run away or ambush me when they realize who I am. Hell, maybe that's why I stay here so long.

I'm a fool to think I fit in here. It's clear that I'm an outsider. A young man weathered well beyond his age, sitting in filthy, blood-stained clothing with just a few dollars to his name. A hand reaches back into my tight pocket, I feel the tips of the green bills wadded there and mentally count how much is left. Maybe just one more, then I'll head on home. The mental battle continues. But when the bartender eyes me I nod, ordering that next round. And I don't feel guilty about it. It's been a long time since I've felt guilty about anything I've done.




Cormac Taylor | Dark Hunter | Vinyl

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