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    The West

    The western part of the city is often home to the poorer residents. Here there is a certain grunge 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, instead letting the powerful supernatural beings sort things out amongst themselves. Be careful wandering the Western streets after the sun falls.

    What's You'll Find Here

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    Noah's Ark

    owned by Aiden Tetradore
    1 employees

    Noah's Ark

    Resting upon the harbor, Noah's Ark appears to be little more than an abandoned cargo ship. 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.

    Owner Aiden Tetradore

    Co-owner Tobias Cain

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    Warehouse District

    Warehouse District

    The warehouse district rests just upon the harbor within the city. Many of the warehouses belong to corporate companies although some are used for less the legal means. Be careful when wandering this district at night for many groups meet within those dark, dilapidated buildings. There are also whispers of hard to obtain goods being sold behind those closed doors but you have to know who's who to get an in!

we could live like legends;50.188.48.144Posted On May 06, 2017 at 9:37 AM by kearn.

it's a shallow little world


He liked that coat. It was - had been - his favorite. And in the moment he can do little more than scrub a hand over his face at the sight of the smoking remnants of sleeves. Even that felt like showing weakness. It would be foolish to say anything, not knowing what else she might incinerate (accidentally or otherwise), but his dark, sharp look said enough.

He’s glad he held his tongue when the hunter speaks again, his gaze flicking from her fingers against the glass to the sword still in her hand and up to her face. There’s something in her expression he can’t read - something too wild, still too distant from what he and Flora were. A chill slides like a drop of water down his spine, another reminder, another warning. This may be his - their - home, but they’d invited something far stronger in. It would be more than foolish to forget it.

Once again, Flora spares him the need to respond. Once again, he meets her knowing gaze, feels that strange fondness for her settle in his bones. A girl with a flower. You could almost pretend she was any other eleven-year-old, except for everything else in this scene.

“She’s right,” he says coolly, spreading his hands. Kearn moves his gaze from Flora just as hers turns foul, but the smirk that’s there and gone again is proof enough he knows how she feels. “We’re no threat to anyone. Especially someone like you.”

As soon as the hunter and the thief are gone from the room the facade collapses. In this moment, alone in his kingdom, he is only a boy well out of his depth. Kearn slumps on the couch, knees on elbows, face in his hands. Eyes closed, he draws in a slow breath, trying to slow the fearful gallop of his heart. On any day bringing Calliope home was a mistake - but on this day, so soon after his meeting with the Viking, it could be a death sentence. For all of them. You fool, you fool, you fool. Another breath, a fleeting prayer (if you could call it that; Kearn keeps no gods) and then he hears the bathroom door click shut.

By the time Flora rounds the doorway he’s back to his casual, waiting grace, an ankle crossed over his knee, one arm along the back of the couch. There is no sign of his fear, of his worry; there is only lip-curled disdain as he catches the coat and holds it out in a brief and fruitless examination. “I don’t suppose you know any witch-tailors,” he says, folding what’s left of the coat and setting it gently beside him.

Her question is met with a sigh, but the look he gives her is unusually open. “I don’t know where she came from. It was just me, and then there was…” He pauses to search for the word, hands lifting to make an open gesture as the corners of his mouth draw down. “A disturbance in the feeling of the night. And then she was there. The question is what to do with her.”

Like the word had been a conjuring, he glances up to find the her in question standing in the room, having arrived more silently than he’d have thought possible. Kearn shows no apology for what she’d overheard, only passes his gaze from the sword she still wore to the way she looked in clothes not made for her. He wonders if her self-afflicted cut had stopped bleeding.

“So.” His voice is smooth and low, all business and boldness. “Tell us what you remember.”




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