East

The east side of the city is the very heart of Sacrosanct - it's unique skyline is a clash between modern sky rises and small Victorian-inspired storefronts. In the heart of downtown, the sleek colored glass buildings reign supreme though their old-world roots can be seen in the most peculiar places from the lamp post styled electric street light to the stone sidewalks. The old world architecture slowly returns the further from downtown you travel, however. It's here that magic thrives, it hums in every stone and can be felt in every breath. Often, newcomers to the city may become overwhelmed by such sensations but, eventually, it becomes an ever-present feeling that's hardly noticed.

What You'll Find Here

City Creek Center
Dark Hunter Department
Inner Sanctum
Red on the Water
Starlight Tower

live in your inner self alone


Posted on October 26, 2019 by anastasia romanova
East


The smell of the freshly-extinguished flames is assaulting, putrid as it curls into her nostrils to lick at the delicate flesh at the back of her throat. Though barely does Anastasia note the taste of it upon her tongue, more so is her attention monopolized by the pinch of a fistful of needles as the hairs upon her neck pull themselves to attention and the sound of the grumbling voice at her back that bids them to do so. Long ago had Anastasia conditioned herself not to allow her eyes' aversion to life's darkened corners to hinder her or send her careening down the short, steep avenue to fear as it very well might have done. There is much more than sight, moya Anya, you need only to focus. The words of her father echo from the boundless depths of recollection, the seemingly simplistic mantra one that she had clung to with almost desperate dedication throughout the decades.

"Candles are to be lit for the souls of the dead, Grigori," she purrs in a manner so outwardly unperturbed, the smooth blade of the dagger sliding from its holster within her sleeve and into her waiting fingers, "and, despite your best efforts, I am still very much alive." Such a small sentiment to encompass a tenebrific history that spanned beyond the sprawling breadth of a century, the man at her back having afforded the later portion of his mortal life to first infiltrating and then systematically dismantling the glorious and historic dynasty that was the Romanov Empire. Such a manipulative parasite was he that her parents had placed near-absolute faith and privilege into his gnarled, blasphemous hands. They had peeled back the proverbial iron curtain of secrecy and had allowed this vermin into nearly every aspect of both their political and private lives. They, her dear ones, had trusted him without fault... all with the exception of Anastasia. She had not been blind to the inherent darkness that seemed to bleed from every last pore of this supposed holy man.

The tenor of her uncle's voice rises as if from the ether beyond, he draws nigh to them with every passing moment- she can hear the muffled thud of his rubber-soled footfalls against the marble tiles of the cathedral, though she makes neither shift nor sound to acknowledge his approach. Rather does she afford him silent gratitude for the distraction he proffers up for the self-proclaimed mystic who casts the domineering length of his shadow over her. "WE are in the midst of a conversation. A reunion of sorts, good sir, and I daresay your interruption is quite unwelcome." It is only this that she needs, this single, small moment of modest distraction as he goads her uncle. She strikes quickly and with a precision that is so very glorious that it might have appeared effortless, an homeage to the years of training, years of conditioning that she had undergone beneath Alexander's vigilant and watchful eye.

The sweeping arc of her dagger is decided, sincere in the connection that it makes as it drags against Rasputin's leathery skin with the ease of a knife through softened butter. Though Anastasia cannot see the wreckage that she has made, she knows that her mark has been met for she can feel the soft, immediate give of her opponent's eye beneath the pressure of her blade, the tepid spray of his lifeblood unto her wielding hand. A great, bellowing roar erupts form Rasputin as he retreats a number of paces, one claw-like hand pawing at the damage wrought upon his face. A more leveled playing field. The notion hovers at the forefront of the Duchess' mind as she slides nearer to the spot where she had last heard her uncle, a single, seeking hand stretching forth into the obscure darkness.

Anastasia Romanova

Grand Duchess of Imperial Russia

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