Sacrosanct contains four distinct neighborhoods, each with their own specific kind of houses and residents. Explore our districts, view lists of our citizens and enjoy our block parties!
What You'll Find Here
Anacosta Heights
Dupont Circle
Hawethorn Village
River Dale
Anacosta Heights
Situated above the daily life of the city, Anacosta Heights is a tucked away suburb featuring extravagant neo-gothic inspired mansions. The inhabitants of this neighborhood often show their overwhelming wealth with sports cars lining their long, circular driveways, large pools, and manicured gardens. The homeowners of Anacosta Heights treasure their privacy as seen by the high iron gates to the security personnel present at every entrance.
Dupont Circle
Dupont Circle is a small suburban neighborhood settled within the serene portion of the southern portion of town. These four-bedroom, single-family homes feature back yards, porches, garages, and far more breathing space then the Village offers. This neighborhood often is more family orientated and even has organized events for children and the neighborhood as a whole.
Hawethorn Village
Settled in the middle of downtown, Hawthorn Village consists of several victorian inspired row houses just off the main street. Due to it's convenience to just about everything, the village can be a tad expensive to live within. However, the residents of this neighborhood often have two to three-story townhouses, often with a one to two-car garage. Many of the houses feature bay windows and/or rooftop terraces with a small fenced-in 'yard'.
River Dale
River Dale primarily consists of apartments that, despite their age and industrial appearing interior, still hold to the Victorian history that permeates the town. These apartments are often the cheapest option and sport scuffed, older wooden floors, open floor plans, visible beams, and the occasional brick wall.
cause i see the light surrounding you
Posted on March 15, 2015 by Alekai Evero
 He truly dislikes to be referred to as 'supernatural', that single, simple label very near seeming to cause his blood to heat within his veins until it seems to seer at him from the inside out. Perhaps he remains in denial and yet it is that very denial that allows the man a reason to continue to get out of bed in the morning and offer meaning to existence. He is not like them he is separate from them and for reasons he truly cares little to attempt to explain he remains determined to place this line between himself and those of supernatural affiliation by his own design. He cannot be the thing he loathes, refuses to categorize himself amongst those he hunts. After all- what sense would that make? What God would create a being, a supernatural being, designed to Hunt his own kind and remove them? He is not like a vampire, after all, he remains entirely alive, he posses not animalism like a Were nor any ability to pass on the virus that afflicts them, he has no fairy wings nor any true magic that so seems to befit those of warlock blood, Hunters seeming to exist somewhere between mortal and immortal- more then Human but not quite Witch or Warlock, seeming to borrow their talents from across the supernatural spectrum and yet connecting entirely with none of the known species. Yet to have his talents referred to as magic, despite the overwhelming evidence is something he simply refuses to acknowledge. He cannot be like them. Refuses entirely, content within his world of denial if only for the convenience it provides. He has seen what happens to Hunters whom question to much, seen the toll it seems to take on whatever remains of their souls- a notion Azrael has struggled to except for several years and indeed he holds no desire to become so detached as they, so disenchanted from the world. He needs a reason....to get up each day, a reason not to simply seek an end to a seemingly endless existence of utter un-fulfilment and indeed it would seem that reason is simply to continue to rid the world of creatures whom are not like him. To connect himself to them remains purpose and reason, something the man is entirely unwilling to accept. After all, what does he truly have to live for if not his work? Evelyn had died near thirty years ago and without her....there was no one, not anymore. Lore insistence to berate his attempts at science to explain the use of his light based weapons result in only a deeper seated scowl that darkens the gold within his gaze, a snort offered by way of response and little else, refusing to dignify her response with an answer. It is only as the woman rises to return to the kitchen that the Hunter allows his gaze to lift once more, following her motion across the room to attend to the oven, the scents that lingered from it begrudgingly capturing his attention, her sudden exclamation at that burn she received for her effort seeing his eyes lift monetarily in response- reflexes responding instantly to the sound of her distress before forcefully quelling any instinct to react otherwise, eyes turned away from her once more- content to remain in his state of child-like tantrum as she so gracefully put it- his reply snapped towards her with perhaps more frost then she truly deserved. It is the pie perhaps, that seems to weaken his distaste for her, the sweet, sugary dessert- the sort of which he has been denied for years momentarily managing to derail the mans determination to dislike her. She was....pleasant he supposed, her overly cheerful demeanour as annoying as it was almost...sweet and yet his determination to keep others at arms length sees his mind hurriedly move to dismiss such thoughts. She was a witch, one of them and nothing was going to change it. A friendship with her was no more possible then it was with Serafina....so why did it bother him? It is his own agitation at himself that perhaps result in the overly harsh words he throws in her direction, willing to admit that was not wholly...terrible and yet her continued jibes he is hardly willing to tolerate in the same manner a wild animal is rarely willing to allow more then the occasional stoke of its fur until it becomes tamed. It is difficult to be in her presence, her pleasantness making it only more difficult to reject her attempts at friendliness much less her open use of magic that so displeases him- the words she fires back see his own gaze narrow and darken, that emanating glow of light seeming to shimmer about his frame as nails bite into the palm of his hands as they form fists at his side in a silent effort to control his temper enough not to shout right back at her. He couldn't possibly understand? For a moment the Hunter very near seems taken aback at her spitfire response to his own callous remark, allowing her to finish her rant as he remains silent. That he had touched a nerve, an evidently tender one was surely clear, the barest hint of guilt seeming to flicker somewhere within him at the water that seemed to well in her eyes. For all that he is....for all his agitation and aggression and irritable, apathetic nature there exists- somewhere within, the man he should have been- had been, once. The man whom never could remain steadfast in the face of a crying woman, a sigh of sorts drawn begrudgingly from his lips before he spoke once more, voice still cool, sharp, lacking any true warmth and yet perhaps befit of a sudden honesty. "I am older then I appear. I lived through World War Two. Do you truly believe I don't understand? I have seen the very worst of humanity. I understand fucking perfectly." The words a quiet, controlled, gaze focused once more upon the flames of the fire that had succeeded in drying him. She didn't know him, she didn't know anything about him- so why did they all fucking believe they did? He simply allows the silence that follows, returning his attention wholly to the pie, attempting once more to force down the feeling of...discomfort he felt in having made the girl cry. She was nothing to him, nothing, it shouldn't matter and yet some part of him clearly felt that it did- his empty plate returned to the side table as the woman returned to her seat still some distance from him, asking after his power once more in the wake of the momentary truce they had found. Why she maintained such an interest in it he hardly knew, half tempted to send Davante an abuse text in regards to his lateness in returning to the apartment and subjecting him to his sister's...hospitality, even if it was, well, not as wholly unwelcome as he attempted to portray, the man making some effort to force another tendril of politeness from himself in the wake of having reduced the girl to tears. He cannot stand crying women. How...weak of him. "The pie was....nice." Drawing a compliment from the handsome blonde man is as difficult as drawing blood from a stone 'nice' the evident limit tonight as he moves to abruptly stand, appearing suddenly beside the woman on the couch, ignoring his discomfort at her proximity momentarily before suddenly moving to grasp her hand. "Let me look at it for heaven's sake- you didn't nearly leave it under water long enough." That he is referring to the burn she had received from the oven is made clear as he takes her hand in his own, grasping it as gently as one holds a delicate china plate, thumb moving to brush across her palm and open her hand further to examine the red mark that danced so angrily across her skin. It is with an exaggerated sigh once more that one hand moves to reach around behind him, fishing something from within the back pocket of his jeans, producing a small, white plastic container- still holding the womans hand in a seemingly impossibly gentle manner for one dedicated to harming, rather then helping- even if he had not always been as such. "Put this on it, it will stop it blistering and take the edge off the pain and next time leave it under the tap for at least fifteen minutes, you left it there for barely five. Skin keeps burning for up to twenty minutes even after you take it away from whatever actually burned it just the same way meat keeps cooking after you take it out of the pan. Here, take it, I'm not putting it on for you for heaven's sake." The little plastic container of cream, an evident balm of sorts, was pressed into the woman's other hand, his own feather light grip released, momentarily noting the smooth, warm touch to her skin and reminding the man of entirely how long it had been since he had truly enjoyed such a touch as he returned to his chair, his single good deed for the day having been completed. "I use my light as a weapon, I can sculpt it into nearly any shape or form, I can change the brightness and the temperature of it. I can use it any way I want though I have not mastered this entirely nor have I discovered all that it does. I know it burns though- almost as if it has become so hot it holds no heat any longer. I have only ever managed this once, an accident, this light....obliterates beyond belief. It simply disintegrates everything in it's path. I can recreate it in small bursts when I need. I have a lot of....targets to practice with. How exactly it works I am yet to discover. I don't need a light source to create it though. I......make the light." One hand lifts easily as if to demonstrate, palm closing momentarily before opening once more to reveal the glowing orb that rested within it, that shining, gleaming miniature sun beginning to twist and shift before contorting into the shape of a fox, the animal leaping about atop his hand before fading into nothing. "I...suppose there is value in another whom shares some facets of my power. There might be something to learn, I suppose." |