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
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
welcome to bones under earth,
Posted on January 13, 2015 by KINGSLAY
The surroundings are not important. They never are. He doesn't see society. He doesn't see the communal efforts of men, of women â€" only metal. He never sees the junkyard scraps, all jagged iron, all cutting steel, for anything more than just that. So, he does not notice that these structures are buildings as he clings to the shadows, reeking of death. He does not notice much of anything when the monsters in his gut are quelled of their constant thirst.
He does, however, notice when something decides to come.
A leopard may be stealthy, but a leopard is no more made for the world of men than Kingslay is, and somewhere along it's journey the metal roofing bends under it's weight and echoes the subtle sounds of tin under pressure.
It isn't loud, but animals always know.
Kingslay is like an animal, all sharp teeth and instinct.
It isn't long before the leopard will find him (for he does not run, not when there are gluttonous creatures that stir in the cage of his ribs). It isn't long before it perches along it's metal scaffolding, as out of place as Kingslay and his dead eyes, as out of place as the rot of death along the harbor.
The smell will permeate everything, sick and sweet, and heavy like smoke. Death is different that way. When she was alive she didn't smell sick or sweet or heavy. When she was alive she smelled like the flowers braided through her hair, as light and as airy as the smiles on her lips (smiles he could never understand). When she was alive she reeked of innocence, and it oozed out from every pore in her body. It made him rattle. It made him quake. She forged earthquakes inside of him that cut him into halves, and for a moment at least he could not decide between slaughter or conversation.
He chose slaughter.
He chose screams instead of smiles. He chose one last breath escaping between her teeth and lips, instead of 'hello'. He chose the sounds of bone against bone, of flesh tearing, of blood spilling, over conversation. He chose to wear the stink of death like cologne, to watch the light in her eyes until it drained out.
He chose to steal a single blonde curl from her head when it was finished, and he holds it close to him even now, even here.
It is close enough now that it will see how empty and glass his eyes can be, why the villagers have ostracized him before with fires burning in the dark galaxies of their eyes. It isn't the magic that weaves through the strands of his DNA, magic that feels dark and heavy and black inside of his veins. Magic lives everywhere in this world. It's the sound of roots against bone. It's the sound of screaming that somehow you can hear without listening, a sound that echoes through your bones when you look at him and know that he is not like anyone else. It is close enough now that it will see him for what he is; a maniac, blood on his cheek, and pieces of decaying tissue stuck beneath the edges of his fingernails then pulled through the ends of his hair â€" a wild thing.
And the two of them will hang like this, in suspended animation, until one of them breaks.