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

still not too old to die young


Posted on February 08, 2015 by ISOLT GRIFFIN
West

isolt griffin

It is theorized that in moments of heightened emotional turmoil and impending physical threat that a mind laden of trepidation might then transport the victim to instances of prior mental and physical terror. Though the theory itself might have appeared as but a whisper unto the far grander chorus of Isolt's inner tumult, the evidence of its axiom paints itself upon the canvas of her mind's eye. Similarities, redundancies in character, began to make themselves readily apparent between the wretched blonde before her and an individual who, try though she might, Isolt cannot and could never have forfeited to the corrosive acidity of diminished memory. This vampire, whoever she truly would expose herself to be, was ever so hauntingly similar to Risque. They were, both of them, two billowing fronts of darkness, a pair of tenebrific leviathans set to coiling about the fledgling. But a few moments spent in her presence and already the auburn-haired woman could feel the icy glaze of panic as it crusted over every portion of her inner self. Every reconstructed piece of her trembled, the fissures once placed there by Risque threatening to undo months of personal remodeling on behalf of the flame-haired woman. All of this from a single glimmer of... something abhorrent within the eyes of this woman who had, for reasons unknown, chosen her for the eve's entertainment. There was darkness there, a depthless and acerbic malice that was, though naught more than a skittering spark across her gaze, a terrifying and foreboding thing.

"I-I don't care what you call me, just leave me alone," she retorts, though the conviction of the syllables as they drip from the curl of her tongue is hardly prevelant. Isolt's attempts to bolster herself against the onslaught of mood and memory set free from a proverbially unclasped Pandora's Box are fleeting and they are fickle. Should this woman, this stranger turned purported foe, possess even the barest modicum of Risque's admitted ire, her propensity for sadism, Isolt would quickly find herself traipsing a veritable knife's edge. And so do considerations of her Maker's atrocities fall into the tumult of the young girl's emotional abyss, the agony of worry sloughing from her in a moment of clarity that is marked by its admitted rarity. Though her adversary might seek to rouse whatever "monster" presumably lay coiled and slumbering within the bowels of the demure redhead, so too does something far more human squat far nearer to the surface. The need to flee, the primordial requirement that any threat be staved in whatever manner be deemed most compliant to circumstance and character. And so, in what is perhaps a final attempt to be rid of this woman who surely means her no aide, Isolt pivots swiftly upon her heels and vanishes back from whence she had come, a silent prayer cast into the oblivion that the blonde's desire for mischief would not prove strong enough to dictate that she give chase.


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