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

some say the world will end in fire (Davante)


Posted on June 21, 2015 by Rixon Leifsson
West
photo aefc25e7-6c13-442d-b3a9-1f809cc70445_zpsa1e91453.jpg

Each hoof step rung out atop that cracked concrete that so seemed to dictate the flooring of this rather....low socio-economic area, that broken sidewalk and rusted buildings decorating the west in a placard of pathetic that led, eventually, to the docks where the reeking scent of fish aided in keeping the equine away from that immediate area. The West was not his territory, in fact, the last time he had ventured upon it he had seen fit to engage the Ark Alpha directly, the memories of this engagement seeing a quirk of sorts upon his lips, head tossed in mild amusement as he snorts in some horse-ish version of laughter before that long, thick white mane falls back into place to shield his features once more. For a moment the aged wood almost seems to groan between the weight of his heavy, equine form, feathered feet and thick muscle surely indicating some taint of draft blood as the war horse proceeds to wander. It is fortunate, today perhaps, that he hardly seeks any issue or trouble from the Nightshade Pack, indeed he remains unbothered by them- skirting their territory lines but failing to cross them for now. Today he was merely out- because sometimes being in was hard, because every now and then he craved air and space and the feel of hooves as opposed to hands.

He relishes in his ability to control, takes some sense of pride in his ability to restrain his own more animalistic instincts and yet, every now and then even he is inclined to slip perhaps- to cave into his desires to simply be the animal he is and relish in the speed and power that comes with it. He has already run today, large feathered hooves having torn up a decent amount of the park lands of the south, mud and dirt caking his hooves and lower limbs and yet for now he is content. Some needs are more easily sated then others after all, a need to run fairly simplistic in the scheme of things and for now the man finds himself content enough to wander back towards his home, cutting easily through the west side of town merely because it is convenient- because he holds little to no respect for Tetradore and his pack and hardly minds if they take offense to his presence here today. He is outside their more personal boundaries and as such expects little from them today.

A change within the wind sees those nostrils flare suddenly, the hulking, towering creature pausing in his ambling to incline that handsome head suddenly towards a row of buildings, violet eyes narrowed slightly. He can scent...something. For a moment he merely stands, ears pricked atop at his head, tail flicking loosely against his flanks, momentarily assessing what exists before him as his lip quirks slightly once more. He has spent the better parts of his evenings pilfering from Alexander and his coffee house, today however, his target has changed- hooves treading more softly now as he approaches the store front and the opened front window that allows his large head to peer within. It is empty, or seemingly so, the scent of a least one male fairly potent and yet if the owner of the store if foolish enough to leave it unattended then Frost is content to take what he desires. Someone has left their breakfast unattended, the oatmeal, toast and coffee resting atop the small table just inside the window far to tempting to be ignored as that thick, powerful neck simply arches, lashings of white forelock falling all about him as he does. The oatmeal is consumed first, the stallion moving then to the toast, licking at the coffee every now and then. He could easily return home and consume his own breakfast, yet his lack of...ethics perhaps, hardly sees him concerned, resting comfortably on three legs, the other cocked and resting as he helps himself to this free breakfast. If the warlock should return and take chagrin in his actions- then so be it. He hardly cared.




Frostbite
HTML by Apollymi ~ Image by AJB

Replies