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 September 07, 2015 by isolt griffin
West

isolt griffin


This is what it was to labor under the fallacy of presumed control where there existed not a shred, to bask in the etherreal radiance of confidence when such certainty was brash, misplaced as ever it could have been. This is what it was to have the dice, proverbial or otherwise, tumble from your cupped hand, to partake in the ceremony of forfeiting an outcome to the jester fate in the oft-futile hope of favor. This is what it was to gamble. And, Isolt knew it in the barest moment of still, salacious calm that transpired in the wake of her transformation...

... this is what it was to lose.

The cruel realization of the truest depths of her folly crash upon her as some assailant wave upon a weathered cliff as Isolt takes note of the ire in her adversary's eyes. It is malevolent, a vivid and searing conflagration burning hotter and more intense than it had at any point heretofore, a vengeful levithan beget of her own transgression. It was but one step in a series that would come to lead Isolt astray and still further from any hope of salvation. The calefaction of her attacker's ire is conceived in naught but the clearest terms as the redheaded damsel finds herself pinioned against the wall at her back, the slender crescents of the other woman's nails pressed viciously against the pallor of her neck. Hardly can the notion to struggle birth itself from the ether of her mind's tumult before Isolt is thrown to the ground in a show of strength so far superior to her own.

No sooner can she turn, her attempts to keep her adversary within site an instinctively crucial ordeal, before the heft of a boot collides with ribs that had only just begun to set themselves properly. A haze disrupts the clarity of her vision, stars bursting at the brims of a reality that droops as saturated paint slithering from a canvas, naught but a choked cry capable of escaping past the fibrous knot that constricts so voraciously within the slender tube of her throat. Isolt grapples with the need to remain focused, to maintain some measure (however minute) of sense so that she might at least track the actions of her assailant. Though it would seem that even in its infancy this task was to know the most gruesome failure, the blonde wretch astride her before Isolt can rightly focus what remains of her scattered attentions upon the woman.

And focus she does in the moments that fangs delve into the suppleness of her neck, the disguised redhead reacting in a moment of instinctual terror as one hand is freed from beneath the heft of her attacker, coiling about the woman's neck in a moment just lengthy enough to see her fangs extracted. It is the memory of Risque that fuels her, that ignites some nearly-suffocated flame that twitches within, for when last Isolt had experienced the sensation of fangs upon her neck... it had been the death of her in more ways than merely one. Whatever curse lay coiled upon her tongue as some venomous viper poised to strike evaporates... unheard for the blood-curdling scream that erupts from stilled lungs as a blade splits through tissue and sinew, colliding solidly with the stone floor at her back.

The guise she bares falls away, liquifying as the will to maintain it seeps from her in an exodus that is swift and tragic. Streams of bloodied tears fall from the azure of her eyes as she looks to the woman that hovers above her, a torturous vulture if ever one had been known. "What do you want? Please... just tell me..." she begs through the sobs that wrack her.



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