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
still not too old to die young
Posted on December 20, 2015 by ISOLT GRIFFIN
isolt griffin
It is a nod to the etherreal wandering of her lucid self that Isolt lingers as she does in this state of hypnosis, a quiet spectator to the fledgling carnage that unfolds before her. She does not see it; by subconscious choice or otherwise cannot be rightly said. Still deeper does her conscious self retreat, foraging in the ether for some emotional oasis from the damage she has suffered at this blonde vampire's hand. But it is for naught, for all that she is capable of finding... all that her troubles purchase is the wherewithal to put forth the admittedly meager attempt to stay Damon's hand. Mentally and physically spent, Isolt slumps from the muscular frame of her lover as he meanders forward to dole out the barrages of his own vendetta, cringing and crumbling as some ashen tinder with the fear that remains as poison within her.
It feels as hours that she lingers there, terror a constricting serpent about her innards, before the redheaded woman finally comes to. It is not the words cut from the barbed tongue of the vagabond as she spits them like acidic bile, nor is it the threat of continued pursuit made clear by them; rather, it is the curling aroma of Damon's blood that awakens the will for life inside of her. The knowledge that he is injured is her heart's volley, the young nightwalker rising as deftly as she is able given the current state of her physical form and wrapping her slender hands rather tightly about the arms of this man she adores so completely. "Damon," she whispers, the hushed tone far more commanding than it was before, "please." Her plea, though, is nearly drowned by the hissing demands of her assailant which earns the woman Isolt's attentions and the depthless azure of her eyes. This threat, it would seem, is the proverbial straw to buckle whatever restraint Isolt had been clinging to in these moments of greatest horror.
The cement ceiling above the blonde's head quickly becomes dissected with lengthy, jagged lesions, the foundation of the building itself buckling, moaning against its beams... solely because Isolt wills it so, because she believes that it should. But she does not linger to view the consequences of her own display, grasping tighter about Damon's arm and attempting to drag him towards the gapping maw of the doorway. A tortured cry seeps from her lips as her not-quite-healed rips shift painfully with her body's every movement, crimson splotches appearing anew upon Damon's shirt as wounds slow to mend themselves surrender to the twisting of her frame. Yet still does she run, her hand clasped desparately upon that of her companion as the world about them seems to quiver. Still does she run until the night's cool zephyr laps against her skin in a soothing caress. Only then does she still, turning in a painfully slow manner to meet the eyes of her lover for but a moment before they fall to the disaster that is the shirt he has given her. And then, in a somewhat comical homage to the exhaustion she feels, Isolt's eyes well with crimson tears as she chokes out what surely is a quite absurd observation. "I ruined your shirt..."
