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

There is no God and we are his prophets


Posted on January 08, 2016 by Cormac Taylor
West

How does a man decide in what order to abandon his life?




There is a warmth that lingers. It splinters through my veins, moving slowly from my gut back up through my body. It envelopes me, holding me when I'm weakest, singing me to sleep when I've had just enough. It's that first dizzy spell that hooks me. I feel loose, limber. I willingly give up control to the whiskey, relieved for the rest it represents. I am numb, for the first time since the last time, and my mind finally rests. The noise of the bar dulls to a constant, low droning hum. No one is paying attention to me, perched here in the middle of the bar, and that couldn't be more alright with me. Thoughts of Fire, of the vamp I killed before slip away from my memory, albeit briefly.

Everything feels fine.

But the commotion grows, slowly at first. It chips its way into my blurred tunnel vision, my senseless bliss begins to evaporate. People are shouting. The bartender whips his arms up in a fury, a hairy, sweaty appendage pointing at the doorway. A woman shrieks and a man yells. Some bodies have jumped onto tables. Like any good drunk, I'm the last to cock my big dumb head toward the door. There in the hazy depths I spy the source of the problem -- a street dog is there. Its blue eyes aren't looking at us. It's seeing something else entirely. The creature growls and someone at the bar whimpers in response. The barkeep has a broom in his hands now.

Maybe it's because I've done so many things while drunk. Or maybe it's because this beast interrupted me before I'd drank too much. But the fog behind the whiskey begins to lift and I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins. It brings me back. Good as sober. good as ever.

But it's too late.

The coyote leaps at me -- or at something else -- the nimble canine crawling its way under my chair and knocking me to the hard, filthy ground underneath. My head makes contact and I groan something awful as I kick my body out of the way, the open can of beer making sure to nail me in the chest as the table falls down next. I rise to my knees quickly, bloodshot eyes watching the dog as it attempts to grasp at some wily looking alley cat. But the claw marks the coyote's left in the tiled floor are deep, too deep. The grooves span inches down into the floor, giving away that this is no normal coyote. What the hell would a wild dog be doing in the middle of the city anyway?

A flat smirk inches its way over my thin lips and I reach for the knife strapped under my coat at my back. "Come here, shifter." I mutter in my mind, making sure that only the coyote can hear me in its own mind. I'm no good at the telepathy I inherited from my father, but I'd seen him create elaborate false realities for his prey. I've been surprised by some of those I hunt, ones who were able to make me in a crowd. The fear when they spotted me, it drained the color from their skin. I want this shifter to feel me here. I want to see the fear in its eyes. My wide hands then move to grab at the coyote's hips, with every intention of throwing the dog back from the table and tossing it across the floor toward the door it came in from.



Cormac Taylor | Dark Hunter | Vinyl

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