Chicago, perhaps one of the greatest places to be in the magical world. While Chicago's citizens dwells and ripens like the the rest of mortal kind, here lies a dangerous might, unseelie by nature, and yet the whole world has been waiting a long time to see it move. Some to ask for power, others wealth or glory in defeating it, and one, who no one would have expected to, would ask for mortality, given the chance.
Chicago is known for a variety of "hangouts" in which people of magical talent and nature can sit and chat without fear, without worrying of the consequence of talking to creatures of such a nature that may be considered dangerous otherwise. One of which, the most infamous, is the Bar of Hal Gibson, the only underground pub in the city where they serve a nice warm beer, meant to be warm, of course.
Jacob, nameless now in the shame of his previous life, sat here on his last dollar and last set of clothes that hadn't been torn by the ravagings of senseless mortals' lust and on the last raw steak that he would eat from Hal's in a long time. It was good, but the taste of blood in the meat felt tainted compared to the pure taste of...
I shouldn't be thinking that, he thought to himself and bit down into the steak, hard.