Once upon a time, The Waydown was THE Hollower chantry in San Francisco. It originally started in the abandoned remains of St. Francis Church in Ashbury Heights before police interruption forced it to become one of the few Floating Chantries out there. Its nodes were located in the St. Francis Church and the Lincoln Cemetery. It was a crossroads where Orphans special enough to be on the guest list could meet, greet, and stomp their feet. Twice a month the club was open to those invited. Those invitations appeared in the mail, or coincidently on the invitee's windshield or front door telling the time and location of the next event. Some months it did not open at all, however, as the parts occurred completely at the whim of the hosts.
The chantry still offers sanctuary to Hollowers but not in the way it once did. Since the Avatar Storm, the party has ended. The golden age has passed, and the chantry cannot maintain security the way it once did. It has taken up residence in an old warehouse; a static location. There are few parties, and certainly not with guests that include Sleepers and other supernatural creatures.
The Chantry has earned infamy among the Hollow Ones. Those people on the guest list shared, to an extent, that infamy and miss the place terribly. Patrons of the club prized their status and the exclusivity it fostered.
The Waydowners, or Waydown Viktae, ran the place and still live in the new chantry. The Viktae includes Neville Sinclair Nevermore, Penny Dreadful, Baron, and several others who come and go over time. They have decorated the new chantry similarly to what it was as a Horizon Realm: a sentimental gesture as much as anything. The floor-to-ceiling draperies, back-lit stained-glass windows, and candelabras cast a shifting, dreamlike illumination over the place. Darkened alcoves, now empty, host lounging couches and low tables that once seated intellectuals and modern romanticists discussing the news of the day and the philosophies of the past. Memories of laughter and sighs ripple through the torn, black netting like spectral emanations. The music descends from on high and rises from below. Much more quiet than it once was, it still fills the empty spaces. A dance floor occupies the very center of the main room. At one time, no matter where you were seated, you could watch the drifting ballet and stomping self-expression. Those were the good old days.