Head to Olaf's tavern

"You may take me to the castle tomorrow," you say, waving a dismissive hand at Ingo. "Tonight I am tired and cold. I will see if this peasant you call Olaf can provide me with accomodations."

It isn't much of a walk from Ingo's manure cart to the creaking flaggon sign of Olaf's. It hangs above a simple wooden door. When you open it, light and noise spills out into the street. The room tavern is small and decorated in the style befitting the sort of classless Eatern European retro you expected. The stuffed wolf and elk heads are awash in the golden firelight of a large hearth.

Patrons, all men, sit in twos and threes and fours around tiny wooden tables. They stop in their activities and conversations to regard you, your voluptuous body silhouetted in the doorway. These men, farmers or hunters, are as pale and ugly as Ingo, though the smell here is less of manure and more of unwashed bodies. Beneath that disgusting odor you detect the faint aroma of something almost edible being cooked.

A blonde barmaid emerges from a back door carrying a tray heaped with steaming meats. She is wide-hipped and plain and her pale bosom threatens to overflow her cinched peasant top. A mountain of a barkeep stares at you from behind a grimey counter.

You don't care for the men oggling your bits, but you are glad enough to be out of the cold. You approach the bar, leaning forward against the scuffed wood so that your big breasts strain the vinyl and are pushed together between your arms. The barkeep grunts.

"Olaf, I presume," you say to the thick-necked barkeep. He spits in a bucket at his feet in reply. "I'll have a bottled water and, do you have any soups?"

"Elk's heart," says Olaf. "We have sausages in the smokehouse. Also elk's heart."

"I'll have a packet of crisps then."

He turns around and rummages in a chest. He returns with a packet of beet-flavored crisps and a wooden cup sloshing with dirty water.

"Uh, do you have anything to drink that won't give me a medieval disease?"

Olaf growls. He opens a trapdoor in the floor and thumps down a narrow staircase. Minutes later he returns with a dusty bottle of wine. He unstoppers it with his teeth and slides it across the bar.

"Anyfing else?"

"Your finest room," you say, having a sniff of the wine. It smells strong enough to be sterile at least.

"Twenty bits," he demands, slamming down a brass key.

"I've lost my credit cards in a plane accident, but my family is very wealthy." You flash your smile at him and pick up the crisps and key. "I will repay you double as soon as--"

Olaf grabs your wrist in a huge hand. His smile is cruel and reveals yellowed teeth.

"No money, no nothing," he says. "Pay up or get out."

He sneers and licks the corner of his mouth. You don't have any money, but you can think of a thing or two that might convince a simple brute like Olaf to be generous. He has a wedding band on his hand. Must be married to the plump woman serving meat. He's starved for attention from a fit young thing such as yourself, no doubt. Well, at least Olaf is not as bad to look at as Worm or that Ingo. You could give him enough fun to dominate him or maybe suggest a work-for-food deal that won't risk angering his wife.