Visit a brothel

Decision made, you leave the house and made your way to the place. You wear a heavy woolen cloak with the hood pulled low to obscure your face. A scandalous move for a prince, to be sure, but the nobility often frequents the taverns and brothels of the lower ward, hidden beneath the anonymity of the dark. You are simply fulfilling the role the world has written for you.

​You walk down the muddy paths toward the docks. The scent of cheap ale, roasting river fish, and woodsmoke grows thicker. You stop before a large, timber-framed building with a red lantern hanging above the heavy oak door. The muffled sounds of laughter and lute music drift from within.

The air is thick with the smell of tallow candles and unwashed bodies. Men of all stations, merchants, soldiers, and minor clerks, all drink at rough-hewn tables. You bypass the main taproom and approach the back counter, where the proprietor stands.

The mistress of the house is a sharp-eyed woman in her forties. Her heavy makeup and faded silk dress reveal her past; she is a former whore herself who survived the trade long enough to buy the establishment. She looks you up and down, her gaze lingering on the quality of your boots, but she does not recognize your face. To her, you are just another wealthy patron looking for a night of indulgence.