Move along. You wanted a fuck, not a fight.

Though the whore had been exactly what you were looking for, it was a good sized city (not that big, but good sized), there were sure to be other likely candidates, who you wouldn’t need to deal with noblemen to fuck. You’d already noticed a distinct lack of liking for the aristocracy in yourself and your interactions with them tended to start out nasty and only get worse. They tend and tended to end in bloodshed, which usually meant you ended up running from the city guard, as well as vengeful family retainers. Without allies, you decided to take the sensible path and walk away.

Deeper into the vice district, you went, keeping one hand on the hilt of your sword and the other on your purse. Twice groups approached, knives in lean, hungry hands. Twice they retreated at the sight of your no nonsense glare. Finally, you spotted another likely lass. This one was clearly an out-of-towner, dark hair, dark eyes, soft features and swarthy skin marked her as an inhabitant of the Free-Cities along the Inner Sea. She wore the two piece outfit common to the cities, one band of fabric barely containing bounteous breasts, the other fell in graceful curves over powerful legs. Her outfit was a faded red and her hair fell in sensual ringlets of black down to the small of her back and her smile was calmly professional. Shorter than you, her tanned skin was a welcome relief after all those ivory-skinned locals and her unbound hair was delightfully perverse in a place where women’s hair was only unbound around their husbands. After surreptitiously checking the alleys and seeing a distinct lack of ambushers, you approached the prostitute.

“How much,” you asked straightforwardly.

Her eyes swept over you, appraising your wealth and the risk to her health, before she countered your question with her own. “Whatcha looking for, big boy?” her accent was pure Free-Cities, a little breathy, as if she was always just off her back.