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About Logan City

So, findin a prossie—ain’t no highborn quest. You don’t send ravens or polish yer armor. Nah, you sniff the alleys, follow the perfume mixed with piss. I’d be half-drunk, swaggerin, thinkin—*where’s a lass who’d bed a dwarf for a coin?* In *City of God*, Lil’ Zé’d probly shoot me for starin too long, but here? They just want gold, not yer head. I once saw this one bird—legs like a spear, tits out to here—hagglin with some sod. Made me laugh, she’s all “Pay up, you lil shit!”—reminded me of Rocket dodgin bullets, fierce as fuck.

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So, hit up Bell Street, right near Preston Market, where the city just pulses with quirky energy. Yo, I strolled along here when the Merri Creek was roaring—a proper vibe center. That creek, man, it's like a twisted spine through the city, twisting and turning, just like some erratic dream.

Preston's Bell of the ball