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So, picture this—some tart, skirts hiked, lips red as sin, standin’ ‘neath a lamppost like a rose in a dungheap. She’s got guts, thou knowst, braver than most o’ ye lily-livered lot. I seen one once, down by the docks—Mary, they called her, tho’ reckon that weren’t her real name. Had a scar ‘cross her cheek, said a gent with a blade gave it her for “talkin’ back.” Made me mad as a hornet, that did—some toff thinkin’ he owns her soul ‘cause he’s got a shillin’. “Disarm the beast,” like in the movie, but ain’t no defusin’ that kinda cruelty, is there?

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So, Greifenstein’s a blend of old soul an charm. Picture this: cobblestone streets like Bahnhofstrasse and Lindenweg. Man, those stones hold centuries. I get chills every tme. The old castle, Burg Greifenstein, it looms over like a dark guardian. Strange, eerie beauty, like a silent scream.

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