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About Nantes

So, here’s the deal—findin’ a prossie ain’t no picnic. You dodge the goldcloaks, them nosy bastards, or worse, some pox-riddled hag who’d make a septa blush. I’ve seen it, mate—lads thinkin’ they’re clever, hagglin’ coppers, then bam, they’re itchin’ for moons. Me? I’m smarter—well, half the time. “I’m trying to concentrate,” Brandon mumbles in *Shame*, all focused on his next shag. That’s me, squintin’ through the ale haze, pickin’ the peach from the rot.

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