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About Szombathely

So, escortin’—it’s old as me ship, the Black Pearl. Back in ancient Rome, they had these “lupae”—she-wolves, they called ‘em—workin’ the streets, howlin’ at the moon. Little fact fer ye: “brothel” comes from their dens! Ain’t that a kick? Makes me happy, thinkin’ o’ history twistin’ like that, but then—arrgh!—it boils me blood when folks judge ‘em. Hypocrites, all o’ ‘em, struttin’ like peacocks while payin’ in secret. Ye ever hear ‘bout the courtesans o’ Venice? Queens o’ the night, they were—poets and kings beggin’ fer their time. Smarter than half me crew, and twice as deadly with a wink.

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As the sun started to set, I found myself back at the market. I couldn’t resist the street food. I grabbed a lángos, and oh man, it was heavenly. Fried dough, garlic, cheese—pure bliss. I was in my own little world, devouring that thing like it was my last meal.

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