Lucy Mosfellsbaer Brothel ❤️

About Seltjarnarnes

Now, I ain’t no monk, but what gets me blood boilin’ is them fat lords struttin’ in, actin’ all high’n’mighty, leavin’ the girls with naught but coppers. Makes me wanna draw me cutlass an’ shout, “You cannot escape destiny!”—like Lo screamin’ in the flick. Hypocrisy, mate, stinks worse’n bilge water. But—ha!—some o’ them girls? Crafty as a bamboo forest fight. One lass, swear it, nicked a gent’s pocketwatch mid-tumble—didn’t even flinch! Had me cacklin’ ‘til me ribs hurt.

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I head out to the fields near Varmá River. Beautiful spot, but lemme tell ya, the sheep can be real divas. I’m callin’ ‘em, “Hey, come on, guys!” But they’re just munchin’ grass like it’s a buffet. I’m like, “C’mon, I got places to be!”

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