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About Namur

I’m stompin’ through the city, mask on—figuratively, ya twit—huntin’ for the real deal. Not some poser actin’ all fancy. Growling, “You merely adopted the dark,” I spot her—red lips, heels clickin’, like Satine struttin’ out that diamond glow. Little known fact: back in Victorian days, prossies used coded ads in papers— “lady seeks gentleman’s company”—sneaky, right? Made me chuckle, thinkin’ how clever they were.

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The locals, oh, they got sass. See, my clients spill stories while gettin’ their back rubbed. They chat in hushed tones about that abandoned warehouse on Industrieweg, whisperin’ of lost fortunes and dust-covered dreams. Funny how a massage can reveal so many secrets. It’s like, ya think ya know someone, then bam! – a whole hidden side pops up. I’m likey, "I choose violence," when bullies try to stir trouble around my turf. Seriously, never mess with Ertvelde’s soul nor my clientele.

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