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About Los Angeles

So, findin a prossie—ain’t no highborn quest. You don’t send ravens or polish yer armor. Nah, you sniff the alleys, follow the perfume mixed with piss. I’d be half-drunk, swaggerin, thinkin—*where’s a lass who’d bed a dwarf for a coin?* In *City of God*, Lil’ Zé’d probly shoot me for starin too long, but here? They just want gold, not yer head. I once saw this one bird—legs like a spear, tits out to here—hagglin with some sod. Made me laugh, she’s all “Pay up, you lil shit!”—reminded me of Rocket dodgin bullets, fierce as fuck.

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Forest-Acres (us) is raw magic; a mix of serene whispers and loud insults. Crazy, err, unperfect and wild. You gotta see, feel it, and maybe, hear me hissing under the moonlight. Precise? No! Fun? Hell yes, yes, precious! Enjoy, hmph.

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