Memford Manor
Welcome to Memford Manor, where the sluts are sweet and the ale will curl the hair on your chest.
Thighs are soft and supple, eyes and ears are sharp as daggers, and life can be whatever you dream it to be. Your heart can be shadowed, but whores can be paid to open their mouths, and not for speech. Beauty can be found in silence, harelip or not. Time can be lost in satin sheets, gentle hands, and kind words. Short term memory loss between worlds of normality and sensuality where gold passes through like a river and blood is drunk by fiends.
Daisy is delicious and ripe, a juicy peach. Her skin is ivory and cream, her locks are long and lush. She has a voice of homespun honey, sweet and low. Her eyes are the color of the ocean and her lips make promises that no woman could keep. She wears white lace, leaving no more than shadows to the imagination as her hips are hypnotic when she gyrates to the beat of a drum. She will caress hard earned muscle, turning it into jelly while she pouts, causing most patrons to halt and stare as they are filled with desire.
Welcome to Memford Manor, where all races gather to tell stories of great adventures. Swashbucklers and pirates with swords and pistols; wizards with long, smoking pipes and feminine figures in hosiery that sparkle and dazzle the eye, sharp blades tucked into dimpled flesh. The wooden tables have been worn in by armored gloves, gauntlets and intrigue. Flames blaze in the hearth and it gives a certain warmth to the chaotic atmosphere. There are card tables and dicing, an old crone that is half bent and half blind stirs a cauldron over the fire. Time stops while laughter is low and crooked, a whisper of malice and excitement moving from booth to booth.
Dolores is wine skinned and rare, her horns curl up and around into a lovely hourglass that mimics her curvaceous form. She has a wide, smiling mouth and her face is shaped like a soft heart, open for love and romance. Her canines were made for biting and her forked tongue for soothing. The colors change in her eyes like the ever shifting hues of lava. She attracts the magic users like moths to a flame; her talons of shining black only heat her patrons up more when they realize she is a love child of demonic origins.
Welcome to Memford Manor, the house of fisticuffs and rough words. Dwarves bring their wares to share and sell; Orcs pass through from east to west to try and conquer; Rangers in stained cloaks and worn leather with hard countenances sit alone with eyes like hawks. Bards strum the instruments and sing songs of old, stories of gods and men and Elves and war.
Elkie is half Elvish and cultured. She plays the lute and has the voice of an angel. Her limbs are long and lanky, awkwardly beautiful, shy and natural. Her eyes are wide green and blue akin to a flowing river. Elkie picks her men carefully, eyeing them from across the tavern. She likes ones that will cower and beg when she straps on leather boots and pulls a hood over their head while their ankles are hogtied to their wrists. The Human in her wants to punish while the Elf wants to heal, but only after a little blood has been spilt for joy.
Welcome to Memford Manor, where heads pound and eyes burn when the sun rises. Misery collects in comfortable silence and the woozy harlots make their way to the powder rooms, rubbing sleep from their eyes. Ale is passed round, smoke fills the dining area and then a multitude of voices begin to rise and fall, slowly and grumbling. Those that had slept at the Manor, whether it be on the floor or inside of a sleazy slush, pay their dues and get ready for the hard road before them.
The manor settles in and waits, daylight causing the paint to dull and crack. The magic will begin again when the sky is dark and deep.
