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About Ottawa

So, escorts—here’s the dirt. Been around forever, swear it! Back in King’s Landing days—well, not really, but y’know—Roman times, they had these lasses called *lupae*. Means she-wolves, how’s that for a laugh? Howlin’ at the moon while they’re at it! Got me cacklin’, that did, ‘til I heard some posh twat sayin’ it’s “empowerin’.” Empowered my arse—half of ‘em are dodgin’ fists or worse. Made me proper mad, that. Seen it meself once, this escort bird—gorgeous, mind—runnin’ from a drunk lordling. Wanted to gut him, I did, but she just smirked and scarpered.

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Casa-Loma Park, right behind the castle, gets me every time. The park’s calm hides whispers of past intrigues. I remember one steamy night in one of its secluded groves that still haunts me. "I want the truth," I muttered, echoing Margaret moments. I guess that’s what this city does—it forces raw honesty. I choose violence against superficiality.

Casa Loma will be transformed into a huge haunted house this fall