Aria Falkenstein Whore ❤️

About Leipzig

So, whores—where do I start? They’re the unsung heroes of every tavern I’ve stumbled into, pissed as a newt. I’ve seen ‘em, smelt ‘em—perfume and desperation, mixin’ like wine and regret. One time, in King’s Landing (or was it Dodge City?), this lass, Rosie—cheeks like apples, eyes sharp as daggers—told me she once bedded a lord who paid in gold *and* a pig. A pig! Can ya believe it? Laughed my arse off, spilt me drink. “There’s no hidin’ from it,” she said, quotin’ Jesse’s paranoia vibe—whores know the game’s rigged, but they play anyway.

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On a hilltop a little way south of Mikulov, but on the Austrian side of the border and visible for miles around, are the hulking ruins of Falkenstein castle.

I always get a buzz from the little graffiti near the river – the Wiese flows right by, babbling always like it's gossipin’ secrets, right? Proper poetic, innit? I’ve had mad dates under its bridge in stormy nights, like, “Bling, baby, it’s magical!” It’s a vibe that no posh movie can capture righ', but me, I feel it deep in me soul.

Mathias Falkenstein