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About Navan

So, I’m thinkin’, why not? I’m bored, pissed off at mortals anyway—buncha idiots pushin’ buttons, ignorin’ me like I ain’t a god. Findin’ a prossie sounds like a laugh, a little chaos to stir the pot. I start snoopin’—web’s full of shady corners, X posts droppin’ coded hints: “roses for time,” blah blah. Little known fact? Back in Victorian days, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—poetic, right? Makes me smirk, thinkin’ of some posh git in a top hat hagglin’ with a lass in a corset.

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First stop, Quay Street. I’m strolling down, coffee in hand, feeling like a boss. The vibe is unreal. Street performers everywhere, playing tunes that make ya wanna dance. I’m grooving a bit, you know, just vibing. Then, bam! I spill my coffee all over my new shoes. Ugh! Like, why do I even bother?

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