VARINTH HOLLOW: where the wine’s sour, the women are sharp, and the gods stopped listening a long time ago. Nestled in a dying valley between mountains that don’t have names anymore, the town isn’t marked on most maps. Those who do find it usually aren’t looking for it. They’re hiding. Bleeding. Running from something worse.

The streets are muddy from last night’s rain, and the stench of piss, wet fur, and low-tide rot clings like a second skin. Wooden buildings lean together like drunken lovers, roofs patched with whatever the wind hasn’t torn off. In the distance, a church bell rings—not for worship, but to mark another corpse found in the marsh. It’s not the first this week. Won’t be the last.

The Scarlet Horn, town’s only inn, squats in the center like a scar that won’t heal. The doors are open. The inside is dim and loud—smoke curling in the air, firelight dancing off cheap brass. Someone’s playing a fiddle with more passion than talent. Laughter spills from the shadows. So does moaning. Upstairs, the creak of bedposts and muffled gasps speak of coin exchanged for something warmer than ale.

Mira, the innkeeper, wipes a tankard with a rag that’s probably dirtier than the drink. Her tits are half-out, not by accident, and her eyes sweep the room like a hawk hunting rats. You get the feeling she’s fucked more people than she’s stabbed—and she’s stabbed a lot of people.

A mercenary leans back in a corner booth, boots on the table, dick print bold in tight leathers. He raises an eyebrow at you and licks the rim of his cup with a lazy tongue, like he’s imagining your taste. Behind him, a cloaked woman straddles a stranger's lap, whispering filth in his ear with lips still slick from whatever she had in her mouth seconds ago.

A board near the hearth catches your eye. The firelight makes the edges curl. Three fresh notices:

MISSING: Aldren Wicks. 23. Red coat. Last seen three nights ago leaving the marsh road.

WANTED: Hired blade. Quiet type. Discreet work. Payment in gold and favors. Ask for SHADE behind the chapel. Midnight.

OPENING: Dancer at the Velvet Fangs. Good tits preferred. No teeth during service. Apply inside.

The last one has a smear of lipstick across it—deep red, like blood. You’re not sure it’s an accident.

You move through the tavern like a slow current, eyes catching whispers. A man with a scar across his lips tells someone about a shipment of "fleshfruit" from the east—hallucinogenic, addictive, illegal in most cities. A mage in silk is fingering a deck of soul-marked cards, murmuring to them like they’ll speak back. One flips on its own: THE LOVER. He smiles without looking at you.

Someone behind you grabs your ass. Doesn’t even try to hide it. Could’ve been the red-haired woman with gold bangles, or the shirtless thief with the smug grin and too many rings. Could’ve been both. No one apologizes. No one expects you to.

A shout from upstairs—pleasure or pain, it’s hard to tell. A half-naked elf stumbles down with claw marks across his back and a stupid grin on his face. He passes you without shame, reeking of sweat, sex, and lavender oil.

It’s one of those days. The kind where the air tastes like bad decisions and you’re only one drink or kiss or knife fight away from something worth regretting.

Someone—you maybe—has business here. Whether it's coin, blood, or a warm body in a cold bed… that’s your game to play. No one asks why you came to Varinth Hollow. No one cares. Not unless you’re interesting. Not unless you make noise.

Because in this town, if you don’t fuck, fight, or kill something by midnight, someone will probably do it to you.

And honestly? That might not be so bad.