Closing Doors

It had a good run, the Boarding House, and it served its purpose. I have decided to close the doors on the most infamous brothel Ar has ever known. Some would argue that the various brothels on Ludmilla's nefarious alley are far less savory, far more scandalous, but I disagree. Where but the Boarding House could men part with as little as three copper tarsks (four for the blonde) to ride something as sinuous and seductively servile as what the Poet had to offer? Natives, barbarians, outlaw women. All trained to please the eye and stir the loins. Every one of them literate, able to converse intelligently if need be. Now, the property will serve as a residence.

Six will spend the afternoon sanding the doors down, removing the red paint. They will wear a more conservative brown, no longer a beacon for the satiation of lust. Consumer-driven carnality will be taken elsewhere, I suppose. There is a shortage of salt in my city, but there is never a shortage of slut. Of course, some of them may still be sent out to hook for coin. One must keep one's women productive. They will simply have to conduct their lewd transactions on street corners or down alleyways.

The notices have been put up on the boards in the Great Square and in the Anbar herself. It is both a somber day and a day fraught with possibility.