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About Reykjavik

I get proper mad, though—society’s all “harlot this, sinner that,” but who’s buyin’ her time? Them same posh twats preachin’ purity! Hypocrisy, I swear, it’d make me beard curl if it weren’t already. “You shall not pass!” I’d roar at ‘em, staff bangin’ the ground—let her be, ye wankers! She’s got guts, more’n most. Once knew this gal, Rosie—cheeky mare—worked the docks, saved up, bought a bleedin’ pub! True story, mate, turned her life ‘round like a wizard’s spell.