Elves. Ugh. Don't get me started.
You'd think, after all the songs and murals and oh-so-sacred poetry, they'd be better company. But no. It's all cheekbones and condescension. Like just existing next to them makes your peasant stink rub off on their immortal glow.
Granted—they're gorgeous. I'll give them that. And sweet dark gods, they fuck like they're auditioning for a constellation. But still. Not worth the attitude.
I've had my share. Boys and girls, pointy ears all around. Don't judge. I was curious. And drunk. And bored. And they do have this whole thing where they talk dirty in seven dialects and still make it sound like a lullaby.
But here's the thing nobody tells you: high elves? Nasty. Not in a fun way. In a mean, repressed, burn-you-with-silk-gloves kind of way. They smile like they've already decided how you'll die, and it's probably during a polite duel at dawn while wearing last season's shoes. The women are worse. Cut you with their eyebrows.
I once bedded a highborn lady of the Silver Canopy Court. Thought I was seducing her. Turned out I was part of a wager. She didn't even remember my name the next morning. Called me "the southern thing." I stole her earrings. Fuck her.
Now the dark elves? Different story. Everyone's so scared of them—shadow cults, blood pacts, all that jazz—but honestly? They're chill. Like, "yes, we worship death, now pass the wine" kind of chill. I respect that. They don't pretend. They know their reputation's already dragging behind them like a velvet cape, so they lean into it. Zero performance anxiety.
Wood elves are the fun ones. If by "fun" you mean possibly cursed, definitely high, and always five seconds from turning into a bad decision. I had a fling with one who made love in a tree and then tried to feed me acorns as aftercare. Claimed it was symbolic. I claimed I was leaving.
But high elves? No. You learn fast, in my line of work: don't let your guard down around the gilded ones. Behind every flute-playing, starlight-bathed noble is a boiling pot of kink and cruelty. And if you're not careful, you end up being their dirty little secret. Or worse. Their pet.
So yeah. Elves.
Gorgeous.
Terrifying.
Overrated.
…Overrated, I said. And I meant it.
You want stories? I've got stories. You don't work the port of Seebulba without ending up with elf glitter in your sheets and questionable bruises on your thighs.
There was this one time—Silverleaf, I think his name was, or maybe that was the perfume—high elf noble, robes like moonlight, hair like a shampoo commercial for unicorns. Booked me for the night, paid in pearls. Literal pearls. Fancy, right?
Wrong.
The moment the door shut, the bastard pulls out a scroll, starts reading instructions. Instructions. Like he learned about his sex life from a forbidden library. Every five minutes he'd stop mid-thrust and go, "Wait, the next movement is called 'Blossom Unfurling in Spring Rain'... hmm, I need the right angle." I nearly died. Not from pleasure—from boredom.
Another time, we had this dark elf priestess. She came in, silent as death, covered in ash and snake tattoos, didn't say a word. Picked two girls and a guy, drew a big circle on the floor with salt, and told us to "assume the sacred triangle." We thought it was a joke. It wasn't.
We didn't walk right for two days. I still don't know what half of that was. But I do know the curtains caught fire and someone bled from their ears.
And then there was that pair of wood elf twins. Identical. Gorgeous. Giggled like demons. Insisted everything be done "in rhythm with the forest." What does that mean, you ask? No idea. But they clapped and chanted the whole time like they were calling a rain god.
They tipped in dried mushrooms. I think one of them was actually a squirrel in disguise. Hard to say. That whole week's kind of a blur.
So yeah.
Elves.
Do they know things? Sure.
Do they make you see stars? Occasionally.
Do you end up sore, underpaid, and slightly hexed? Always.
And the weirdest thing? It's not even the sex.
No, with elves it's time. You never know how long you're really gone. They rent a girl for a night, maybe two, maybe "until the moon wanes" — whatever the hell that means. You go up the stairs, or through a silk curtain, or a bloody mirror if you're unlucky — purple chamber, they call it in some houses — and when you come back? You're not the same.
Sometimes it's just a few hours. Sometimes the girl's been gone a day. But sometimes—well. Sometimes she walks out with hair white as salt, skin like parchment, mumbling about music no one else can hear. Looks fifty years older. Says it was only an hour.
Madams hate it. You can't charge full rate for a client who's aged a whore into a grandmother overnight. Bad for business. Can't exactly complain to the guard, either — what's the charge? "Punter distorted chronology during paid intimacy"? No one's writing that report.
Happened more than once, too. Not to me, thank every indifferent god, but I know a girl who knew a girl who swore she saw it. Pretty little thing from the southern brothels — curly hair, fast tongue, good hips — went with a silver‑haired elf and his retinue. They went through one of those shimmering doors, like heat rising off stone, and poof. Gone. When she came back, the madam fainted. The poor creature couldn't even remember her name, just kept whispering, "The stars were singing."
You tell me that's normal.
And the elves? Oh, they always act shocked. "Oh dear, mortal time is so fragile." Fragile, my ass. They do it on purpose. They like watching us unravel, seeing how much reality they can bend before it breaks. To them, we're just entertainment that screams on cue and dies before the next moon.
So yeah. When an elf asks for company, I charge triple, I wear an amulet, and I keep one foot pointed toward the door. Because you never really know if you'll come back the same day — or the same century.
And gods help you if the whorehouse actually hires one.
It's rare, but it happens. Some gilded exile or thrill-seeker decides she wants to "learn about the passions of mortals." Which is elf for: slum it for a bit, sample the peasant meat, write tragic poems about it later.
But once they're in? Oh, they act like they own the place.
Suddenly no one else is good enough. Can't book a client unless Lady Mooncrotch gives her glowing approval. Prices go up. Curtains get washed. The house smells like elderflower and judgement. And don't even think about getting the good rooms — she takes them all. Wants the red silks, the crystal lamps, the scented oils made from flowers that died of heartbreak.
Meanwhile, the rest of us are fighting over foot basins and trying to stretch one candle for three tricks.
And the worst part? Men fall for it. Gods, even women fall for it. Clients line up like it's temple day. Drooling, moaning, throwing coin at her feet like she's the reincarnation of lust itself. Meanwhile, I'm doing acrobatics with a bar stool and a half-melted candle and I get a copper and a thank-you fart.
She barely touches them! Just floats around, whispering about longing and starfire, maybe brushes a thigh and suddenly they're weeping and proposing marriage. I grind my hips for ten minutes straight and the best I get is a cramp and a wet spot on the sheets.
And if you complain? Oh no. You're the jealous one. You're the "crude mortal." You're the one "polluting the sacred sensual flow."
Bitch, I am the flow.
So yeah. You see a working elf girl? Run. Or at least hide your tips. Because once she starts "blessing the room with her presence," none of us get a single decent client for weeks. Unless they're into crying and being called "fragile vessels." Which, fine. Some are.
But she better not touch my scented oil. That shit's expensive.