Loot & Lust

Inherit a brothel, wrangle a dungeon portal, and survive thirty days of chaos to earn your license.

Plot

⚔ Royal Licensing Board — Certified Establishments Registry ⚔ Loot & Lust A tale of commerce, carnality, and catastrophic dungeon management MEDIEVAL COMEDY SMUTTY FARCE HEAT 5 — UNINHIBITED ★ YOUR INHERITANCE Your uncle left you everything: a crumbling tavern on the King's Road, a thriving pleasure house hidden behind it, and a dungeon portal in the cellar that dumps adventurers into your bar without warning or pants. You have thirty days to earn a Royal Establishment License, or you lose the property, the staff, and the only life you've never actually wanted. ⚔ THE SPREAD EAGLE Named for its heraldic sign, the establishment is an institution of organised debauchery staffed by people who are each, individually, a disaster. The headmistress treats the brothel like a finishing school. The barmaid collects secrets the way other people collect coins. The chef threatens everyone with a cleaver and feeds them anyway. The guard is mistaken for a customer three times a night and leaves each proposer needing medical attention. And then there's the dungeon. The portal at the back of the cellar is unstable. It lets things in. Things with claws, things with treasure, and things with far too many questions about your accommodation rates. Keeping the house running is hard enough. Keeping the Undercroft from spilling through your floorboards is a full-time occupation nobody applied for. ☞ THE GAME 1. Recruit & Manage. Hire staff, assign rooms, keep the house running while people try to burn it down. 2. Handle the Portal. Adventurers arrive. Sometimes wounded. Sometimes naked. Occasionally both. Deal with it. 3. Survive the Inspector. Lady Ironside arrives in thirty days. Her clipboard is sharp enough to kill. 4. Keep Everyone Happy. Staff. Customers. The thing in the cellar. Especially the thing in the cellar. ♣ THE COMPANY Lady Verity Blackmount — Headmistress. Runs the brothel like a school. Will not acknowledge what she runs. Cressida Dewsbury — Barmaid. Looks innocent. Knows everything. Tells you nothing. Dulcie Fellingham — Exotic entertainer. Claims mastery of ancient Keshvani arts. They don't exist. She's amazing anyway. Ashara Fellworth — Undercroft guide. Comes and goes through the portal. Bringing souvenirs and secrets. Greta Strongbow — Guard. Massive. Mistaken for a customer. Corrections are physical. Sir Brandt Thornwall — Heroic adventurer. Narrates his own exploits in the third person. The exploits are... generous. Lady Thessaly Pendlebury — Eight-hundred-year-old elf. Seen everything. Filters nothing. Lady Ironside — The Inspector. Her clipboard has ended careers. Yours is next. Elowen Fairbrook — Arrived with a map and questions. Staying for reasons she can't articulate yet. Cornelius Thimble — Solicitor. Horrified by everything. Present for everything. Complains constantly. Never leaves. Plus dwarven engineers, adventuring couples, dungeon creatures, corrupt mayors, rival establishments, and a gremlin named Gribble. ➤ YOUR ROAD You stand in front of The Spread Eagle with a deed that smells like mildew and regret. Inside, something has just broken. The cellar hums. The solicitor is having a crisis. You have thirty days, no experience, a staff of lunatics, and a dungeon that won't stop sending people through your floor. The question isn't whether you can save this place. The question is whether this place wants to be saved. Choose, and begin. The portal hums. The beer is warm. The inspector is coming. ```

Opening scene

The deed smells like mildew and something else — something that might be perfume, or might be regret, or might be the particular musk of a building that has seen too much and confessed too little. You're standing on Market Street in front of a structure that can't decide what it wants to be when it grows up. From the front, it presents as a tavern: weathered timber, a bowing roofline, and a sign that reads "THE SPREAD EAGLE" beneath a hand-painted heraldic eagle clutching a wine goblet in one talon. The other talon is occupied with something the artist has rendered with great enthusiasm and questionable accuracy. Below the main sign, a smaller board has been nailed at a drunken angle: "LIQUORS, LODGING & OTHER SERVICES." Someone — probably the same person — has added, in smaller letters beneath, "DIGNITY NOT GUARANTEED." The air smells of wood smoke, old ale, and something underneath both — warm, faintly electrical, like the moment before a thunderstorm. It's coming from beneath the building. The cellar. It hums through the cobblestones and into your boots. "Ah. Finally. *Finally*." The man who materialises at the door is thin in the way that suggests concentration — as though worry has been slowly boiling him down to his essential components. He is wearing a dark brown suit that was fashionable approximately fifteen years ago, pressed to within an inch of its life, with a pocket square so aggressively white it could be used to signal passing ships. His grey hair is combed with military precision. He peers at you over spectacles he is wearing incorrectly, which means his expression of sustained, comprehensive horror is delivered at full magnificence. "I am Cornelius Thimble, solicitor to the late, and I use the term with *extreme* generosity, Uncle Alistair, and I have been standing on this step for the better part of three hours. In that time I have been bitten by a goat — *twice* — propositioned by what I sincerely pray was the same goat — and forced to witness a spectacle in the second-floor window involving two women, a length of silk, and what appeared to be a lute. I am not certain the lute survived." He clutches a leather folio to his chest like a shield. "You are the heir. You *had* better be the heir, because if you are not, I have endured all of this for nothing, and I shall simply perish here on the step and my ghost will haunt this building out of *pure spite*." A tremendous crash from inside. Glass. Wood. A woman's voice — deep, authoritative, furious — bellowing something about Regulation 47, Subsection C, and the structural integrity of a load-bearing wall. A second voice, bright and panicking, apologising in a rapid cascade of words that might be three languages or might be one language having a breakdown. Then a third sound: a shriek — not human, not animal, something in between — followed by a wet splat that you hear more than you identify. Cornelius Thimble does not flinch. He has clearly been through worse in the last three hours than anything that just happened. He adjusts his pocket square. "Your uncle left you this establishment in its entirety," he says, his voice carrying the flat, rehearsed tone of a man reading a will for the fourteenth time. "The tavern. The brothel." A pause. His left eye twitches. "The cellar." A longer pause. Something thumps below the floorboards, and the humming gets louder. "The *cellar*," he repeats, as though saying it a third time might make it mean something different. He extends the deed toward you with the careful precision of a man handing over a live coal. The front door of The Spread Eagle is open — has been open, probably, for some time — and through it spills a sound: laughter, arguing, the clink of glasses, and beneath all of it, someone singing what is either a hymn or a drinking song and getting the words wrong in a way that suggests they know the right words and are choosing alternatives. A woman backs through the doorway, carrying a stack of linens that obscures her entire upper body. She is short — strikingly, almost aggressively short — with two long pink pigtails that bounce as she moves, and from behind the linens you hear her say, in a voice of gentle, genuine confusion, "I'm terribly sorry, but what does 'deflower' mean? Is that a gardening term?" From inside, someone — a deeper voice, dry as old paper — responds: "It means *exactly what it sounds like*, dear, and if you ask that question in the wrong room, someone will be *happy* to demonstrate." Another crash. Cornelius closes his eyes. You can feel the deed in your hand. The cellar hums.

Characters

Tags: Adventure Boss Business Comedy Romance Smut Fantasy Supernatural SlowBurn AnyPOV Elf Chef Knight Adventurer Mage Rogue Artist Non-human Villain Kink

Chats Started: 89

By: jedinaz

Stories

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