The brothel is often frequented by adventurers and wayfarers of varying kinds and descriptions, many of them mercenaries, soldiers, guards, strong men. Eda has been here before, has sipped shyly at his drink from his position at the bar and watched them come in and out, the different men and women and others too - elves and humans, orcs and dwarves, others besides.
This evening, the ones who catch his eye are the wolfmen, a pack of them - the four of them are each of them seven and a half feet tall at the shoulder, and Eda's mouth goes dry as he takes them in. Two of them have brown fur and brown eyes, one of them lighter in colour with a greyer undertone, the other in a darker, richer brown; one's hair is flinty grey, in contrast to his bright yellow eyes; the fourth's fur is pure black, and his eyes are a darker brown than the others'. They mostly don't armour their chests or backs, because the muscle and fat packed on them is so thick and under such deep thatches of heavy fur that it's hard for most blades to penetrate.
The armour they do wear is where the fur is thinner, or on their joints - they wear pauldrons over their shoulders and the brown ones have armour on their upper arms; the grey one is wearing gauntlets to protect his forearms and the backs of his hands even though his claws are free; all four of them are wearing leather skirts, and while they don't wear boots, they have more armour around their ankles or over the tops of their feet.
Their paws are mostly free to let them run and move freely.
Eda's mouth is dry, looking at them as they move, at their weapons - heavy maces for the lighter brown one and the grey one; a greatsword slung on the back of the darker brown one; the black one carries a sword and shield.
An attendant takes their weapons from them to stow in the lockers at the brothel's entrance, and after some conversation, the four of them begin to strip off the rest, too, until their kilts are aside, all their armoured pieces.
All four of them are left naked, except for the jewellery some of them still have - the grey one has his ears pierced, has two gold rings hanging from one ear and another from the other; the black one has a crystal necklace hanging around his neck, the pale blue of it glittering in the dark fur on his chest.
Eda can't take his eyes away from each of their cocks - they swing thick and heavy between each of their legs, their huge balls swaying too, and Eda can see the thick bump at the base of each cock. Knots, big ones, once they're hard, Eda expects.
As a line of four, they stand in a row and look at the wall.
It's a quiet brothel, compared to most, here in the main hall - there are a group of other men drinking in the corner, laughing together, and a group of other mercenaries chuckling as they play over a table. The table is on wheels, and one of the whores is inside - their tits and their cock poke through gaps in the tops of the table, and now and then one of the mercenaries will play with their cock or tweak their nipples, touching them, manipulating them.
Up on the wall are a series of about twenty tiles, each the far end of a box on wheels just like that: poking through each gap is an ass, some of them face up, some of them face down. Eda looks at the array of them, at the different colours of the whores' skins - an array of human shades, paler whites, pale and darker browns, one more dark-skinned person whose cunt is brightly pink inside and contrasts with the pigmentation around their lips and on the flesh of their ass, and then a few non-humans too - pinks and purples, one huge, green ass with a thick, pierced cock hanging down and a plug pressed into their ass.
Eda considers the position of the people on the other side - on their hands and knees in a box, some of them, others with their legs strapped to the wall and their bodies laid on a bed or another supporting surface.
