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About Chalcis

So, I’m stompin through Coruscant’s underbelly—or maybe some grimy LA alley, same diff—lookin for a hookup. Not the fancy escort types, nah, too polished, too fake. I want the raw deal, someone who’s seen shit, lived it. Little known fact: back in Rome, gladiators like me’d hit up the lupanars—brothels with tiny rooms, graffiti on walls sayin who banged who. History’s wild, man. Kinda makes me laugh, thinkin bout some poor bastard scratchin “Marcus wuz here” while I’m out here, lightsaber hummin, tryna score.

Nearby spots (within 25 km)

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So, I finally get my olives and head to the bakery on Kifisias Street. The smell of fresh bread hits me like a ton of bricks. I’m like, “Yes, please!” I grab a koulouri, and it’s warm and perfect. But then, I spill some crumbs on my shirt. Great. Just great. I look like a walking snack.

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