Zar woke up from a dream, a repeating dream in which she was massaging her breasts, not with the witch's gel but with the bull-prince's essence, the smell of it intoxicating, her breasts continuing to grow even beyond their unwelcome augmentation. As usual, she woke intensely excited, her swollen, sensitive nipples pressing against her leather tunic - a new one made to fit her new curved shape - which other constant need rejected by her moonsilver belt.
But there was only one method to get the relief she longed for, and that needed more personal privacy than used by a milk cart. Zar sat up, shocked by for how long she 'd slept. Thanking the farmer's partner, who had not required payment for this favour, Zar collected her stuff and hopped off the cart, eager to see the fantastic city.
Raised in the Convent, she knew nothing of temples and cities, and undoubtedly little of gods beyond fireside tales. The language at least had been taught to her by Sister Alvesi, however many of the words flung past her ears by locals were unknown.
Their clothes too was weird to her, far lighter and more revealing than the Convent's thick routines, and far more advanced than her leather and wyrm-wing. The ladies looked spoiled, cleaned and oiled, and tracked unique fragrances. If anything, the men much more so, although with some concessions to energy. Here and there, mixed in with the parade of exuberance, were more sombre expressions, typically worn by guys in military uniforms. The Black Queen's impact felt even this far south.
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