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Zar awoke from a dream, a repeating dream in which she was rubbing 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 unwanted enhancement. As usual, she woke intensely aroused, her inflamed, delicate nipples pressing against her leather tunic - a brand-new one made to fit her new curved shape - which other constant need rejected by her moonsilver belt.
But there was only one way to get the relief she craved, and that needed more personal privacy than provided by a milk cart. Zar stayed up, shocked by how long she 'd slept. Thanking the farmer's other half, who had not demanded payment for this favour, Zar collected her things and hopped off the cart, excited to see the great city.
Raised in the Convent, she understood 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 numerous of the words flung past her ears by locals were unfamiliar.
Their clothing too was weird to her, far lighter and more revealing than the Convent's thick habits, and far more advanced than her leather and wyrm-wing. The ladies looked spoiled, cleaned and oiled, and tracked exotic perfumes. The men even more so, although with some concessions to energy. Here and there, blended in with the parade of exuberance, were more sombre expressions, typically worn by men in military uniforms. The Black Queen's impact felt even this far south.
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