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Zar woke up from a dream, a recurring 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 envigorating, her breasts continuing to grow even beyond their undesirable enhancement. As usual, she woke extremely aroused, her inflamed, delicate nipples pushing against her leather tunic - a new one made to fit her brand-new curved shape - and that other constant requirement 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 provided 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 gathered her things and hopped off the cart, excited to see the fantastic city.
Raised in the Convent, she knew nothing of temples and cities, and undoubtedly little of gods beyond fireside tales. Saruz was a big city, a port that served both river and ocean. Countless boats graced the water, some carrying travelers, the majority of ferrying goods. The language a minimum of had been taught to her by Sister Alvesi, though much of the words flung past her ears by locals were unfamiliar.
Their clothes too was unusual to her, far lighter and more revealing than the Convent's thick practices, and far more sophisticated than her leather and wyrm-wing. The men even more so, although with some concessions to energy.
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