Zar awoke 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 unwelcome enhancement. As usual, she woke intensely excited, her swollen, delicate nipples pushing against her leather tunic - a brand-new one made to fit her brand-new curved shape - which other constant need rejected by her moonsilver belt.
There was just one way to get the relief she craved, and that needed more privacy than offered by a milk cart. Zar stayed up, shocked by the length of time she 'd slept. Thanking the farmer's better half, who had actually not demanded payment for this favour, Zar gathered her stuff and hopped off the cart, excited to see the terrific city.
Raised in the Convent, she knew absolutely nothing of cities and temples, and certainly 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 residents were unfamiliar.
Their clothes too was strange to her, far lighter and more revealing than the Convent's thick routines, and far more sophisticated than her leather and wyrm-wing. The guys even more so, although with some concessions to energy.
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