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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 intoxicating, her breasts continuing to grow even beyond their unwanted augmentation. As usual, she woke extremely aroused, her swollen, sensitive nipples pressing against her leather tunic - a brand-new one made to fit her new curved shape - which other constant requirement denied by her moonsilver belt.
But there was only one way to get the relief she craved, and that needed more privacy than used by a milk cart. Zar stayed up, amazed by how long she 'd slept. Thanking the farmer's wife, who had actually not demanded 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 cities and temples, and certainly little of gods beyond fireside tales. Saruz was a substantial city, a port that served both river and ocean. Countless boats enhanced the water, some bring travelers, most ferrying products. The language a minimum of had been taught to her by Sister Alvesi, however a number 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 practices, and far more sophisticated than her leather and wyrm-wing. The men even more so, although with some concessions to utility.
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