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 unwelcome enhancement. As usual, she woke intensely excited, her inflamed, sensitive nipples pressing versus her leather tunic - a new one made to fit her new curvy shape - which other constant requirement rejected by her moonsilver belt.
There was only one method to get the relief she craved, and that needed more personal privacy than provided by a milk cart. Zar sat up, amazed by how long she 'd slept. Thanking the farmer's spouse, who had actually not demanded payment for this favour, Zar collected her things and hopped off the cart, eager to see the great city.
Raised in the Convent, she knew nothing of cities and temples, and indeed little of gods beyond fireside tales. Saruz was a big city, a port that served both river and ocean. Countless boats beautified the water, some carrying guests, most ferrying items. The language at least had been taught to her by Sister Alvesi, however much of the words flung past her ears by locals were unknown.
Their clothing too was weird to her, far lighter and more revealing than the Convent's thick practices, and much more sophisticated than her leather and wyrm-wing. The ladies looked spoiled, cleaned and oiled, and tracked unique fragrances. The men even more so, although with some concessions to energy. Here and there, mixed in with the parade of enthusiasm, were more sombre expressions, frequently used by men in military uniforms. The Black Queen's influence felt even this far south.
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