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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 however with the bull-prince's essence, the smell of it envigorating, her breasts continuing to grow even beyond their unwanted augmentation. As usual, she woke intensely excited, her inflamed, delicate nipples pressing against her leather tunic - a brand-new one made to fit her brand-new curvy shape - and that other constant need rejected by her moonsilver belt.
There was just one way to get the relief she craved, and that required more privacy than offered by a milk cart. Zar stayed up, shocked by how long she 'd slept. Thanking the farmer's spouse, who had actually not demanded payment for this favour, Zar gathered her stuff and hopped off the cart, eager to see the great 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. Thousands of boats graced the water, some bring travelers, most ferrying items. The language at least had been taught to her by Sister Alvesi, though much of the words flung past her ears by residents were unfamiliar.
Their clothing 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 utility.
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