Zar awoke from a dream, a repeating 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 augmentation. As usual, she woke intensely aroused, her inflamed, delicate nipples pressing against her leather tunic - a new one made to fit her new curvy shape - and that other consistent need rejected by her moonsilver belt.
But there was only one way to get the relief she craved, which needed more privacy than offered by a milk cart. Zar stayed up, amazed by the length of time she 'd slept. Thanking the farmer's better half, who had actually not required payment for this favour, Zar collected her things and hopped off the cart, excited to see the excellent city.
Raised in the Convent, she knew nothing of temples and cities, and undoubtedly little of gods beyond fireside tales. The language at least had been taught to her by Sister Alvesi, though numerous of the words flung past her ears by residents were unfamiliar.
Their clothing too was unusual to her, far lighter and more revealing than the Convent's thick habits, and much more advanced than her leather and wyrm-wing. The females looked spoiled, cleaned up and oiled, and trailed exotic fragrances. If anything, the men even more so, although with some concessions to utility. Occasionally, mixed in with the parade of exuberance, were more sombre expressions, frequently worn by males in military uniforms. The Black Queen's influence felt even this far south.
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