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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 intoxicating, her breasts continuing to grow even beyond their undesirable enlargement. As usual, she woke extremely aroused, her inflamed, sensitive nipples pushing versus her leather tunic - a brand-new one made to fit her new curved shape - and that other continuous need rejected by her moonsilver belt.
There was just one way to get the relief she yearned for, and that required more personal privacy than provided by a milk cart. Zar stayed up, shocked by the length of time she 'd slept. Thanking the farmer's other half, who had actually not required 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 temples and cities, and certainly little of gods beyond fireside tales. The language at least had been taught to her by Sister Alvesi, though many of the words flung past her ears by locals were unfamiliar.
Their clothing too was unusual to her, far lighter and more revealing than the Convent's thick practices, and even more sophisticated than her leather and wyrm-wing. The ladies looked pampered, cleaned up and oiled, and trailed unique fragrances. If anything, the men much more so, although with some concessions to energy. Occasionally, blended in with the parade of enthusiasm, were more sombre expressions, often used by men in military uniforms. The Black Queen's influence felt even this far south.
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