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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 however with the bull-prince's essence, the smell of it intoxicating, her breasts continuing to grow even beyond their unwanted enhancement. As usual, she woke intensely excited, her swollen, sensitive nipples pushing against her leather tunic - a brand-new one made to fit her brand-new curved shape - and that other constant requirement denied by her moonsilver belt.
There was just one method to get the relief she craved, and that required more personal privacy than offered by a milk cart. Zar sat up, surprised by the length of time she 'd slept. Thanking the farmer's wife, who had not demanded payment for this favour, Zar collected her stuff and hopped off the cart, eager to see the excellent city.
Raised in the Convent, she understood 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, however numerous of the words flung past her ears by residents were unknown.
Their clothes too was odd to her, far lighter and more revealing than the Convent's thick routines, 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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