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PaulHaynek"Amongst other things," Tamara replies, as she hefted a large bucket that was glowing with heat from the molten metal within. Her ridiculously attractive body on full display, as she worked to the metal in naught but her smallclothes. Behind her, with Regalia keeping guard, were the unfortunate Dwarven metalsmiths that Tamara was utterly robbing; bound several lengths of created [Braided Giant's Hair] and the Camibon's lewd existence -- even a proud Dwarf could be made to fall. It didn't help that, on top of her lewd nature, she was one of the finest outsider metalsmiths they'd seen since the famous Elvin metalsmith, Kali Brimmore.
Her timings were unnatural, as if a timer was always within sight. Her mixtures were impeccable, as if she'd been born with a measuring cup. Her pours were beyond graceful; wasting not a single drop among the moulding plates. It was basically hentai for Dwarves; watching her work the shaft in the mix, stoke the kiln with some hard iron, and pour her hot, gooey load into some virgin moulds. "Harder! Oh, harder!" cried one of the Dwarf females cried out, as Tamara struck a mould, and freed the most precious bars of silver. "Again! Again!" Tamara obliged, as the bars tumbled free without a single flaw.
"Oh, yes~!" one of the male Dwarves groaned, legs shifting suspiciously. "Show her who's in charge, lass!" he shuddered. Tamara rapped the moulding for some gold bars, and the Dwarves hit their collective climax, as the bars hit the table with a serene force. Tamara grinned, barring the full brunt of her dagger-like teeth, as she trained her eyes on the panting Dwarves; irises as crimson as the Inferno Lands and sclera as inky as the depths of space, studying them. "There's more to come," she purred, "I can go for hours..." she says, hefting a ringsmith's hammer, "I've so much stamina."
A pitiful groan escaped the Dwarves, as she struck a ring mould that was shown to be a mixture of pure platinum. It was with a gentle, yet powerful tap that she broke the Dwarves...
Tamara held a collection of precious metals finery in a small basket; an undersized bouquet of twenty-one silver roses with gold trimmed edged, a trio of seven-link chains of platinum rings, two bars of pure silver, two bars of pure gold, and a bar of pure platinum. It was a basket with some clever subtext that would impress a Mathemagician, but would mean nothing to the intended recipient. As Tamara untied the Dwarves, she stood over them; hypersensitive nose taking in the delightful scent of her handiwork. "I do apologise for the rough foreplay," she says, as she collected Regalia from her guardpost -- the infant creature sound asleep.
"I just get so kinky when I'm working. I'm sure that you'll be able to forgive me," she says, as she dropped a bag of diamonds; as shown when it tipped a bit, and flashed the goods like naughty minx it was. "I'm sure you'll spend this wisely," Tamara says, as she walked off, "Enjoy."
It would take a few hours to escape the Dwarven Mines, before Tamara stood, barefoot, upon grass, and let the sun bathe her. "Ugh... I hate the come down," she sighed, before her skin stretched across her back, and a pair of long, thin, and leathery wings spread up -- they'd an oddly dinosaur-like nature to them. "Now, I should head off," she says, taking off with a powerful beat of her wings, "I hope I don't run into Grandma and Grandpa..."
Her timings were unnatural, as if a timer was always within sight. Her mixtures were impeccable, as if she'd been born with a measuring cup. Her pours were beyond graceful; wasting not a single drop among the moulding plates. It was basically hentai for Dwarves; watching her work the shaft in the mix, stoke the kiln with some hard iron, and pour her hot, gooey load into some virgin moulds. "Harder! Oh, harder!" cried one of the Dwarf females cried out, as Tamara struck a mould, and freed the most precious bars of silver. "Again! Again!" Tamara obliged, as the bars tumbled free without a single flaw.
"Oh, yes~!" one of the male Dwarves groaned, legs shifting suspiciously. "Show her who's in charge, lass!" he shuddered. Tamara rapped the moulding for some gold bars, and the Dwarves hit their collective climax, as the bars hit the table with a serene force. Tamara grinned, barring the full brunt of her dagger-like teeth, as she trained her eyes on the panting Dwarves; irises as crimson as the Inferno Lands and sclera as inky as the depths of space, studying them. "There's more to come," she purred, "I can go for hours..." she says, hefting a ringsmith's hammer, "I've so much stamina."
A pitiful groan escaped the Dwarves, as she struck a ring mould that was shown to be a mixture of pure platinum. It was with a gentle, yet powerful tap that she broke the Dwarves...
Tamara held a collection of precious metals finery in a small basket; an undersized bouquet of twenty-one silver roses with gold trimmed edged, a trio of seven-link chains of platinum rings, two bars of pure silver, two bars of pure gold, and a bar of pure platinum. It was a basket with some clever subtext that would impress a Mathemagician, but would mean nothing to the intended recipient. As Tamara untied the Dwarves, she stood over them; hypersensitive nose taking in the delightful scent of her handiwork. "I do apologise for the rough foreplay," she says, as she collected Regalia from her guardpost -- the infant creature sound asleep.
"I just get so kinky when I'm working. I'm sure that you'll be able to forgive me," she says, as she dropped a bag of diamonds; as shown when it tipped a bit, and flashed the goods like naughty minx it was. "I'm sure you'll spend this wisely," Tamara says, as she walked off, "Enjoy."
It would take a few hours to escape the Dwarven Mines, before Tamara stood, barefoot, upon grass, and let the sun bathe her. "Ugh... I hate the come down," she sighed, before her skin stretched across her back, and a pair of long, thin, and leathery wings spread up -- they'd an oddly dinosaur-like nature to them. "Now, I should head off," she says, taking off with a powerful beat of her wings, "I hope I don't run into Grandma and Grandpa..."
Elsewhere, C-3 was growing more and more discontented with the situation at hand. She'd already no fondness for the Human that referred to her nothing more than a number, and she didn't like the third-place demoness that was trying to upstage get second-place demoness -- and, now, they were following some dinky little vampiress brat to find some crusty, old Alchemist, to do what? Bolt out the sun? Plant hypoallergenic garlic? C-3 had, honestly, tuned out the annoying brat and all her inane chatter. Did she really thing anyone cared? Well, the Human cared, actively, and the Bronze Medal cared, in her own tsundere way.
Charlotte cared, because the Human cared, and she had to look good, because he was a so-called Hero. But, who cares!? Charlotte was SUPPOSED to be HERS. Her treasure. Her possession. She was a Dragon, and that was how it worked. Everything was wrong...
Suddenly, her nose (internally located) twitched, as she smelled something beyond the scent of sulfuric sweat that Charlotte and Bronze Medal gave off, the sodium chloride-ridden sweat that the Human released, and the scent of singeing flesh the Brat was constantly emitting. It was a delicious smell, like a five-course meal in Heaven, blessed by 1,000 virgin nuns, or some equivalent hyperbole for something that smells really freaking good. All sense of duty, as fleeting as it was, escape C-3, as she abandoned the group, and chased down the smell. It was minutes away, tucked upon a gravestone, and in a covered basket.
C-3's heart, or rather, her Slime Core, shrank in sadness, as she assumed it was a gift to the dead.. before she saw a note upon the basket. It was penned in the loveliest that she'd probably seen in her life, and was addressed to: <Camellia Celia Charr>
"Me!?"
C-3 was stunned by the address. Surely, there were no others with her name. It was her King's gift to her, her right to her inheritance; a one-of-a-kind and powerful name.
This was, assuredly, for her, but... from who?
<Dearest Daughter of Carnelian Constellus Charr,
I long to deliver such a gift in your presence, but, alas, my heart is not ready to face such a beauty as yours, and my soul is not ready to stand before a force of will like you again. I can only hope -- no, pray -- that you accept my affection from afar, for now. This basket is yours; handcrafted of the finest metals by my own hands. I, sincerely, hope you enjoy what I've prepared. I know you stand beside the Demon Lord's daughter, but mayhaps, someday, you'll stand by my side, instead.
C-3 was immensely curious about the contents of the basket, and trying to remember who Tamara Gozolla was. She'd spent a lot of time being angry since they left, so she didn't remember anything she wasn't explicitly mad about. However, all her anger evaporated, as she uncovered the basket, and saw the precious metal finery and bars.
"This was done for me..." she shuddered, feeling her first true hint of ecstasy. "Charlotte's never..." C-3 shook her head, but it was much too late.
It was there.
A Seed of Doubt.
From her perch in the near-distance, Tamara smirked, as C-3 took a small nibble of a rose, before eating the rest; her Slime Core shining bright as the sun.
A sun that shined upon the rooted Seed of Doubt, and gave it life...
Charlotte cared, because the Human cared, and she had to look good, because he was a so-called Hero. But, who cares!? Charlotte was SUPPOSED to be HERS. Her treasure. Her possession. She was a Dragon, and that was how it worked. Everything was wrong...
Suddenly, her nose (internally located) twitched, as she smelled something beyond the scent of sulfuric sweat that Charlotte and Bronze Medal gave off, the sodium chloride-ridden sweat that the Human released, and the scent of singeing flesh the Brat was constantly emitting. It was a delicious smell, like a five-course meal in Heaven, blessed by 1,000 virgin nuns, or some equivalent hyperbole for something that smells really freaking good. All sense of duty, as fleeting as it was, escape C-3, as she abandoned the group, and chased down the smell. It was minutes away, tucked upon a gravestone, and in a covered basket.
C-3's heart, or rather, her Slime Core, shrank in sadness, as she assumed it was a gift to the dead.. before she saw a note upon the basket. It was penned in the loveliest that she'd probably seen in her life, and was addressed to: <Camellia Celia Charr>
"Me!?"
C-3 was stunned by the address. Surely, there were no others with her name. It was her King's gift to her, her right to her inheritance; a one-of-a-kind and powerful name.
This was, assuredly, for her, but... from who?
<Dearest Daughter of Carnelian Constellus Charr,
I long to deliver such a gift in your presence, but, alas, my heart is not ready to face such a beauty as yours, and my soul is not ready to stand before a force of will like you again. I can only hope -- no, pray -- that you accept my affection from afar, for now. This basket is yours; handcrafted of the finest metals by my own hands. I, sincerely, hope you enjoy what I've prepared. I know you stand beside the Demon Lord's daughter, but mayhaps, someday, you'll stand by my side, instead.
Yours lovingly,
Tamara Gozolla>
C-3 was immensely curious about the contents of the basket, and trying to remember who Tamara Gozolla was. She'd spent a lot of time being angry since they left, so she didn't remember anything she wasn't explicitly mad about. However, all her anger evaporated, as she uncovered the basket, and saw the precious metal finery and bars.
"This was done for me..." she shuddered, feeling her first true hint of ecstasy. "Charlotte's never..." C-3 shook her head, but it was much too late.
It was there.
A Seed of Doubt.
From her perch in the near-distance, Tamara smirked, as C-3 took a small nibble of a rose, before eating the rest; her Slime Core shining bright as the sun.
A sun that shined upon the rooted Seed of Doubt, and gave it life...
