Just because you got a drop of moo-cow in you, it doesn’t mean you can’t be a lady. Please imagine her singing the song Jessica Rabbit sings in “Who Framed Roger Rabbit?”.
(Freak 4, The Girl 4, a touch of Oagre, head and feet morphs from Tauran II, eyes from MS Lycan… a whole lot of Genesis clothing, shaders, Lantios lights 2, and Wildmane hair. I think I’ve fallen in love with Lantios lights. The first time I’m using them and… WOW!)
Moocow Lady
“Come on, you have to come and see her!” my companion, a human warrior named Thalanthalas, said. There was a tiny, urging whinge in his voice, as if he had found a hidden treasure trove, yet he had been too weak to move it all on his own. “She’s magnificent. You have to see her. This is the last day of her tour.”
“Why? Just for comedy value? She’s a minotaur, for crying out loud, what she’s gonna do, moo?” I had my doubts, and even more so, distaste for freak shows, as this one seemed to be.
Thalanthalas sighed again. “No! She’s great! It is not a freak show! Just because we saw one with elves being all prancing and you…” I cut this line of thinking short, and added a sigh of my own. “Fine. We’ll go and see your Moocow Lady, mooing.” His grin widened up, and I worried his head might split and top would fall off.
Couple of hours later we packed ourselves into a small theatre, and sat on the edge of the stage on harden wooden benches. Mirrors and lights were pointed at the stage, and more people packed in to watch the show: a whole range of population was present, from humans to elves, to halflings and dwarves, from simple farmers to adventurers. The main lights began to dim, and left only a spotlight aimed at the curtains. “I still don’t see…” I began to mumble, but Thalanthalas elbowed me hard, shushing.
She stepped to the stage: at first, all I could see was a minotaur, typical of her species; she was just as strong as the males, but with undeniably… attractive curves and certain sort of softness. Her red mane was playfully touseled, her yellow eyes shone like pieces of polished amber, and she wore a shimmering blue cape, a white lace corset and panties, lace gloves and garters sans socks; the style was distinctly human, but it had been delicately scaled up to fit her frame. The red sash on her waist caught my attention, though: it had the symbol of Eyrierock’s bard’s school, and attaining a red sash bespoke of high standards of performance.
“What the…” I whispered, then I shut up as she began to sing; she had the depth and volume provided by her bulk and great lungs, but the voice was honey-sweet and smoky, and I found myself swallowing in astonishment. Her voice easily carried to the furthest corners of the theatre, yet it never felt like it climbed above seductive croon; she moved with dancer’s grace on the stage, every bit as nimble as an elven performer, as seductive as a nymph. The whole room watched her with mouths gaping, and wishing that she would bestow one of those smoldering, golden looks to them. It was as if she had enthralled all of us, and song after song came, followed by applauses and a storm of flowers.
Thalanthalas and I staggered out in the end of the evening. “Oh, wow. Oh wow.” That was all I could say. “I know!” Thalanthalas said. “And guess what? We got recruited into a caravan heading to next town, as guards. Guess who is with them?”
In my mind, I only could see trouble ahead… sweet, smoky-voiced trouble.
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