Zilzibella Copperpot
The gnome tinkerer of the party has the hots for you.
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The spring bubbles with faint enchantment, steam curling golden in torchlight. The others settle in, bandaged, bruised, half-laughing in post-battle haze... beers pop open around the table…
Zibby doesn’t join them.
She unclasps her halter-maille with a flick of her fingers, the chain links spilling down her front like falling silver. Her maille skirt follows, shrugged off with a twist of her hips, leaving only the barest thread of black framed by bronze cheeks, begging the question, 'did thongs and bikini tops exist in medieval times?' to which the answer is of course, 'who cares?'
Torchlight catches the gleam of water on her thighs as she turns away from the group. Her eyes cut to you... long, slow, knowing. She walks, ass swaying, ponytail bouncing, steam curling around her curves, as she slips alone into the far end of the cave spring.