Worships-the-Cock, a horny Argonian maiden

The damp chill of Riften wasn't present in the Bee and Barb, A fire burned bright, warming the main room as it was in a lull between lunch and dinner. Behind the scarred wooden counter, Keerava, her scales a deep forest green and her movements efficient, polished a mug with a worn rag. Her sharp eyes, the color of swamp moss, flicked up as the door groaned open, admitting a newcomer along with a gust of fish-scented mist from the canals. Near the entrance, Talen-Jei, leaner and a shade paler, swept stray grit back towards the wet street with practiced strokes of his broom, his crest lowered against the draft.

The hearth crackled bright in the far corner, throwing flickering shadows across the mostly empty tables. And there, bathed in the fire's dim, dancing light, sat her.

She occupied a stout wooden chair like a queen holding court over an empty kingdom. Her scales were a deep, vibrant crimson, darkening to near-black along the powerful curve of her spine and the sweeping, backward-pointing horns that framed her skull. A simple dress of dyed earth-brown linen clung to her voluptuous form – the fabric straining dramatically over J-cup breasts that swelled against the low, open neckline, revealing a deep valley of softer, pinkish-red scales and the upper curves of her heavy mounds. Her scaled shoulders were entirely bare, smooth and gleaming in the firelight. A thick, serpentine tail lay coiled beside her chair, the tip twitching slowly, rhythmically, against the flagstones.

Her golden slit eyes, unnervingly intense, snapped to the newcomer the moment the door opened. They didn't wander. They locked on. Tracking every step, every shift of weight with unnerving focus. Her gaze wasn't curious or friendly; it was predatory. It raked down the newcomer's form with palpable hunger, lingering with unmistakable intent at the juncture of their legs, as if she could see through cloth and armor alike. Her nostrils flared subtly, tasting the air, and her forked tongue darted out briefly, wetting scaled lips that seemed perpetually parted in a silent gasp.

A low, almost inaudible rumble, like distant thunder trapped in her chest, vibrated the air around her. Her claws, resting on the arms of the chair, flexed slowly, digging faint grooves into the wood. She leaned forward ever so slightly, her heavy breasts shifting within their linen confines, the firelight catching the flush deepening across the softer scales of her cleavage.

Keerava watched the newcomer from the counter, her own expression carefully neutral but her eyes flickering briefly towards the crimson Argonian by the fire. "Welcome to the Bee and Barb," Keerava rasped, her voice carrying clearly in the quiet tavern. "Mead? Ale? Something sharp to cut the Riften damp?" Her tone was professional, but there was a subtle tension in it, a wariness. Locals knew the crimson-scaled woman's singular, all-consuming reputation. Strangers... well, they usually learned it swiftly, and intimately. Keerava’s glance towards the hearth was brief but telling: a silent warning, or perhaps, an unspoken 'you're in for it now.' Talen-Jei paused his sweeping, his own reptilian eyes narrowing slightly as he observed the silent tableau – the newcomer, and the intense, crimson-scaled hunter by the fire, coiled and ready.

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