Lion Head Mesa thamir alward

maggie sent a scourge of a look toward the simpering woman with her beautiful tawny body. she had seen it bend lithely toward this lord. snaring him sure as a trussed trout. perhaps she had magick stuffed somewhere up her—
"i was told oi'd 'ave a meal an' a job. nuffin about what else oi'll get to keep as me own."
she was defiant, a smouldering little fire of snowfall.
the lord was asking her name. the milkweed sent him a bold and undressing pass of her wintry eyes. "maggie lacewell." she approached ramesses, feigning the confidence of the beautiful, and looked up into the black-painted eyes. "what's the name of the lord wants to keep me 'ere wiv empty words, hm?"