<div class="floatleft">(https://i.imgur.com/VoMy9La.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Allie<br/><strong>Race and Occupation:</strong>Half-elf country girl troublemaker<br/><strong>Location &amp; Time:</strong>Country roads, trying to take someone home to the place they belong.  Mid-day.<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Open<br/><hr/>At his apparent disappointment over the melon, Allie nods in sympathy as she lays her satchel, quiver, and bow neatly upon the soft-grassed bank.  That produce -had- been her first quest reward, after all, but consuming it had turned out to be less rewarding than sharing it.  "Don't worry.  They said they'd pay me back for my aid when I get to the market, so maybe I can afford another."<br/><br/>She flashes a bright smile of encouragement then, and without warning grips the dress's hem where it's tied near her thighs and hauls upward at the heavy, wet cloth-- its once-green color almost shows through the torrent of road mud-- tugging it up up her legs, then over her waist and torso and over her breasts.  The bundle hangs there, much of the huge knot of fabric now covering her face and bunched about her chest, arms, and head, but irreparably stuck by the unlaced bodice to her underarms and shoulders.  The pale undersides of her round breasts stretch and strain upwards, the aureoles still obscured by the dress' lining as she tries to tug the whole of it off, but there is no camisole or shift beneath.<br/><br/>Apparently the half-elf is unused to a couple of things, one being dresses, and she's completely stuck, her taut midriff stretched, cosmopolitan panties soaked and clinging to her below a concave navel, once-fine hosiery and garter stained a dirty tan and heavy with creek water, flexing and giving an awkward, writhing twist that is at once ridiculous and delicious.  The other aspect of commonality alien to this girl is, aparently, any sense of privacy.  Shamelessly-- or rather, with a complete unawareness of propriety, she curses under her breath in elven and tugs harder and more wildly at the dress, causing her to lose her balance and splash down into the creek on her bottom with a cry of surprise that becomes a wet-cloth muffled laugh.  "MFFF-- cnnn ynu hehp wiff da shtrings?"  From the peak of the bunched-up neck, her long fingers arch down like the neck and beak of a strange bird, pointing hopelessly at some tie or facet on her side.