The griffon positions himself near enough to Miaren that his sharp avian and feline scents tickle her senses with their edges.  The potions within her open their wet throats and begin beating their eager magic through her.  Chemicals stir up fresh fires.  The eggs within are definitely larger, and throb in the sensitivity of her womb.<br/><br/>He remains still - just a trunk of cast bronze, legs pouring down in rustling bronze, paws set firm.  His snowy crest leans about as he lashes the surrounding space with his gaze.  It is on the pollinated emptiness of the lazy enclosure garden he spends his aggression.  Nothing about him suggests he has found either woman a target.<br/><br/>Only the slow encroachment of his forked and rosy sex, extruding from its sheath with rubbery pulses, its substance slathered with the sticky wet that summons excitement to Miaren.<br/><br/>Fern gains the gable and looks down.  The hallway she sees is identical, save for that it is rowed with numerous suits of armor - geometric and sharp plates of arm, craft of elaborately detailed ceramic and shining like the polished blades they hold before them.  Their empty readiness is polished to a terrific shine; they glow darkly in a dozen arrayed atop the lacquer.<br/><br/>