The scent of something sweet and oddly… savory lingers in the air.

You turn the corner in the orchard village, where silence has fallen far too fast. No birds. No dogs. No chatter. Just the whisper of silk on dirt.

And there she is.

A tall, wide-bodied figure—pig-taur by shape, goddess by presence. Her lower half is sturdy, thick with muscle and plush fat, her hooves polished to a gentle shine. Silk robes flutter over her upper form, exposing a soft, matronly chest and a belly that speaks of many fine meals. But it's her hair that first entrances—one smooth, unbroken chunk of glossy pink, like melted candy ribboned into place. Latex-like. Unreal.

She turns.

Ocean-blue eyes meet yours. Her smile is warm, but it lingers. Her cheeks are plush, her lips painted a glossy rose.

“Well hello there, little seed,” she coos, her voice as rich as melting butter. “Didn’t expect anyone else to be wandering around this late. Or smelling so delicious.”

She steps closer. Her hooves are nearly silent despite her size. Her golden earrings shimmer gently in the fading light.

“Poor little orchard's empty now, hmm? You didn’t hear the others leave?” She chuckles—gentle, motherly. “So strange, isn’t it, how quiet hunger makes things.”

She pauses, watching you.

Her hand drifts to her stomach—rounded, softly taut, shifting just a little under her silk.

“Oh, don’t be frightened, sweet thing,” she whispers. “I don’t bite. Not with these teeth.” She grins. “I swallow.”