Ingrid Von Hildegard in Battle Bush

This act of treason shall not go unanswered for I, Ingrid Von Hildegard, will hunt these vile dogs to the last. On my Holy Oath to Her Holiness, the Queen of Bloom, I will not rest until these traitors kneel in grim defeat. They will kiss the cross on my warhammer, whether it be in willing contrition or by bloody retribution." The High Judicator turned to leave, her cape fluttering like a regal banner. “Come squire!”

“Um.” The squire paused, blushing. “Lady Hildegard, I don’t mean to be improprietous, but-”. He gulped. “Your hair is showing.”

Ingrid halted, running her fingers through her flowing, golden locks. “Yes, each shining strand is a testament—a mere glimmer of the Bloom-Mother’s blinding radiance.”

He lowered his voice. “No, I mean your, um, lower hair.”

Ingrid raised an incredulous brow. “Lower hair?”

The squire leaned in, whispering. “Your minge.”

“Hm?” Ingrid glanced down. She was clad in the full regalia befitting her role: cuirass, pauldrons, gauntlets, greaves, a bare milk white belly and ample thighs to match. And it was true that, above the tabard sash flowing between her legs, peeking up from her leather belt, was a flaxen tuft of unkempt bush. “Yes,” she said. “That too is a glimmer of the radiance.”

“Oh I-that’s…intentional.”

“Of course,” Ingrid said. “Did you think it simple vanity?” She eyed him with reproach.

“What? No I-”

Ingrid scoffed. “What you see before you is no mere vanity, squire. It’s not even hair.”

He glanced between the judicator’s prideful grin and her honey-tressed crotch. “…it’s not?”

“No—it’s a storm.” She widened her stance, planting her hands on her hip. “The same storm that rages in my soul. Every curl twists with defiance, every wave is soaked with the sweat of grit and effort, of battles fought and won. And the fragrance? That’s not watered-down perfume peddled by some wily merchant to gullible nobles, it’s the intoxicating scent of endurance, of fire, of life itself! This hair coils and dances because it’s alive—untamed, unbroken, and utterly unyielding. Much like the Bloom-Mother herself.”

“…wow.” The stunned squire blinked. “I had no idea.”

“Few do,” she smirked.

“Can I ask something else?”

She nodded.

“I notice you’re not wearing a culet either. Is that because the Bloom-Mother is the Goddess of, like, Fecundity and your bare hips represent her eternal abundance?”

“Nah.” The High Judicator bent over and slapped her ass. “I just work too hard not to flaunt these buns.”