Clay Breton sat in his tent and debated whether it would be worth it to sneak out to skinny dip in the hot springs. Despite being warned several times by the others in the logging crew that North Ateria Forest would be cold, Clay had underestimated the bitterness of the air. The days were crisp. They alternated between calm and overcast and bright and sunny. But he found the nights -- dark, icy, swirling with freezing winds and dotted with stars -- unbearable.
He had been logging for almost seven years, though he still didn't consider himself a 'lumberjack.' The women in the nearby villages sometimes used the title as a catcall when he and the other crew members stopped in towns between jobs. In taverns and bawdy dance halls, 'lumberjack' was as much a term of endearment as 'baby' or 'sweetie.' It also stood in when the women, done with the dance floor and giggling as they tugged him upstairs, couldn't be bothered to learn his name. Clay wasn't a fool.
There were no expectations in these affairs on either side. They were sharing a bed for an evening of fun and not much more. But what he would have given to have a woman beside him now, warm and soft and inviting him back into the furs...
He shook the thought from his mind. He had taken this job for one reason, and one reason only, and that was because his rival, Juniper Leroy, had been tracking him for the past six months, and he intended to take a stand.
Juniper was good at many things. As a premier Salamandrine warrior in the Nine Months War (the war had begun when the Salamandrine queen had gotten pregnant with an orc's child, and the war ended when the queen gave birth to a monstrous but healthy hybrid boy), she was a gifted fighter and skilled tactician. As a member of the Order of the Bearded Dragon, Juniper followed a strict code of honor and sacrifice- a member of this order would rather cut off their own tail than face dishonor. And, as one of the few lady soldiers of the Salamandrine Court, Juniper had dealt with the schemes of politicians and upstarts for years.
Clay winced as he vividly remembered his role in her story: that of one such upstart. Drawn to Salaman on vacation by legends of the beautiful Salamandrine women, he had drunkenly spilled ale all over Juniper's breeches a moment before she was to give an important speech. The offending stain, Juniper's strict code of honor, and her hatred for privileged outsiders like him began the bitter rivalry.
To rid himself of these thoughts, Clay stood and impulsively decided to go to the hot springs. It had taken so long to work through his tangled thoughts that it was nearly morning. He reasoned that he could rinse and then begin his day as usual. Intrusive thoughts of Juniper would have to wait. Coats piled on his back, compass and notebook in his pocket, he pulled on his boots. Then, he trekked across the frozen landscape to the thermal caves.
As the logging foreman had instructed, there was an entrance that the local dwarves had carved. Clay paused momentarily to look at the inscription- something in Dwarvish, which he could not read- before plunging inside. He was freezing, and the promise of a hot bath was more than enticing. And just as the foreman had promised, the cave opened after a slight downhill slope. The ceiling stretched high above, with a surprising amount of cool, misty light reflecting from the mirrors the dwarves had set up. It wasn't a bright cave by any means -- the full sunrise was still a few hours away, but Clay liked the moonlight. It was a nice contrast to the bubbling warmth of the hot springs, which steamed and gurgled in three enormous pools before him.
He quickly stripped down, not bothering to look around, as he tossed his clothes and bags onto a nearby bench. He was utterly alone, so he didn't have to bother himself with courtesies to other bathers as he practically flung himself into the hot water.
Sighing in contentment, Clay felt his mind finally grow quiet.
It was so quiet that he heard the sound of dripping water a few feet away.
Clay didn't bother to open his eyes. There was only one person it could be. The foremen and other loggers were loud, boisterous men. If they'd come to bathe, they would have announced themselves. It could not be the dwarves who had carved these caves: this time of year, they were deep within the mountain's heart.
Juniper Leroy did many things well, it was true. Her list of accomplishments was a league long. However, she also did have a notable weakness: she had a flair for the dramatic, especially when her pride was wounded. Clay knew she wouldn't dare to kill him with his eyes closed-- it would go against every honorable bone in her body-- so he waited for her to make the first move.
And sure enough, she did.
"You are a difficult man to get alone, Mr. Breton." Juniper's voice was soft but cold. Her Salamandrine accent was thinner now than the last time he saw her, over a year ago. Perhaps because, after all the wars ended, the parades died down. The speeches were less about "common enemies" and more about "building community in peacetime." Juniper had nothing better to do than to hunt him down to regain her honor. She'd left behind the Salamandrine kingdom to go after him. He knew it had changed both of them, but it was an entirely different experience to notice it in how she spoke.
Pity, then, that he had to ruin her theatrics with his crass sense of humor.
"If you wanted to get me alone and naked, darlin', all you had to do was ask," he said, half-lidding his eyes and kicking off the bottom of the pool to float backward, grinning lasciviously. He could see Juniper's silhouette, the details of her appearance hidden by steam, her face obscured by shadow. He didn't have to see her face to know she was scowling.
"Then let me amend," she snarled, "You are a difficult man, Mr. Breton. Full stop."
"That's the Junie I know," he cackled.
"You scoundrel," she stepped forward, her golden-slitted eyes blazing, one lizard-like foot into sight, then the other. Juniper was Salamandrine in all ways, not just her morals: the tiny red scales that covered her skin glittered with the bathwater as she held a sword out at Clay. Clay blinked in surprise, but not because of the sword. He'd been threatened by Juniper at knifepoint many times.
Juniper was naked. And what's more, her Salamandrine skin was breathtaking in the moonlight. He had never seen her naked before. Whenever they'd dueled, she wore traditional Salamandrine clothing: a cacophony of layers, pins, badges, and patches proclaiming her status and rank. Now, she was utterly bare. He noticed for the first time the lighter scales -- the flecked colors and shades of Himalayan pink salt -- that he had seen at the front of her neck extended down the front of her powerful body, blending into deeper red somewhere around the middle of her fantastic breasts. The red scales were on either side of her chest, and he assumed stretching onto her back. But the light pink extended further, covering her lower torso, her lower abs and bikini line, and some of the inside of her muscular thighs before it blended again into the deeper hues of red.
Clay could not help himself; he gaped at her. She was utterly gorgeous. Her hair -- so dark red it was almost black -- had always been in a high bun or a traditional hanging braid. But now her hair was damp, hanging in tendrils around her ferociously beautiful, animalistic face. Her hair was wet, and Clay knew this was somehow significant, even in his shocked state. He tried to focus his thoughts, even as Juniper snarled wordlessly at him, daring him to speak. He got the sense she was gearing up for a speech on honor and all the things she had sacrificed, so he got to focusing quicker -- and blinked again, rapidly, to clear his head, even as he noticed that her skin looked somehow slippery and velvety at the same time -- even as he wondered what it would feel like to touch it --
"You have nowhere to go, Mr. Breton," she snarled, then took a deep breath. "When I was a hatchling -- "
