He drifted between dreams for a few long hours. The storm had gotten worse -- he could hear the wind whipping outside the cave entrance, and he knew it would likely get more intense over the next day before the snow finally moved on. When he lifted his head, Juniper was awake, but she wasn't cooking this time. She was still naked, meditating, facing the fire, standing at a distance that would have burned a human. He noticed that she only wore the fang choker she had often worn during their altercations.
A ceremonial piece of adornment, the choker was leather, save the gold bead at the front of her neck -- a decorative, slightly curved replica of a dragon's fang.
It was a statement of her status as a warrior as much as the muscles rippled across her shoulders and back. She tilted her head, the only acknowledgment she made that she knew he was awake. Fear spiked through Clay, but the longer he watched her, the more it dissipated. Clearly, she wasn't about to stand and fight him -- she was deep in some trance.
Clay didn't want to be rude and disrupt her, but he felt strange just watching her. He got up quietly and went to his pack, fetching the notebook that hadn't been thrown into the hot thermal pools of the dwarvish cave. He blinked at the blank page for a few long moments before he began to write. He'd been in the practice of keeping traveler's notes for a long time. When he was most uncertain, he referred to the most immediate details: the warmth of the cave, the lingering smell of the savory rabbit they'd eaten, and the sounds of the storm outside. He'd written pages about all of these things before he finally admitted on the paper that his world had turned upside down. He didn't know what to think, but somehow, just writing "I don't know what to think anymore" seemed to relax some part of him. It wasn't a sore muscle that needed the tension released -- instead, it felt more like an emotional tightness. So he continued writing about his uncertainty until he ran out of words. Then, he looked up to see Juniper stretching her lithe body in the heat of the fire.
Though he felt she was showing off, he still appreciated her flexibility as she moved from one posture to the next, testing her hips for aches and her shoulder for the strain he was now sure was on its way to healing. Finally she turned to him, and her expression was relaxed and open. In her eyes were equal parts curiosity and calm.
"Good morning," she said at last.
"Is it?" Clay asked, his eyes darting away from her. "I mean, not to say it's not good, just whether it's morning. Hard to tell what time it is, in here."
Her forked tongue flicked across her lips and even despite his exhuastion, Clay swallowed hard. She had mentioned that many Salamandrine men experienced a "romanticized addiction" to their partner's bodies, the sensations of their firestarter, and the pleasure they found together. He wondered if, as a human, the same might apply to him -- or worse. When she beckoned him forward, he felt powerless to do anything but obey, and he left his notes and pencil on the stone ground, following her to where she stood in front of the altar.
"Do you recognize this language?" she asked Clay, gesturing to the dusty tapestry that hung behind the altar. He looked at it for a few long moments, puzzling over the symbols, before his brow cleared.
"Yes, actually," he said. "Looks like a version of Arcane Magi."
"Magi? The language of the sacred wayfarers?" Juniper asked in astonishment.
"Yes, it appears so," Clay said. "I actually recognize some of these words... as a child, my mother was religious... she would take me and my brothers to a Magi Shrine to pray. I hated it when I was very young, because you know, Magi worship is all about walking, moving, traveling. The shrines were small, carved into stone, marking where to stop and pray, or drink water. They were spread out, over a course of about five miles, and, as a child... well, it was just a lot of walking." But then he smiled: "As I grew, though, the walks became less challenging and more about appreciating the quiet. As a teenager, I tried to run through the course a few times. Some Magi practitioners or even shamans are extreme runners, and can run for dozens of miles or even further in total solitude -- but I never truly connected with that. It always felt rushed, forceful. And as you know, I am more about living an easy life."
He glanced back at Juniper with a smirk to find she was looking at him with unmistakeable pity. She looked away, speaking quickly: "I don't think that anymore."
Clay cleared his throat and turned back to the tapestry. "It seems we find ourselves in a temple of... Saint Ankara... no, wait... Santa Ankara? They don't use the word 'Saint' like we do in the south. It says Anara Ankara. What a mouthful!... wait, I know that word, too. 'Holy'. 'Holy Ankara'." He shook some of the dust away from the tapestry, coughing and covering his mouth with his sleeve, and accidentally pulled it off the wall, revealing something like a ceremonial clock. He blanched as the inscription came into view, along with the clock's face, which had been stained with smoke and holy oils, but was still elaborate and carefully polished.
