Content Warning: Brief but bloody violence. Domination. Goblins. This is a bit of a weird one, but I write what the muse tells me to write.
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Shiara had learned much about adventuring over her years as a sellsword. She had learned, for example, that one almost never knew an adventure for what it was until it was
over
. In the midst of all the walking, climbing, sneaking, and fighting, one rarely had time to appreciate that there was anything grand or glorious happening at all.
Indeed, over her storied career, she'd found questing to be less about fighting evil or chasing after buried treasure than it was about scrounging enough of life's necessities to make it through the day. Food, shelter, and rest were all in short supply for those in her profession, and it was easy to forget about glory when she had a rumbling belly or a rain-soaked tunic to contend with.
But of all the hardships and privations that dogged Shiara through her adventures, perhaps the worst was the sheer
dirtiness
that she had to endure while on the road. With few exceptions, questing afforded almost no opportunities to wash, and Shiara frequently found herself going weeks without bathing. And with adventures being the sweaty, bloody, muddy affairs that they were, this poverty of washbasins could become truly maddening.
That's not to say she was given to complaining. She was, after all, a professional, and she liked her work well enough. It paid, and there was little else for one with her criminal past to do if not sell her skills to the highest bidder.
But though she bore the griminess of her profession with quiet dignity, she never missed an opportunity to wash herself, whether in a steaming washtub at a roadside inn, or on the shores of a frigid lake. And on a balmy morning in late May, Shiara found herself trotting eagerly across a treeless stretch of grassland toward just such an opportunity.
She and her three male companions were blazing a trail to the Hellcaves of Rokaz-Borog in pursuit of the Necromancer Korokan, and had been setting an especially brisk pace across a sun-baked prairie. It hadn't rained in days, and a cloud of dust followed them as they went. She'd been blinking it out of her eyes all day, and grimacing at the feel of its grit on her bare arms and beneath her tunic.
When they'd come upon a narrow river, she and the others had been quick to stoop down to quench their thirst and wash their grubby faces. But Veronus, the Paladin, had insisted that to do more would have been indecent in mixed company, and had ordered them all to make camp a hundred paces away from the stream. Shiara had no choice but to comply. It was, after all, Veronus' holy order that had hired her, along with Senesio the Cleric and Phineas the Bard. Veronus was accompanying them to see their task completed according to specifications, and command was his. Shiara had fumed inwardly when he ordered an end to their ablutions, but as always, she'd held her tongue.
She'd set camp and supped with the rest of them, but had gone to bed early as they sat talking and drinking around the fire, ducking into her lean-to with a mumbled excuse about tired legs. None had questioned her, and the others had continued to talk late into the night while she drifted off into an early slumber.
When she awoke, the sun was still still below the horizon, and the soft snores of her companions mingled with the sound of crickets. Guessing that she had at least an hour before they began to stir, she wasted no time in donning her clothes and slipping out of the camp and back towards the stream. Veronus might have forbidden the company to bathe in one another's presence, but surely he couldn't fault her for going off alone to see herself cleaned. Well, not reasonably anyways. But that would be for them to discuss later. For now, the pull of those clear waters was too strong, and she didn't think she could bring herself to turn back now. If Veronus thought there was anything indecent about what she as doing, it would be easier to ask forgiveness later than to try to bring the pious lout around to her way of thinking.
She undid the fastenings about her neckline as she walked. Her skin was well bronzed, and as her tunic fell open to reveal the tops of her full breasts, they seemed almost to glow, so long had they been out of the sun.
She undid her hair next, and her thick blonde tresses spilled down to her shoulders, shining in the fading moonlight despite the cloud of dust that spilled out with them. She was covered head to toe in the grime and dirt of travel, and as dust billowed about her, her excitement at the prospect of a good wash only grew.
She could hear the stream babbling now, and picked up her pace, breasts bouncing a little with the quickened movement. Next, she unbuckled her sword belt, releasing her tunic to billow in the cool breeze that stirred the high grass of the plains.
She arrived at the brook, set her belt and sword down on the damp earth of the bank, and reached up under her tunic. Her nimble fingers unfastened the ties that kept her leathern trousers up about her hips, and in an instant those trousers were down by the tops of her boots. Her bare legs, stretching up to the hem of her tunic, were just as white as her breasts, and seemed to glow in the pre-dawn light.
Shiara's tunic hung down like a short dress, nearly reaching her knees, and her modesty remained intact for the moment. But she could already feel the cool air between her thighs and on her trunk beneath the billowing fabric, and she felt a thrill of anticipation as she thought of fresh water flowing over her naked body.
With one step and then a second, she freed herself from her trousers and boots alike, and set these aside with her sword belt. Her tunic was quick to join them, and soon she was gasping in delight as she waded into the brook.
The water was freezing, but her eagerness to wash overcame her hesitation, and she yelped with glee as she plunged beneath the surface of the little stream. As her head emerged from the water, hair sodden and clinging to her sun-bronzed neck, she began to run her hands over her tired limbs and rub away the filth that coated them.
Her hands slid under her arms, across her toned trunk and buoyant breasts, over her thighs, and between her legs. A subtle smile quirked across her lips as she ran her fingers over her cleft, and for a moment her mind wandered to the other things, besides a good bath, that she'd been too long without.
But those pleasant thoughts melted away in place of a sick, sinking feeling when a guttural voice sounded suddenly from the opposite shore.
"Oi! Lil' bird! Come outta there and let's 'ave another look at ye, eh?"
Her limbs went rigid and her heart sped to a gallop. Her face flushed, but it was not in embarrassment. No, as Shiara turned her head to the source of the voice, she felt a wave of red wrath sweep over her, and she resolved right then that she would silence whoever it was who'd called to her.
Disgust joined her fury as she laid eyes on the two Goblins who squatted on the opposite bank, leering and grinning at her, arms thrust under their greasy loincloths, moving lazily.
They were hunched, malaportioned creatures, and she doubted that either of them would stand taller than her shoulder at full height. But they were thick-limbed and strong, if fat as well, and she knew that they might pose a real danger to her were they to use their hands for something other than stroking themselves.
