Saya and the Dragon Chapter 58: Scales, Soap, and Sacred Scrubbing

The river was warm today. Not steaming, not cold—just pleasantly murky, like a big bowl of herbal tea soone forgot to drink.

I was naked, obviously. Because clothes in rivers are for people with sha, and let’s be honest—I’ve misplaced mine sowhere between Seebulba and my third failed con in Thalveth.

The Dragon lay half-subrged, head on a mossy boulder like so diva on spa day. Steam curled from his nostrils in lazy puffs. His scales were grimy from the last cave we squatted in, and I, generous soul that I am, had appointed myself his personal bathmaid.

"Hold still," I said, climbing onto his back with a cake of stolen soaproot. "You’ve got gri between your scapular ridges."

"I don’t have scapular ridges," he muttered.

"Well, you do now." I lathered up the soap, leaned in, and scrubbed with gusto. "There. Isn’t this nice?"

"I’m reptilian," he said flatly. "We don’t bathe for pleasure. And I’m not exactly pining for mammary companionship."

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, yes. I know. Big scaly queer beast. Still, let do my job."

He huffed. “I thought your job was bait. Or lure. Or walking, talking moral dilemma.”

I slapped a soapy hand onto his side. “That too. But I was trained for this. Back in Seebulba. Bath girl. Finest brothel on the wharf. I did ritual bathing." I added a faux-reverent tone. “Sacred. Erotic. Cleansing. Spiritually bubbly.”

“You got kicked out for cursing during a ceremony,” he said without even looking.

“Well, she started it.”

“You threw a sandal at the priestess.”

“She called a gutter nymph.”

“You called her a crusty hag with broomstick tits.”

I splashed water at his smug face. "She was crusty."

He grunted. “You’re wasting your talents.”

“Oh?”

“You could’ve been a mildew cultivator.”

I blew him a kiss and kept scrubbing, humming sothing vaguely lewd. “Admit it. You’re enjoying this. You’ve never been bathed by a scandalously naked high priestess of filth before.”

He didn’t answer. Which ant I was winning.

“You’ve got moss in your axillary folds,” I added, poking a claw fold.

“It’s aesthetic.”

“Liar.”

He rumbled sothing obscene in Draconic. I grinned and poured a bucket of river water over his head.

For a mont, he just sat there. Dripping. Smoldering. Then, with the resigned weariness of soone who’d clearly made a long series of mistakes leading to this mont, he muttered, “I’m going to regret not eating you.”

"Yes," I said sweetly. "But you’d miss bath day."

He groaned.

Victory.