Chapter 110: The Etiquette of the Steaming Annex
Leading a seven-foot-tall Plains Orc through the corridors of the Oaken Hearth felt less like escorting a guest and more like guiding a weather system indoors.
Torra moved with a deliberate grace, her boots thudding against the floorboards. As they walked toward the Steaming Annex, her green eyes tracked every joint, every peg, and every load-bearing timber.
"Solid," she rumbled, running a calloused hand along the doorframe of the annex entrance. "Most route-taverns build with green wood that warps before the first snow. This was built by someone who understands weight."
"It was built by a Frost Wolf," Elian said, his voice neutral as he unlocked the heavy cedar door. "I just did the math."
Torra let out a low, vibrating hum that Elian felt in his chest. "Math keeps the roof up. I respect math."
Elian pushed the door open.
The Steaming Annex was empty, the air thick with the scent of cedar oil, wet stone, and the mineral-rich heat of the spring. Lanterns cast a golden glow through the mist. The transition from the freezing, muddy reality of the Briar-Route to this heated sanctuary always struck travelers like a physical blow, and the Orcish outrider was no exception.
Torra stopped in the doorway. She took a slow breath, her broad chest expanding against her leather armor.
"Ancestors," she whispered, the rough edge of her voice softening. "It’s real."
"Imperial standard," Elian confirmed, stepping inside and gesturing to the low wooden stools and cedar buckets lined up along the outer stone wall. He fell back on his administrative protocols, desperate for the familiar structure of the rules to keep his heart rate steady. "The fee grants you unlimited soaking time for the evening. However, the water is a communal asset. Before you enter the main pool, you must use the wash stations. Lye soap and scrub brushes are provided. You do not enter the spring until the road dirt is gone."
Torra looked down at him. A slow smirk pulled at the corner of her scarred mouth, exposing the tips of her lower tusks.
"Strict," she noted.
"Hygienic," Elian corrected, his throat suddenly dry.
Torra didn't argue. She reached up and unclasped the iron buckle holding her woven grass-cord cloak. It dropped to the floorstones with a thud. She unslung her double-bladed glaive and composite bow, leaning them against the dry-bench.
Then, with the lack of modesty common to deep-route veterans, she began stripping off her armor.
Elian turned his back, fixing his eyes on the grain of the cedar door. "I will leave you to your ablutions. Bruna will have your meal ready when you—"
"Clerk," Torra interrupted.
The single word cracked like a whip through the humid air.
Elian froze. "Yes?"
"I gave you three silver," Torra said. He heard the rustle of leather dropping to the stones, followed by the splash of water from one of the cedar buckets. "Two for the dry-hold. One for the bath. And I believe I mentioned a specific condition regarding my back."
Elian squeezed his eyes shut. Rylia’s letter burned in his inner coat pocket like a glowing coal. If you take a companion, it must be someone I will like and approve of. If she cannot lift a timber, respect the Steaming Annex’s hygiene protocols, or survive Bruna’s cooking, she is not permitted.
Torra had respected the protocol. She was at the wash station.
"I am the waystation manager," Elian said, his voice remarkably steady considering he was currently arguing with a naked, towering Plains Orc. "I do not generally provide personal bathing services."
"A pity," Torra purred. "Because my shoulders are carrying three weeks of steppe-dust, and my arms are tired. I suppose I will have to deduct points from my review of this establishment."
Elian took a breath. He was the provider. He held the territory. And the Alpha had explicitly ordered him not to let the fire go out.
He turned around.
Torra was seated on one of the low cedar stools, her long, muscular legs bent, her back to him. The sheer expanse of her was staggering. Her greenish-brown skin was a tapestry of faded tribal tattoos and jagged, silvery scars won in battles Elian couldn't even fathom. The muscles of her back and shoulders shifted like tectonic plates under the skin as she reached for a wooden bucket.
She glanced over her shoulder, her green eyes flashing through the steam. She held out a stiff-bristled scrub brush and a block of lye soap.
"Well?" she challenged softly.
Elian took off his wool coat, draping it over the dry-bench. He rolled the sleeves of his sweater up past his elbows. He walked over to the wash station, his boots silent against the wet stones, and took the brush and soap from her massive hand.
"Lean forward," Elian instructed, his voice dropping into the calm tone he used when balancing a difficult ledger.
Torra chuckled—a deep, rumbling sound of approval—and braced her elbows on her knees, bowing her head.
Elian dipped the brush into the hot water bucket, lathered it heavily with the soap, and set to work.
He didn't rush. He applied the same meticulous, calculated focus to cleaning the Orcish outrider that he applied to his route contracts. He scrubbed the dried mud and sweat from her shoulder blades, working the stiff bristles into the deep grooves of her musculature. He rinsed her with heavy splashes from the cedar bucket, watching the grime of the Briar-Route wash down the drainage grates, revealing the beautiful, intricate ink of her tattoos.
Torra let out a shuddering groan as Elian’s hands dug into the knots at the base of her thick neck.
"By the plains," she breathed, her head dropping forward. "You have strong hands for a clerk."
"I spend a lot of time lifting ledgers and preventing a stubborn mule from eating my tax reserves," Elian said, pouring another bucket of hot water over her shoulders to rinse away the lather.
Directly above them, the floorboards gave a heavy, deliberate shudder, followed by a piercing, demanding bray that echoed down through the timber.
Supervision of aquatic grooming acknowledged. Ensure the guest is sanitized. Unclean elements lead to structural decay. Also, I am still waiting for my apple.
Torra’s ears twitched, and she glanced up at the ceiling. "Your beast has strong lungs. Is he hungry, or just judgmental?"
"He is an administrative liability masquerading as a mule, and if we ignore him, he eventually goes to sleep," Elian said, setting the brush down. He grabbed a clean linen towel and wiped the excess water from her back. "You are clean to standard. The pool is yours."
Torra stood up. She turned to face him, entirely bare, entirely unashamed, and overwhelmingly present. Water dripped from her lower tusks and ran down the deep valley between her heavy breasts. She stepped forward, crowding Elian against the stone wall of the wash station.
She reached out, her massive, calloused hand gripping the collar of his sweater.
"I am clean," Torra agreed, looking down into his eyes. "But you are still wearing too much wool, clerk. And I don't like soaking alone."
Elian looked up at her. He saw the raw, open hunger in her green eyes, tempered by the disciplined patience of a hunter who knew exactly what she had cornered. She possessed the spine, the strength, and the raw frontier endurance that Rylia demanded.
Elian reached up and covered her hand with his own.
"The Steaming Annex rules require all guests to be entirely clean before entering the water," Elian whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Then I suppose I’ll have to scrub your back now," Torra rumbled, her tusks flashing in a brilliant, predatory smile.
With effortless strength, she lifted Elian by his sweater, turning him around and pressing him back down onto the cedar stool. Before he could process the shift in gravity, she was pulling his sweater over his head, her massive hands surprisingly gentle as they stripped away the layers of the Tavern-master, leaving only the man underneath.
When the hot water from the bucket finally cascaded over Elian’s shoulders, washing away the cold dust of the tenth day, he closed his eyes and leaned back against her solid, immovable strength.
The walls held. The ledger was balanced. And the den, for tonight, was undeniably warm.
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