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Cold.

By His Immenseness, it was cold.

The boat’s hull creaked as it fought its way through the sea ice toward shore. Standing at its helm was a shivering hunter, swearing under his breath at his situation; supply and survey was “light duty” Guild work, but in one of the harshest hunting grounds it was anything but. Neither his armor nor the sun on his back could combat the frigid sea winds that gripped his lungs, so he had to resort to something a little unpleasant. His stiff fingers fumbled with the pouch at his hip and pulled from it a glass flask of viscous, red liquid. He braced himself as he brought it to his mouth, but tears still welled up in his eyes as he choked down the whole flask in one go. Bitter, gritty, and above all else burning, the concoction known as the “hot drink” was like drinking rath marrow, but it staved off the gnawing cold that could sap one’s strength in minutes. A few deep breaths and a suppressed retch later, its warmth began to permeate his core. The hunter collected himself and pulled out his binoculars, and through it he saw a spire of deep red stone that stood above the floes, just off the mainland shore. His landing point. He furled the sail and guided the boat toward the spit of land that served as the Guild’s staging area for the hunting grounds.

After grinding to a halt against the jetty and mooring the boat, the hunter wasted no time; the faster he got this over with, the better. The supply drop box was all but encased in ice, but that wasn’t anything a couple of not-so-delicate taps from his hammer couldn’t solve. From it he retrieved a worn map of the immediate area covered in notes, scribbles, and what may or may not have been blood, some rations of indeterminate age, and a spare flask of hot drink stubbornly remaining liquid despite the frigid conditions. He set them aside and restocked the box with fresh supplies for future hunters on assignment. With the easy part out of the way, the hunter threw the leftover supplies in his own pack and set out across the ice toward the mainland. He could see his assigned survey area; rising from the shore was a sheer cliff with a flat top that sloped upward to unknown heights, its apex obscured by low-hanging clouds. It was going to be a long day.

The cliff was far more imposing once the hunter made it to its base, doubly so at the prospect of getting a grip on its icy face. The ascent tried the hunter’s patience just as much as his body as he was forced to backtrack repeatedly whenever he ran out of handholds before he ran out of cliff. By the time he reached the top he could barely heave himself over the lip of precipice, flopping in the snow and catching his breath. With the moment’s breather he turned to size up his next obstacle: A steep, snow-blanketed incline, entirely devoid of vegetation or other cover from the elements. A steady wind kept the loose snow aloft, melting the sky and slope into an indistinguishable, swirling mass ahead of him. He set his jaw and forged ahead through the drifts.

The cliff and shoreline below quickly disappeared as the flurries intensified into a blizzard, his world soon reduced to a turbulent gray and white. The deep cold began to seep into his chest again and he shivered; time for another disgusting drink to stave off the chills. He found a flatter spot to sit a moment and chug a hot drink while he assessed his situation. Night was starting to fall and his carried supplies were enough to get him through another day of travel before he would have to return to base camp or be scavenging his own meals. Deciding that trying to continue through the night in these conditions was foolhardy at best, and the trip down would be much quicker than the trip up. With that, he removed his hammer from its sling and set to work hollowing out a cave in the snow.

The hunter stopped when a distant screech, like metal on metal, cut through the howling gale. The wind grew violent and erratic, nearly sending him tumbling down the incline as he emerged from his half-built shelter. He peered down the slope to see a great black silhouette racing toward him, plowing through the deep snow effortlessly. He dove on to his hammer and turned to face the intruder, ready to defend himself, but was met with a blast of coarse snow to the face that sent him reeling helplessly. Then the shadow flew past, as if it hadn’t seen him at all. Just as suddenly as it appeared, the beast was gone. The shaken hunter was left alone, staring at the wide trench carved through the snow where his shelter once stood. With a sigh of combined frustration and relief, he set to digging a new shelter, this time leaving his hammer on his back.

A fitful night’s sleep was brought to an end with the sun’s half-hearted attempt to shine through the seemingly endless tempest. The hunter groaned as he sat up, a thoroughly unappetizing breakfast of a hot drink and a ration his only solace. Stepping outside and squinting against the glare of the snow, he saw the monster’s path smoothed over by wind and snowfall, but still very visible. He stepped into the track and continued his ascent, finding the shallower snow easier to traverse and hoping that it would lead to a more substantial shelter against the elements. Minutes stretched into agonizing hours as he trudged up the slope, but a promising increase in visibility and thinning snow on the ground motivated him to push on. The slope leveled out and the hunter found himself on a flat ridge, with another cliff face ahead of him with what seemed to be a sheltered hollow at its top. The monster’s path lead straight into it; the icy facade was marred with deep gashes where it clawed its way up.

Silently thanking whatever monster that nearly trampled him the night before for the easy handholds, the hunter picked his way up the cliff cautiously and quietly, knowing the monster could still be residing there. At the top, he snuck a peek over the edge. Nothing. He pulled himself up and began searching for signs of what had been roosting there.

Immediately he noticed that in the alcove the unceasing icy winds were reduced to gentle breeze, and the sunshine actually began to warm his back. The ground near the center was worn smooth, but the walls were covered in fresh horizontal scratches starting at about his head and ending a couple meters above it. Curiously, the hunter spotted what he thought were splinters of rock from the scratching, but on further inspection found they were sizable chunks of rusted metal. In that moment, the hunter felt the ground tremble beneath his feet as something very large leapt onto the side of the escarpment and began ascending.

The hunter scrambled, his only cover an icy stalagmite just wide enough to conceal him near the back of the alcove. He pressed himself behind it and prayed. The sound of crumbling rock and growling grew louder. He peeled himself away from his sole defense just enough to spy around its side. A pit opened up in his stomach and the color of his face drained into it. Cresting the cliff was a beast clad in a shell of metal, an elder dragon known as kushala daora.

The grim, harrowing tales he’d heard in the guild halls echoed in his mind; the few veterans qualified to rout elder dragons told of its steel scales that could shrug off the strongest blows, of its sheer, brutal strength, of it commanding the winds themselves to lash out furiously one second then defend it zealously the next, and its wits that wielded those abilities to calamitous effect. Never once had those stories ended with their parties coming out unscathed.

The hunter suppressed the panic welling within him and drew a steadying breath to focus and observe. The kushala paced, agitated and scraping its body against the far wall of the nesting hollow. He saw now that its hide was dull, brown, jagged; it was deep in molt, making it that much more aggressive and dangerous. Its wings were painfully crumpled near its body and waving helplessly in an attempt to break free of their rusty shackles. It groaned and cried, growing more frustrated at its lack of progress. Finally it resigned and collapsed onto the ground, breathing heavily. As the hunter watched the scene unfold, he almost sympathized with the dragon.

The gravity of the hunter’s position began to sink in as he remained pinned to the spire; he needed to get off the mountain by nightfall, and the only way down was descending the cliff. Getting to the cliff would require walking directly in front of the kushala’s massive head. Sneaking was incredibly risky, but bolting and jumping was to risk breaking a leg, sealing his fate decisively. And so the hunter waited. Once he was sure the dragon had succumbed to exhaustion and was asleep, he began the most terrifying, agonizingly slow steps of his life.

One foot in front of the other. No need to rush. Not when a misstep—a mis-breath, even—could cost him his life. A scant couple meters lied between him and the elder dragon when he heard a deep, angry hiss. He turned to find the kushala’s head raised and staring him down with piercing blue eyes. The hunter’s breath caught in his throat; at this distance, the scale of the dragon before him was far more apparent. It towered over him despite still lying down, its head was as long as he was tall, and its sharp claws could cleanly halve him through his armor. Trying to fight it head-on, even in its weakened state, would be suicide. He stole a nervous glance at his goal and the dragon followed his eyes. It turned back to him, then picked itself up and stepped between him and the cliff.

Clinging to the hope that the dragon would think twice before attacking, the hunter brandished his hammer and held it at the ready. It stared at him coldly. He tried circling wide to the far end of the ledge. It matched him step-for-step. In a desperate bluff, he slammed his hammer against the ground in front of him with a tremendous crack. Unperturbed, the kushala laid down with a huff, issuing an unnaturally strong gust of wind that nearly knocked him off his feet.

The hunter was utterly bewildered, almost as much as he was terrified, and let his readied stance fall slack. In that moment of surrender, the dragon’s expression seemed to soften. Its eyes again grabbed his and lead them to its scrunched wings, almost unrecognizable as such and twitching in discomfort. He’d heard the tales of many a village and city razed by these nomadic beasts, so dangerous that the Guild tracks their activities whenever possible. Yet, to see this living natural disaster in the flesh crippled and seemingly pleading to him, the most peculiar feeling of pity had found root in his hammering heart.

He didn’t know what was crazier; feeling sorry for one of the most dangerous and destructive creatures known to the Guild, or putting his weapon away and approaching it to try and help. The kushala lowered its head to his eye level in a seemingly amenable manner, but still kept a careful watch on the hunter. He walked around to its side, gingerly placing his hand on it and running it over the rough, gritty exterior. It shook its stiff wing just enough to rain rust flakes onto his helm, as if telling him where to start first. It recoiled slightly when he drew his carving knife, but settled once again as the hunter got to work.

The hunter scored around the wing where it met the body, then grabbed the wing and gently worked it up and down. The dragon winced in pain and protested, but the shell quickly crumbled away at the joint and revealed a glint of its shiny interior. Next he cut through the leading edge of the wing from shoulder to tip, then went around behind and pulled on the molt’s membrane. Pain once again flashed across the dragon’s face, but it was quickly replaced by relief as the molt slid free and uncovered a brilliant platinum wing, much larger than the old shell should have possibly held and lustrous beyond compare. It stretched the liberated limb and gave it a few strong beats before getting up and turning around, eagerly awaiting its other wing to be freed.

Having picked up on the method, the kushala helped expedite its remaining wing, the shell on its back sliding away in the process. He stood back as it began flapping them again, this time taking to the air in a fluid pirouette. It it hovered a moment longer, then alighted gracefully in front of him. He couldn’t help but admire its magnificence, how it commanded respect with its confident movements.

The hunter’s heart leapt to his throat when the kushala took a step toward him and lowered its head, butting it into his chest and rasping the rusted shell against his armor. He caught the hint and started working with exceptional care to peel away the rust from its face, then worked his way down its neck. It watched him coolly the whole while, almost seeming to enjoy the personal attention. The plate covering its underside fell away after freeing its front legs, the bulky, dull husk giving way to a lithe frame. Next came its back legs. As he cut away the hide he couldn’t help but notice how its thighs stood in stark contrast to the rest of its body; they were covered in large plates that curved gently, lacking the sharp ridges that adorned much of its armor, that made their thickness even more prominent. Inviting, even.

He shook his head, hastily banishing the vagrant thoughts and moving on to free the tail. The molt slid off with surprising ease, and he returned to its base to clean up around where it met the kushala’s haunches. Plucking away the last errant flakes that stubbornly clung to its hide, he found himself back between its distractingly shapely legs, a single sheet of rust still refusing to let go. As he peeled it back, he noticed gossamer threads of clear fluid stretched between the old and new hide. The kushala shuddered, and the final piece fell away from the flustered hunter’s grip as he realized what he was looking at. Under its tail, the scales were smaller and less orderly, becoming finer as they converged at a smooth crease in the center.

The kushala’s tail curled down on the hunter’s shoulder, as if inviting him in a little closer. He pulled off his gloves and extended a trembling hand to caress the inside of her thigh. Despite appearing metallic, her fresh scales possessed an immaculate smoothness that surpassed even fine glass and were pleasantly warm to the touch. The exploring hand found its way to her crotch, tracing a finger down her slit and coaxing out more of the sticky, slick fluid. The kushala exhaled noisily and gyrated her hips slightly as he dragged his thumb-tip just inside her lips for their entire length, top to bottom and back again. After a couple more passes he saw the kushala turn her head back to him with an irate noise and she abruptly took a long step back, knocking the hunter down beneath her. His face was so close to her glistening heat he could feel the warmth radiating from it on his skin.

With that, he propped himself in a more upright position, removed his helm, then began to tease around the outside of her slit with his tongue, groping her thighs and buttocks and idly wondering if that was doing anything for her. The scales around her entrance were rounded, and the flesh beneath them had enough give that he was able to push into her folds, which induced another small shudder. To his surprise, the kushala’s juices didn’t have a particularly metallic taste to it, instead having a gameyness to it that wasn’t wholly unpleasant, especially compared what he’d been drinking up until now.

Trying to get more of a reaction out of her, the hunter moved a hand to the base of her slit under his chin and dug two fingers inside, working and feeling until he heard a yelp of surprise that descended into a carnal rumbling from deep in her throat. Finding that sweet spot, he settled into a rhythm, being sure to attend this need as diligently as he had her original troubles, and it seemed to be paying off.

Her breath came in heavy, ragged huffs and her powerful legs quaked unsteadily as he drank of her more aggressively. Eddies of mystical wind whipped around them erratically. He wrapped his free arm around her leg and pulled his face hard into her, pushing as deep as he could muster and plunging almost his whole hand in as well, and her body writhed in response; the screech he heard the night before echoed from the alcove walls at ear-splitting volumes. Copious amounts of her warm, sticky nectar splashed across the hunter’s face as he let himself fall to the ground panting slightly, mind reeling over what he had just done.

The great silvery rump lifted away from him and was replaced by a great silvery head, those piercing blue eyes once again staring into his own. A mote of fear crept back into his mind; this was still an elder dragon, a disaster incarnate, hovering inches from his face. He felt her warm breath wash over him as she sniffed him, then licked him roughly from his waist to his head. His baffled expression was met with a second, more insistent lick; slower, deeper than before, nearly pushing him along the ground. The third time her tongue lingered about his crotch, flexing and gripping at it slightly before continuing its way up, and he got the message. She backed off as he got to his feet and fumbled to get out of his faulds. As they fell from his hips he felt the ground tremble; he looked up to see the kushala laying with her hips laid to one side, exposing her slit to him with a raised leg.

Heart racing and mind reeling, the hunter approached with a mixture of trepidation and excitement that had him trembling more than the cold had his entire expedition. The dragon watched, an almost bemused expression on her face as he stepped up to her crotch and looked to her as if awaiting a cue. Her tail tip again curled inward and pressed against the small of his back encouragingly, and the hunter untied his underwear and let his stiff, twitching erection stand out in the cold air before her. He fancied himself on the upper end of endowment, but what lie before him would dwarf any manhood handily.

Placing one hand on her side and grabbing hold of her thigh with the other, he pressed his cocktip against the warm, smooth scales of her slit, which still glistened with her own juices from earlier. It took a bit of a push, but just like with his tongue her scales parted for him and allowed his tip inside her. Warm breath washed over him as he entered her; the kushala had craned her neck over near him and was looking on contentedly.

With her seeming continued approval, the hunter pushed deeper, finding that despite her size her velvet walls clenched snugly around his member. He gyrated his hips a bit, sliding his cock down toward the base of her slit where he had earlier found that sensitive spot, and sure enough he felt her warm breath against his shoulder and neck once more and a clenching around his member.

Emboldened, the hunter reared his hips back and thrust to the hilt, what was left of his worn armor rattling from the impact. And again. And again. The slow, forceful rhythm made the dragon sigh and rumble, as though she appreciated this newfound audacity. Guild be damned he was rutting an elder dragon, and if it decided to kill him he was at least going to have a good lay before going out.

He leaned into her harder and moved one hand down to the higher part of her slit, immediately sinking all four fingers up to his palm in the kushala’s snatch as his pace started to quicken. He felt yet another puff of air against him, though this time it was cold and against his back; her winds were acting up again. Something about what he was doing was working, and that only spurred the hunter on. His hips clashed noisily against her scales as she started to leak her nectar all over his crotch and hand. He could feel her head move closer to him, her hot breath coming in huffs every time he hilted, his cock practically being milked by her muscular passage and pushing him to the edge.

Frantically jackhammering her cunt as hard and fast as he physically could, the hunter was actually making her hips rock with every impact. The dragon’s tail lashed against the ground, her front claws dug gashes in the stone beneath them, her wind whipped violently around them, and little groans and whimpers of pleasure escaping her clenched maw all-the-while as her own climax mounted. The hunter was on his last legs himself, knees quaking, sweat slicking every square inch of his body and flecking his paramour’s steel scales with every thrust, his balls aching for release.

With gritted teeth the hunter could stand no more, throwing his whole weight into the dragon and using her to keep himself upright as he finally started painting her velvet walls white. Feeling this new heat inside her the kushala roared in response and her muscular canal clamped and squeezed in rhythm with the hunter’s orgasm, determined to get every last drop from him. Like this they remained locked for minutes, their labored panting and the combined fluids dribbling from the dragon’s slit and steaming in the cold air alike.

Still leaning into her, the spent hunter slid down to his knees, then turning and flopping into a sitting position, back against the kushala’s underside. As he tied his pants he felt that broad, warm tongue drag against the side of his head, leaving a swathe of his hair spiked up and his face sticky. He couldn’t help but chuckle and wrapped an arm around her big snout in the best hug he could muster, and she rolled it against him in return. The sky darkened, and the hunter looked up to see it had gone a steely gray as one of the dragon’s wings stretched over him and her head, the air beneath quickly growing comfortably warm. A sudden sleepiness hit him like a bullfango, but he could think of no better place to rest than right here. Tenderly embracing his unexpected lover, the pair drifted into amorous slumber.