Twilight on the eastern summit of the Floating Mountain carried a crisp alpine bite of fourteen degrees of brisk mountain chill. But nobody stepping onto the dark rock terrace felt the slightest shiver.
A rolling, fragrant ocean of warm stone steam had wrapped around the entire plateau. Rising from the five stepped storm-cedar basins, the vapor created a nearby micro-climate of pure, wrapping warmth that defied the high-sky mountain winds. The steam smelled intensely of wet cedar heartwood, crushed sweet pine, and clean underground stone dew, fully free of the pungent sulfur fumes common to wild fiery geysers.
At the entrance to the bathhouse grounds stood a simple, open timber pavilion of peeled cedar logs, bearing a plain wooden plaque carved by Lin Xiao himself:
“Leave your swords outside. Leave your titles on the rack. Here, we’re all just warm bones in water.”
Beneath the plaque stood a line of thirty wide cedar storage chests, overseen by two smiling young wolf beastfolk attendants dressed in neat indigo tunics. Each chest had been planed smooth, fitted with polished bronze latches, and lined with fragrant bitter pine-resin shavings to keep clothes fresh and dry while bathers soaked.
The first group of guests approached the threshold with cautious, respectful steps. They were a diverse assembly. Ancient traditional sect patriarchs who had lived for nine hundred years in secluded mountain grottos, mortal royal chancellors accustomed to silk-canopied dragon palanquins, burly beastfolk chieftains from the deep forests, and master artisans from the valley guilds.
