Once upon a time in a quaint little town on the edge of the majestic Forest of Fyr, there lived an unusual but talented chef named Raxtus. Raxtus was a dragon, albeit a much smaller one compared to his colossal winged cousins. His scales shone a brilliant bright red, glimmering even in the slightest light. What set Raxtus apart from every other chef in the kingdom, however, was not just his remarkable culinary prowess, but his peculiar preference for how he insisted working in the kitchen.

As a dragon, Raxtus had no use for clothes, after all. His scales provided enough protection against the heat of the ovens in the kitchen, and his nature-bound demeanor deemed clothing unnecessary and restrictive. He considered it an artistic expression of freedom, his way of embracing the raw elements of his culinary craft. He didn't mind the surprised looks from guests, nor did he mind their sheepish grins; he understood his work to be an intersection of novelty, skill, and tradition. For him, it was just another day in the kitchen.

I, being a human, was initially taken aback by this unusual sight when I first employed Raxtus as my personal chef. It was, to say the least, an adjustment. Yet, his culinary creations were beyond compare. His spiced meats were always succulent, his vegetables crisp, and his sauces vibrant with an array of carefully balanced flavors. Each meal was a tantalizing experience, a testament to his love for cooking and his mastery over the craft.

Over time, we developed a strange, shared routine. I would sit at my dining table, eagerly awaiting the day's creation, and Raxtus would come out of the kitchen, carrying a culinary masterpiece. Our exchanges were mostly quiet, save for my compliments on his work and a bow of the head and humble thanks. But I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more in the glances he sent my way.