Land of Salvania

The fur trader sat at his stall outside the castle walls. He watched the Dwarven troll hunters haggle over a massive pelt that weighed as much as a cow. The filthy foreigners, coming here to take business away from him, to take food from his family’s mouth. Before those uncouth savages had come to White River, everything had been perfect. He could set his own prices, and he had lived well from fairly small, substandard pelts. He stood and rearranged his samples for the tenth time; maybe a buyer would come. But it had been a week since his last sale. Old Wilmer had come by and said, “I need some rabbit for my grandson’s gloves. How’s the business?” “Rabbits are good this year. Business is booming.” Old Wilmer nodded, playing along with the lie. “Ya know them Dwarven are all the rage. I hear they are planning to stay. Maybe start some kind of village of their own.” “Rages come and go,” the fur trader growled. “Remember when everyone wanted Elvenari shoes a few years back?” Old W

Ulrich blinked in the gods be damned desert heat as he trudged over the baked scrubland toward a shadow, a castle. They built it around an oasis for parched travelers if the rumors were true. Maybe they built it around an eligible princess as well. He was amazed that there was only one guard outside the castle. He wore no obvious armor or shield, and his desert scimitar was no match for the Northman’s axe. Moreover, he looked well past his prime. When Ulrich reached a spear-throw from the guard, the man stepped forward and held out his hand. A string of unknown language followed. “I am sorry, my friend,” Ulrich said, showing his empty hands. “I do not speak your language.” The leather-skinned guard regarded him for a moment and scratched his scruffy beard. If he was like every other castle guard in every other part of Salvania, he was probably figuring how to extract a “toll” for entry. He stepped forward to meet Ulrich.  “Why is you be here?” the guard asked. “What is you busy

Duke Halbert, the queen’s father, had become a shuffling, muttering shadow that wandered the castle halls at all hours, disturbing the dogs and interrupting late-night trysts. He was pleasant enough when approached for conversation, but his words were disjointed and likely to have no relationship to the topic. When Elric, the queen’s chef, found Halbert outside the pantry at midnight, he asked, “Milord, are you hungry? You barely touched your supper.” “Old Bob used to bring us a string of trout on festival days. I went fishing with him one time, and he sprinkled some kind of dust on the water. He called it Fairy Cinders. Said he got it from an old lady in the woods.” Elric just stared. Not sure what to say and regretting he had started this conversation at all. “Here’s the strange part: when he sprinkled it on the water, fish would jump out, and we just needed to catch them.” Halbert made a grabbing motion and smiled. “It was great fun. Old Bob said the dust made the fish think