Hunting the Wind

Khevol was perfectly positioned to spot a troll yearling, probably no taller than seven feet, moving along an established trail. A steep valley separated them, so neither were in danger from the other, and besides, the yearling would not be ready for harvesting for a dozen more winters.

Normally, he would watch the creature’s behavior carefully, hoping to learn something new that would keep him alive when he was hunting in earnest.

But today, he was introspective. Something made him look back on a year of troll hunting along the White River, living among the whispering, insular villagers who hated his Dwarven ways but were too frightened to face him or too greedy to risk losing access to his fine pelts.

He was sure he paid higher taxes than others on his prized skins, but that had ceased to rankle. Maybe he was growing complacent here, domesticated by a lovely mate, sleeping under a real roof most nights, eating seasoned food with a spoon at a table.

He snorted. His kith back home would surely laugh at the small beer belly that was filling his tunic. Maybe this was life.

He smelled the north wind. How far had it come across the world to touch his face? Where was it born? If he just started walking, could he find the home of the wind?

A hunger for a new horizon filled him. He wanted to see new people, not these half-toothless villagers who would happily steal him blind if they could get away with it.

He pulled a tusk out of his pouch. It bore a rough carving that he was perfecting little by little when the mood was on him. Maybe a new city would prize his art more than his toil. Maybe.

The yearling moved along the trail, ignoring Khevol. He picked up a small stone and lobbed it toward the troll. Though it landed short, the troll sped away like it had been stung.

Run, run little one, Khevol mused. Go north, and maybe we’ll meet again.

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