Land of Salvania

  Khevol knew the enemy was ahead somewhere in the dark forest.  His skin tingled with the thought that they were watching him even now. Any breath could be his last.   He froze.  Did he hear something? "Have courage, my little dwarven boy," he thought to himself, remembering his father's words as they had tracked a wounded troll forty years before. "Everything in life balances on the word 'maybe.'  Every step you take may be a risk, a mistake, or a great reward.  But you gotta take the step to find out." Maybe he would have a child one day.  Maybe he would tell them about this dark forest.  Maybe, if he lived.   Khevol took the next step. /// Inspired from "The Collected Works Of William James", William James (1842–1910) “So far as man stands for anything, and is productive or originative at all, his entire vital function may be said to have to deal with maybes. Not a victory is gained, not a deed of faithfulness or courage is done, except upo

  Khevol wandered among the winding alleys in the sprawling market district. The sights and smells left him reeling. A fishmonger's catch drifted on the same breeze as the incense seller's eye-watering powders. At one alley opening, he spotted a woman with exotic paint on her eyelids. She was from the southern desert, and she danced to a nearby musician's wooden flute, the glittering rings on her low-cut satin dress jingling. Castle guards were here and there, just enough to keep everyone on good behavior. But it was the owls that unsettled Khevol most. They were everywhere, and most shops and stalls had a perch for them to rest and stare. He heard that they hunted mice that would otherwise pilfer or spoil the sellers' goods. Still, they looked like they were watching him. Intently. Hungrily. /// Copyright

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

The shaman tapped Khevol's arm and whispered, "We have a visitor." Khevol looked past his steaming mug and the crackling fire, his eyes following the shaman's gesture. A lovely, large hawk was perched atop the camp's totem looking back at him. The shaman said, "This is a sign to you, my Dwarven friend. Hawks are careful; they watch an area before taking action. Our lore says the hawk spirit invites you to study a situation thoroughly before making any quick decisions. Never be rash since every action brings consequences both seen and unseen." Khevol nodded. "Our word for this hawk spirit is 'trangnarn'. My people say that the trangnarn represents skill and precision. When you see a trangnarn, you should look at areas of your life where you should improve your choices more before acting." The shaman nodded. "Yes. We may look different, but our people are much alike." The hawk peeped in agreement. /// Copyright

Ivey's brother stepped lightly down the stone steps and smiled at Khevol, the full moon blocked by his armored bulk. "Well met, my Dwarven brother from the Red Hills. I am Bomruid Shadowborn. Ivey says you're a troll hunter." Khevol appreciated directness. "Well met, Shadowborn," Khevol glanced at the badge on his armor, "Of the Clan Steward, I see. I don't know many Stewards who'd want Dwarven folk among their number." Shadowborn tapped the badge over his heart. "That's a long story. The short version is that they don't mind dwarven folk who slay trolls that sneak into town and steal their goats. When I'm off this wall tomorrow, we'll have an ale or three and discuss it." Khevol nodded. Ivey had already told him more than that. Shadowborn had saved a child, not a goat. Khevol appreciated modesty. /// Copyright

Khevol had a pleasant supper with the woodcutter, whose name was almost impossible to inflect with his Dwarven tongue. Eventually, the man laughed and said, “Just call me Dyado.” Dyado poured a small amount of deep red liquid into two wooden cups. “Nazdrave,” he said with gusto and drained his cup. “Cheers,” Khevol said and followed suit. It was like drinking fire; his eyes watered as he fought for air. “By the gods knees,” he sputtered, surprised that his exhalation did not ignite his sleeve. “Give me a hot coal to cool my throat.” Dyado laughed and slapped his knee, though his eyes were watering too. “This will make your sword strong, my friend!” Over the next hour, as the pleasant conversation and dinner and drink settled him, and the crackling fire filled the cabin with dancing shadows, Khevol melted into a rocking chair and dozed lightly. He dreamed and woke and dreamed some more. It was a rare moment of complete restorative relaxation that his recent hardships had not al

The healer motioned Khevol to join her at the druid's campfire. The deep conversations were over, and the wine jugs had appeared. The druids, all women, and the Elvenari, all males, regarded this Dwarven in their midst. "This is Khevol. He is a wonderful bone carver and friend of my fire," the healer said. She looked at Khevol and winked. "So give us a story." Khevol was shocked. What kind of story would he tell to this auspicious group? "You have ambushed him," one of the Elvenari said with a smile. He stood beside a small shrine they had placed near the fire circle; Khevol saw a deer skull in a circle of tallow candles. Khevol pointed to the deer shrine, and said, "We of the Red Hills have a goddess named Artemin. One day, she was bathing in a clear mountain pool, and two trolls stumbled upon her. She was beautiful, and the trolls tried to violate her. Using her magic, she changed into a white doe and dashed between the trolls. They

On a grey day of the waning year, Khevol overtook a man in the forest. He was tall and bearded, and an owl rode on his broad shoulder. He was dragging a small sled of chopped wood with a massive ax strapped atop the pile. "Greetings," he boomed, and his owl companion fluttered in agitation. "Easy, my sweet." He rubbed her brow as she settled. "We don't see many of the Dwarven kind around here." "Hello," Khevol said, wrapping his tongue around the man's language. "I have not seen another soul in five days. Is a village nearby?" "Indeed! Follow me; it's not far." They walked and chatted for an hour, and the subject of Yule celebrations came up. The big man said, "At the village, they have a custom where eight men dance wildly around the square with stag antlers on their heads. We say it brings good luck for the coming year." Khevol nodded. "My people sweep out every corner of their homes. E