Land of Salvania

  "My nose itches," Ritter said. "Be still," the artist said, her charcoal-stained hand flying over the canvas. "Just a few more minutes." Ace stood beside Ritter and used his Elvenari discipline to remain as still as a statue. It made Ritter's nose itch more. "I'm thirsty," Ritter complained. "Hold on," the artist said without looking up. "You remind me of a sausage," Ace said, barely moving his lips. His sword was heroically crossed over Ritter's. The portrait was going to be amazing. "Why?" "Because you're a brat," Ace quipped. "Yeah? Most people don't know how I struggled with a serious drinking problem."  Ritter's tone was suddenly serious. "Oh, I'm sorry," Ace said, immediately contrite. He even moved his head to look at Ritter, eliciting a loud sigh from the artist. "It's better now. I brew my own so I have a reliable supply!" /// Co...

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 ...