Land of Salvania

  Flint pulled a rune from the linen bag and placed it on the table across from the painted woman. Her elaborately decorated wagon was cloudy with incense. Outside, someone was playing a melancholy tune on on a violin. A dog barked, and children squealed. She leaned forward, tiny bells sewn into her red silk head cloth jingled. One of her hands hovered over the tile carved from a troll's lower tusk, her many rings glinting in the candelight. The rune Ansuz was carved into the tile. She ran a painted fingernail over the design, a vertical line with two parallel lines angling off the right side. It reminded Flint of a squashed version of the Elvenari letter 'F'. "This is important." Her nail tapped the ivory. Her entire hand was covered in elaborate henna designs. "Ansuz is the 4th rune by the Northmen's reckoning, an auspicious number relating to the four directions of the wind." A raven watching from a nearby stand said, "Northman. Nor...

  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...

  Mithrandir took off his sword and sat in the horizontal light of sunset, savoring a bowl of Old Toby with his back against a tree. He was feeling the weight of centuries in his bones nowadays, but Autumn in the Shire had a way of settling his spirit. Nearby, he saw Balin and Bilbo at a trestle table that had been hauled out onto an open field used for parties - which were frequent. The pair were poring over a map that was held down at the corners with empty ale cups and half a wheel of cheese from their picnic. He heard snatches of conversation, "...and Bard has rebuilt Dale. You'd not recognize the place..." and "...I need to put that in my book, don't you know..." Mithrandir smiled, content to savor the bird song as he blew a small smoke-dragon to pester Bilbo. The hobbit laughed and, using his ink quill as a sword, did battle with the smoky replica. Bilbo was a small, remarkable fellow in a too-large world (though his waistcoat had expanded a bit). But ...

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 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...

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

They called Samuel an idler. He just seemed to drift around, leaving town for a week or a month, then coming back. He sometimes came back dirty and ragged, thin as a shadow. Once he came back with a cut face and a skin disease that looked like he had been burned by a dragon or a druid's curse. "Stay away from him," upstanding mothers told their children, clucking in righteous judgement. "You don't want to be like him." The barkeeps knew better. Each time he came back to town, he had a purse full of dwarven gold. Yes, he thought to himself, his mind alive with memories and schemes, let the small people have their petty opinions. He swirled the ale in his tankard and looked idle indeed. /// 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...