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

The little Yunni were all around the trader, some barely visible in the dense undergrowth, but all were armed with bows and wicked looking weapons. Some of the weapons looked too much like butchering tools. “Why are you in our hunting lands?” a larger Yunni, maybe as tall as his waist, demanded. The trader slowly sat on his wooden trunk and showed empty hands as a gesture of friendship. “I am a lost traveler, my friend. I did not know I was trespassing.” He heard movement behind him as well, and he was sure an arrow was pointed square at his back. “One does not just stumble into our lands while carrying such a heavy...” The larger Yunni rattled off a string of foreign words, and another Yunni answered. “Crate.” “Yes, well, my boat sank on the river near here. The rains swelled the river, sending us on a wild ride, and we broke on some rocks.” The Yunni chattered rapidly among themselves. “What is in this...crate?” the spokesman said. “Just a gift for my son.” It was not entirely