Land of Salvania

No story today, more AI art.  I used the Stable Diffusion AI to generate a basic image. Later, I slapped on the hocus pocus with some digital programs and additional layers. /// Copyright

  This was a stupid idea, Henri thought. He wondered if the other more experienced troll hunters were playing a prank on "the new laddie," leaving him out here while they swilled beer back in town. "You block this trail," one had said. "The troll will spot you long before you spot him, and he'll slip to the left since the river is on the right. See?" Yes, Henri saw. He saw he had been played for a fool. "We will be spread out over here," he had pointed left. "And one of us will drop him." He gave it another hour, and he stomped off. This was a stupid idea. /// Copyright

  He claimed to be a man Sent from our lovely Queen. His sword was sharp and bright, Though he was quite unclean. The man, his name was Loo, He painted half his face. He said it helped him hide In trees without a trace. He traveled with a troll As tall as any tree. Loo found him as a babe While fishing in the sea. A dragon too he knew With breath as hot as fire. She flew on wings of red, And never did she tire. And so they roamed the land To right the evil deeds Caused by the filthy Gargs That sprouted up like weeds. Loo waited for the Gargs To come out in the night And he would growl and groan To give them all a fright. The Gargs would run away Straight toward the waiting troll If any got past him The dragon took her toll. So now the land is safe For you and mom and dad. And we can sleep at night While Loo defeats the bad. Translated from the Dwarven scroll "Songs for Wee Babes" at the White River scriptorium. Set here by my hand, Bard Galen in the fifth year of King Nordram

  As the sunset's long shadows filled the forest, the prince realized that storming out of the castle in a snit over some bad wine might have been a mistake. /// Copyright

"So, good Sergeant, you will attend us at the ball tonight." Princess Juliska had eyes like a barn owl: large, beautiful, unflinching. She reminded him of Teng, a little. Andrew of Salvania, Sergeant of the king's wilderness guard, bowed - but not too deeply. She was a princess, but he was her elder by probably ten years. Hard to tell with girls, though. The Autumn day was cool, but the sun was just right. They were meeting in an alcove off the castle courtyard instead of the throne room. That suited Andrew just fine. He didn't care to be indoors much. He saw her glance again at the fresh scar on his whiskered cheek. She seemed quite taken with it in an unsettling way. He could tell she was dying to know. He touched the scar and said, "Troll got too close last week. It was my own fault; I'm much, much faster than a hill troll fattening up for his winter sleep." Her eyes never changed, but her mouth softened, almost like her lips wanted to say

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

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

Sir Andrew crouched behind some bushes and whistled gently, a simple warble indistinguishable from all the other bird calls around the lake. He was watching the two tents across the lake as his friend Quick Catcher landed on his hand. “Hello,” the small bird said. “As you can see, the bad men are still here. They are cutting wood and making a terrible racket. And some of them smell like trolls. Worse, really. Ya know, once I smelled a troll that had been dead for a week, and it actually smelled better, if you can believe it. Why I remember…” “Yes, my friend,” the old ranger interrupted. He peeked through the bushes; the camp was an easy kill-shot away - for a ranger. For this lot of ruffians, he doubted they knew which end of an arrow went first. “Thank you for finding them,” Sir Andrew whispered, trilling his “thank you” in songspeech. He must have gotten it right because Quick Catcher puffed up and flapped his wings twice in pride. “But now we must punish their many crimes