Land of Salvania

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

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