We are at the beginning of a longer story, Master of the Dungeon.
This is part of Chapter 1, preceded by The Scholar (1), followed by: The Ranger (1)
Walda fluffed another pillow and felt along the bedspread. “Hey, this is similar to those yarn blankets that Mother used to make,” she said.
“I noticed that. I knew I liked this place,” said Gris. He was combing his red beard in his reflection, in front of a wash basin. The silvered glass hung on the wall. Freshly bathed and wrapped in a towel, Gris was still wearing an oblong iron and bronze amulet. He was in one of those combination toilet – bathing spaces that Eastorians favored, small and relatively clean, connected directly to the larger room with the bed.
Walda had removed her shoes and silently joined his side. She said, “I know you prefer to do this behind closed doors, but the others who know the truth have accepted us. You and me. The real me and the real you.” She removed a woven necklace and placed it around Gris’ neck. Hers bore an oval-shaped rendition of the sun rising over a valley, fine needlepoint on immaculate white linen. On his chest, one side of her necklace’s wooden frame naturally settled against the metal edge of his amulet.
Gris said, “You know whose border we crossed today. They still hunt people like us for sport.” His face flashed with anger. “You think Aeron suspects something already?”
“He might.” Walda began unbuttoning her shirt. She said, “I know that you are still sore that we shared with Sorcha, but that was a long time ago. She was trying to heal your gut wound, remember?”
“We have not forgotten.”
Walda put an arm around his shoulders and squeezed. “Would we not all work better as a team, if this weight were lifted?” She said, “Aeron is a good person.”
“True, true.” Gris laughed. “At least I feel very confident that we don’t need to worry about Zon, you know, talking to the sheriff. Or, something.”
“Hush, let’s get some rest,” said Walda. She had finished removing her clothing.
“No, you are right. This can all wait until tomorrow.” The braided string and tiny metal chain around his neck had intertwined. Gris slowly opened his mouth, wider and wider, until the back of his head settled between his shoulder blades. His lower jaw had dropped through his torso, nearly to his navel. He held his tongue to one side and said, “Cuh-nhn hee-uh.”
Walda stepped up and into Gris, and knelt down. Gris slowly closed his mouth, and waited a moment.
Eventually, the face of the taller figure staring back in the mirror was clean shaven. Hill trolls were hairless as a general rule, and Griswald missed the beard already. His pointy ears drooped. It was bad enough that his people were targeted for death, over what sounded like a stupid territorial dispute, but his stomach turned at the thought of trying to make a good first impression with someone new. Most people couldn’t look past his blue skin.
Griswald removed his single amulet and tied it around his left wrist. “We paid for the larger bed, use it,” he whispered to himself. He headed back to the modest bedroom. “Where do you think I’m going? You were supposed to close the curtains. We’re on the second floor. True, true. Good night.”
Bedsprings creaked. “Good night.”
Peaceful snoring soon followed.
We are at the beginning of a longer story, Master of the Dungeon.
This is part of Chapter 1, preceded by The Scholar (1), followed by: The Ranger (1)