ryssa and her Troll were out on a picnic in the forests that surrounded the Keep. While Kulyar shouldered the huge basket filled with pastries, flasks of wine and music crystals, Tryssa wandered idly about the grounds, looking for a suitable spot to stop and admire the scenery; `admire' being a rather pale word to describe the way Elves appreciated their natural surroundings. Having found a shady place near a river, Tryssa indicated that Kulyar should set the basket down. Tryssa sat on a tuft of grass and gazed into the emerald recesses of the forest, apparently lost in contemplation of the greenery. Kulyar stared at her, then off into the forest at where she appeared to be looking, then back at her. He was about to ask her what she was looking at when she murmured, "Eat, Troll." He blinked, and then opened the bundle of cakes which Viraya had prepared for them. Each one was the size of Kulyar's open hand, but he stuffed them into his mouth whole, munching appreciatively on something with some substance for a change. He found most Elven food to be light going and rather bland. He located an earthenware jug filled with almost pure alcohol (only slightly tainted with wine), and swilled half its contents in one gulp. He was about to finish off the cakes when Tryssa said, `Leave a bite for me, please.' He handed her a whole cake. She examined it dubiously. "This is a bite?"
"It's a Troll bite."
She grinned, leaped upon him, threw her arms around his shoulders and ferociously bit his neck. "That's an Elf bite!" she retorted, giggling. Kulyar kept a straight face for possibly five seconds, then burst out laughing, spraying her with cake crumbs. She snatched a cloth from the basket and started belabouring him with it. He fell over backwards from his sitting position, and she leaped on top of him, holding his shoulders down to the sward playfully, with her knees.
There was a rustle in the bushes nearby; Captain Pyraf appeared, leading a skittish black stallion. Lieutenant Jacyn followed on foot, carrying a rack of hunting spears. Pyraf stared at the couple lying on the grass, and then passed by, keeping as far from them as possible. He was about to disappear into the forest when he whirled, pointed an accusatory finger at Tryssa and grated, "You are committing an act of bestiality." She said nothing for a moment; then, almost inaudibly, she made a `baa-a-a'-ing noise. Pyraf reddened, turned and almost ran from view, dragging his hapless mount along. Jacyn turned to face the couple, shrugged good-humouredly and, grinning, followed his captain. Tryssa giggled afresh, rolling on the grass beside her Troll.
Kulyar sat up, supporting his not inconsiderable weight on one elbow, and asked, "What was that `baa-a-a' business about?"
Tryssa gazed off into the forest where Pyraf had fled, and replied absently, "Oh, nothing." she returned her attention to the cake, accepted the jug and swigged. She surprised him by burping heartily.
"I didn't know you spoke Troll." he said soberly.
That evening, Tryssa was, as usual, reclining in her boudoir, with Kulyar attending. She yawned, her hand held delicately in front of her mouth; she gestured to her slave, who was instantly attentative.
"I'd like my cup of warm Yak's milk now. Please fetch it, Troll." He lumbered to his feet, and Tryssa snapped, "Quickly!" Shocked, he sprang to attention, waving his arms about wildly to regain his balance. Once stable, he rushed to the door, which Tryssa opened for him magically. He rebounded from the far wall and careened off down the passageway, leaping down the steps seven at a time. He crashed into a pillar at the bottom of the stairs, scrambled to his feet and ran straight into one of Viraya's maids, carrying half a dozen large metal pots, which went flying in all directions with a terrible clatter. Not stopping, Kulyar raced to the kitchen and snatched up the silver goblet that had been prepared for Tryssa. Moving with more caution but barely less haste, he ran back to Tryssa's apartments, canting the goblet as he went around corners so as to not spill any of its contents. He arrived scarcely twenty seconds after having been despatched, carefully placing the cup on the table next to her bed. She glanced up at him, smiled her thanks and drank. The Troll breathed a barely audible sigh of relief.
One morning, when Tryssa was lounging in her apartments and trying (unsuccessfully) to teach Kulyar the rudiments of chess, a fanfare sounded from somewhere below, in the general direction of the courtyard.
"Be a good Troll, go and see what that is." Tryssa said. He obeyed, and returned a few moments later:
"You have guests, mistress: the Knight, Sir Mulfrey and his squire, Ongo." Following close behind the Troll was an imposing Elf, caparisoned in bright silver armour, a shield slung over his back. It was emblazoned with a coat of arms designed by Sir Mulfrey himself; three small rectangles dexter flank Or on a field Azure, with a bottle sinister flank Gules. He swept off his helmet, its excessively long plumes trailing, revealing Sir Mulfrey's noble features. Unusually (for an Elf), he had brown eyes, fairly short black hair and the thickest eyebrows Kulyar had seen on anything other than another Troll. Ongo was a thin, scruffily-dressed Human with shoulder-length brown hair and a barely suppressed grin; he was burdened down with a large sack, full of objects that clinked against each other.
Sir Mulfrey spoke: "Milady, I'would'st fain seek audience with thee."
Kulyar, kneeling next to Tryssa's bed, blinked. "Sorry, I didn't quite catch that..."
Tryssa absently whacked him with the chess rule book and said, "He was talking to me, Troll. Make yourself scarce for a while. And take Ongo with you." To Kulyar, `make yourself scarce' was code for `wait outside in the hallway in case you are required to fetch food and drink'; he complied.
Sir Mulfrey dropped to one knee with a clank and bowed low. "Milady, I have travelled the length of the Northern Continent in search of the rare vintage you crave... I have followed caravans of Outcast Sorcerers, across the Great Western Desert and to their midnight meeting at the crossroads of Civilisation in Koreleph, risked the Dire wrath of their Plenipotentiary Anti-Pope Keyth, and yet I have not returned empty-handed." From the sack, Sir Mulfrey slowly withdrew a bottle of crimson liquid...
Outside, in the hallway, Kulyar and Ongo were chatting.
"He's not bad, for an Elf," Ongo said genially. "The worst part is the kneeling."
"Kneeling?"
Ongo pressed his hands together. "Praying. We can be travelling along at a fairly good clip, and suddenly we stop, and it's down on your knees for a couple of hours' communing with the Lord Above. I mean, he has to be the only Elf in existence who thinks he's a Christian. It's because he's half-human, on his mother's side..."
Kulyar nodded. "That explains the eyebrows."
Sir Mulfrey poured a quantity of the glittering red into Tryssa's cup and held it to her lips. She drank, and chased a drop from the edge of the goblet with her tongue in a very suggestive manner. Sir Mulfrey blushed, retreated a few steps and kneeled again. "Please Milady, it would be unseemly of me to... ah, to... um, er, I, I must away! My quest calls me!" he staggered to his feet, swept his cloak around him dramatically and staggered backwards to the door. "In truth, Milady, I shall return with more, er, wine, once it has been wrested from the foul clutches of the Lord of Koreleph," (he fumbled behind him for the doorknob; Tryssa took pity on him and opened the door magically) "and now I needs must away!" The door slammed climactically.
Tryssa swirled the contents of her cup and gazed down introspectively. "Damn." she muttered.
Outside the Keep and a fair way down the road, Sir Mulfrey met behind a not-particularly reputable tavern with one Shagar, an even less reputable Human trader from the deserts east of Koreleph. Shagar scratched his head, dislodging his turban slightly, and held out his grubby hand. Sir Mulfrey tossed him a bag of coins, and in return, Shagar handed him two bottles of wine, deep crimson in hue. Ongo sighed. Mulfrey gave him a withering glance.
All work on this site is © Nikolai Kingsley unless otherwise stated.