Elder Maedryn busied himself in the chamber, the large stony troll collecting items from here and there, opening cabinets to take them out and set them down as he worked. Chance stayed seated in his chair, looking around in wonder at all that surrounded him, while Yrip’s legs dangled and swung from the large chair he sat in.

“It is an interesting collection that you have gathered here,” Chance told Elder Maedryn.

The troll waved it aside and gave a laugh. “Merely a trifle, my good dwarf, merely a trifle. Elder Caerant and Eldress Livaeya have much better collections than mine. But then again, I am but a pebble in comparison. The items that they have secured and restored, why, it fair takes one's breath away. Still, I will not deny I have had some luck in my collecting in the short time I have had here.”

“You haven’t been here long?’ Chance asked.

“Barely any time at all,” Maedryn replied. “Four, five centuries at most. Maybe six. It is so easy to lose track of time when you aren’t actively following it, don’t you know? I keep busy.”

Chance could understand losing track of a day or two, but centuries? The troll was an altogether different creature. “You would have been here when the dragon was then.”

“I did perceive a little excitement taking place for a time, yes, though it was not of much concern to me.”

“The dragon didn’t bother you?” Chance looked around the troll’s abode. “With all of this on offer?”

The troll laughed, a deep, rumbling sound like the oncoming flow of an avalanche of tumbling stones. “Dear me, no. While what I have here is indeed treasure without price, little is it of interest to a dragon. They desire gold, silver, gems, and other such mundane items. It is not knowledge or understanding that they seek, which is a most terrible waste. Terrible indeed. Why, if they but turned their minds to the study of lore, and of knowledge, they would be most valuable additions to society, given their intellects and how long they live. But greed blinds them to true wealth and worth, and they squander their gifts.” Maedryn came back over to join them, carrying a large silver tray. “Besides which, I am not without the means to defend myself, and while greedy, dragons are not without wits enough to chance an encounter with a troll. They know that we are not to be trifled with.”

Maedryn set the tray down on a table alongside the chairs, and thing of polished red wood, the base carved to appear as spread clawed feet. The tray had a fairly big teapot on it, one made of clay the colour of mahogany, fairly crude in design, not entirely unlike some of the clay pots Chance remembered being made in art class by fellow students. This one had been stamped with runic symbols, while steam rose from it. Two smaller teacups sat on saucers alongside the pot, and these were far more elegant and delicate, of pale white upon which birds with long tails had been painted in reds and golds. A larger stone mug sat with them, which Chance took to be for Maedryn. A plate with a number of seed cakes had been added to the tray, completing its contents.

Chance didn’t know where the tea or cakes had come from, as the troll had not appeared to make any of it, not boiling the water or taking anything out of storage that could be used to make food. It was almost as if they had simply appeared.

Maedryn began pouring tea out of the pot into the two teacups before carefully handing them over to Chance and Yrip.

“Early Aur Cobataine Dynasty,” he remarked. “They were quite fashionable for a time, but so many of them were made that individually they are of little value. Of course, any serious collector will have a few examples, for they bridge the gap between the earlier An Coulat Dynasty and the Late Aur Cobataine.”

Chance was halfway to raising the cup to his lips as Maedryn spoke, his hand freezing before it reached his lips. He cleared his throat. “It is old?” He was not unused to old things, or even using them, though his mother had always kept a very close eye on him when he did, but the way Maedryn spoke of them made them sound like antiques.

Maedryn laughed. “Dear me, no. Barely five hundred years old.”

That didn’t really help all that much. Five hundred years old and he didn’t consider it so? The troll saw things in a very different light, interacting with time in a manner unlike anyone Chance had met. But then again he had never met anyone quite that old either. He took a sip of the tea in an effort to calm his nerves. It was hot, but not too hot, with a touch of spice in it; not overwhelming but perfectly blended. In fact, it was as close to being a perfect cup of tea as Chance had ever drunk. The troll had a magical touch at making tea. He took a seed cake to nibble on, finding that it was still warm, as if only just finishing being baked, and the troll without an oven in sight. It too proved delicious. Chance got the distinct feeling that Maedryn was cheating, somehow, to produce so perfect a cup of tea and cake.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Elder Maedryn settled down into his own chair and took up his large stone mug, cradling in between his large rocky hands. “Now, then, what is it that you wish to know?”

Chance lowered his teacup, setting it aside trying to find the exact words that could describe properly his situation. “I’m not me,” he started. The troll harummed deep in his throat. “What I mean is, when you asked the other day if I was of the Craghands from someplace…”

“Khezed Qarvor,” Maedryn offered.

“Yeah, there. When you asked if I was one of them, I couldn’t answer. Not because I didn’t want to but because I just didn’t know. Don’t know anything of this body, or its history prior to a few days ago. Before that, I was just a kid, a human kid, from a different world vastly unlike this one. Then something happened, don’t ask me what because I don’t know, and next thing I’m here, I’m a dwarf and a druid, and I keep getting, I don’t know, vague flashes of memory from the body from the time before this happened. And at times it even seems to want to say things, to do things that I have no knowledge of, and even on occasion like I’m not totally in control of it.”

“Fascinating,” Maedryn responded, leaning forward and looking closely at Chance. “I do declare that you sound like an avatar, but it has been an age since one had walked among us.”

“An avatar?” Chance asked. Yrip had been happily drinking his tea and swinging his short legs but stopped both at Maedryn’s answer, fixing his gaze upon Chance, large eyes wide with wonder.

“Yes, an avatar.” The large troll nodded his moss-encrusted head, almost to himself. “There was a time that the gods walked the world, though not in the totality of themselves. They could not, you see, for the world could not bear the full presence of their divinity, for if they had done so terrible would have been the consequences. Instead, they found another means, investing part of their essence into the body of a favoured follower, taking over the body if you will.”

“That does not sound like it would be much fun for the follower,” Chance pointed out.

“Most were grateful for it, even offered themselves up for it to their gods,” Maedryn replied. “As I understand, they were not unaware of all that transpired while their god wore their body, and indeed were able to become closer to their god, to receive greater insights into them. And when the god withdrew, they were considered blessed and even had imparted on them certain gifts and knowledge. No, they did not consider it a bad thing.”

“And if the god died while they were an avatar?”

“The gods can not be slain, not as you and I know it, but the body could be.”

“So what would happen to the follower whose body it was?”

“They would die with the body.”

Chance felt his breath suck in at that, not liking the sound of it at all. No wonder the warnings about not dying; he was condemning to death the dwarf whose body it really was. “So if I was to do something crazy and get myself killed, then this Craghand would be the one to suffer for it?”

“I am afraid so,” Maedryn replied gently.

“Master is a god?” Yrip spoke up, alleviating the mood to an extent. “That is far better than a dragon.”

Maedryn laughed, deep and good-natured. “I am afraid not, my kobold friend. He does not smell like a god, and I would know. While the process sounds the same, I am not sure what exactly he is, or why. Only gods should be able to become avatars.”

“That is a shame,” Chance remarked, with a sense of bitterness welling up, evident in his words. “I could do with being a god.”

“To what ends?” Maedryn replied, his voice rather quiet for such a large creature. There was a gentle nature to it at odds with stone and rock.

“I have made many mistakes,” Chance replied. “Some I regret more than others, and would change if I could.” The bitterness grew stronger, and yet, for the first time, he actually felt like talking about it, to volunteer it rather than hold it in, despite the attempts of many to draw it out of him. Stubborn foolish pride, that anti-authoritarian streak that held him strongly had always conspired to stop it. Here, beneath the earth, surrounded by history so old it made him almost insignificant in comparison, he felt it well up and spill out. “An incident they called it, an accident, caused by neglect or weariness. No matter the cause, or how they labelled it, the outcome was death. The death of my brother. The death of his girlfriend.” He felt a lump swell in his throat as he spoke, an ancient pain, a searing tiredness from having carried it so long alone. “They looked for excuses for what had happened, ignored the truth.” He took a deep breath. “The truth is that it was my fault. All mine. I am responsible for their deaths.”