Scandinavian: The Splinter

Long ago, there was a young man who saw strange things through one eye. He couldn’t be sure whether they were real or not. Among his visions was that of a maiden pleading for help in a dark cave, and it always troubled him. He finally came upon a wise old man and asked if he could explain anything; the old man told him that he had a troll splinter in his eye. In the days of old, trolls roamed the lands during nighttime, and they all had splinters in their eyes that caused them to see everything in a distortional manner, confusing what was foul for fair things. When the legendary day came in which numerous trolls turned to stone after a brave lad tricked them into seeing the sunlight, the splinters were scattered far and wide, and some settled into people’s own eyes. Our hero was now confused, for though now he understood things better, still he was troubled about the vision of the maiden.

            One day a wandering boy arrived to the village, claiming he was searching for his twin sister, who had been captured by a troll. When the young man saw him, he realized that the girl in his visions was this boy’s sister, due to the striking resemblance.  He offered the boy his help, revealing why. They set off together to the mountains, using the splinter visions for clues, until they reached the troll cave and managed to get inside through cracks in the stone. After much cautious searching, trying to venture unseen, they found the boy’s sister. However, the troll had scented them and began to track them down. Our hero used his wit to lure the troll outside, taking advantage of this for the three of them to escape, and the troll immediately burst into stone. The trio celebrated, and got in the cave to take with them some of the treasures. They returned to the village with the good news and encouraged the people to take the remaining riches in the empty cave. Soon after the twins returned home, and their family rejoiced and set up a celebration. But as the night lights shone upon the swirling colors of the party dresses, the two brothers were puzzled to see now and then that there were ugly, tasteless decorations put up.

SUPER QUICK TEASER SCANDINAVIA (I can't think of anything else) (also the adventures of the two russian dorks part 2)

Godforsaken I have been.

 Soulless, mindless, ever sing.

 When will I ever know

Where the passed men shall go

“Next time,” berated Ivan, “I pick where we’re eating.”

“How was I supposed to know she wanted to eat our flesh?”  Vasilisa rebutted.  “Most people don’t go from lavender enthusiasts to freaking cannibals.”

“All I’m saying is that summoning magicks are… unreliable.  Let’s stick to good old hunting and gathering for now”

“Yeah, right” said Vasilisa rolling her eyes.  “Ivan the Hunter.  I think that title can be found in the dictionary, next to visible ghouls and friendly spiders”.

Ivan frowned at his friend.  “You, madam, are a woman of little faith.”

The pair continued wading through the marshland, the humidity choking them ever slowly.  Eventually they found their way out and came across a violet river.  As they followed the path upstream, Ivan spotted a waterfall.

“See?” he said, pointing to the top of the waterfall.  “Salmon, perfectly healthy and ready to catch”

“Ivan, wait.  Don’t you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

The waterfall drummed steadily.  Slowly, a melancholy melody rose out of the water.

“What’s that supposed to be?” asked Ivan.

“A Fossegrim” Visilisa answered grimly.

Russian Folklore: KALABOK

There was once a witch who could do all sorts of things. One day she unknowingly gave life to a pancake she was making, and it rolled away. However, it was wintertime, so it nearly froze to death in the wild until a little girl found him. Since she saw he could talk, she thought he was special and rescued him, taking him home and naming him Kalabok. He was so grateful and touched by the girl’s kindness that he vowed to protect her and her family, which was poor and victim of all sorts of evil sprites. But what could a pancake do except roll around? He decided to go ask the witch, his creator, to give him powers that would make him useful (in the spring time). The witch was surprised, but she was good-hearted so she granted his wish, and Kalabok became a small sprite himself, light and elvish-like. His cleverness allowed him to make the most of his simple powers, and he became the guardian spirit of the house, warding off bad deeds, making little miracles for situations like when bread ran out. All he needed to keep up his energy was a bag of flour now and then. Kalabok protected the family for generations to come, and kindness was seen as an important family value, as it had earned them their faithful little sprite. The day came, however, in which the house was left deserted as the great great great grandchildren had gradually settled down elsewhere, and no one would buy it since it was so old. Poor Kalabok! He still lingers there, hoping his scattered family would return someday.

Russian folklore 20 mins.

KRACK.  STOMP. CRASH. KRICK. STOMP.

STOMP.

The moving house stopped, standing upright, high above the grass.  Its chicken legs bent down and the house rested firmly in place.  Out of the chimney smoke rose, and a strange smell filled the air.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” asked the robed man.  He was perplexed as to why a house with giant chicken legs suddenly walked up to him in the middle of the night.

“The spell asked for good food and shelter, this seems perfect to me”, said the woman by his side.  Despite her cheerful attitude, she readied her sword as she walked over to knock on the door of the serendipitous hut.

But after banging on the entrance loudly, there was no answer.  As the friends were starting to walk away, out of the chimney burst out a puff of purple smoke, followed by a loud BANG.

A putrid smell began to emerge from the hut, and as the door slammed open, they were blasted by hot purple mist of the most terrible scent.  Out of the fog rose an old woman, constantly banging on a mortar and pestle.  She coughed severely as she walked over to greet them.

“Who the hell –HACK- called me at this damned hour?” she asked our confused travelers.

“I am Vasilisa, and this is my friend, Ivan.  We come seeking shelter.”

“And food,” added Ivan.

“Great…” answered the old woman, “Just what I need, beggars at my door.  Why do you think I put legs on this damn hut?”

Ivan and Vasilisa exchanged concerned looks, but the old hag barked at them again, “Relax, I was just cooking something up.  My specialty, frog and lavender stew.”

“Great, and who do we have to thank for this… special meal?” asked Ivan.

The woman stared at them with tired eyes, and began banging on her mortar again. “They call me Baba Yaga.”