Land of Salvania

No story today, more AI art.  I used the Stable Diffusion AI to generate a basic image. Later, I applied liberal doses of digital magic. Garg with the distinctive red mask of his captain's rank. /// Copyright

  20th Mai, Urlandia River Encampment My Dearest Matilda, I asked the priest to write this for me. I hope you can find someone to read it to you. The war is over, they say. We'll be coming home soon, but we still have to chase down the last few of the insurrection. It has been a brutal few months. We lived like animals and fought without remorse. I hope to never see the like again. This is a young man's game, and you well know that I no longer fit that description. Still, it be better for me to do this than our children. You are my dearest beloved in all the world. I have no other desire in this life than to tend our garden and kiss our grandbabies. I will see you soon if the gods smile on me. You have my heart, Willhelm 22nd Mai, Urlandia River Encampment Dear Matilda, It is with deep sadness that I must tell you Willhelm was killed yesterday during an engagement with the enemy. He fought bravely defending Prince Elbert from a determined cohort of spearmen. Indeed, the...

Sir Andrew stopped at the edge of the ancient forest, his skin tingling, his feet heavy. He had felt this same odd sensation once, long ago. He had been called "sergeant" back then, and his squad had been jogging forward, passing through and around the mostly untrained militia - farmers and boys with ramshackle armor and rusty swords. It had been a terrible day. And today, facing the shadows of centuries-old giants, he felt...stopped. It was like his feet were moving through mud. His spirit was reluctant to advance. His mind whispered that it would be nice to turn around, wouldn't it? Go back into the sun and leave this alien place behind. He lifted a heavy arm and pushed against the empty air as if it had become a locked door. A shimmer of color glinted around his hand. It swirled and vanished. So, this is magic, he thought. Was it magic like this that had slaughtered his squad? Was it magic like this that had slowed his steps as his friends and comrades trotte...