Land of Salvania

  I was traveling through an unfamiliar part of Salvania, north and east of the White River Castle, seeking new herbs for my apothecary. Storm clouds were gathering, and distant thunder echoed over the swaying wheat stalks. I stabled my horse at a tavern and settled in for a night with the regulars. I sipped a leather jack of frothy ale, and listened to the chatter nearby. A group of obvious adventurers was drinking heavily near the fireplace. "I tell ya, I seen it myself," a scarred Dwarven man-at-arms said as he ran his dagger over a whetstone, his voice raised as if launching into a well-worn debate. "I was part of the Duke's timber crew before I got started in this line of...business." "Yes, yes. And the trees attacked the timber crew," a woman in a blue robe with matching eye coloring said with acid sarcasm, her many bracelets jingling as she waved away the idea. A small Yunni laughed as he continued to stitch a leather patch over a gash in

  Farsinger hopped off his shoulder and walked among the forest floor's shadows. "The trees are whispering," she growled in Ravenspeech. The bard gripped his little wood chopper as if it could offer any protection from the horrors known so well by the village grannies. He had grown up with their stories of pixies that stole your memories and fairies that enticed and enchanted the unwary. "They say the forest has grown darker," Farsinger said. "They don't like it." "My Nan said to sit quietly at sunset of the full moon to see the fairy people. If you were worthy, they might grant a wish." Farsinger croaked in laughter. "The Folk are already watching you. The trees have already announced our visit." The bard sat still anyway, still gripping his hatchet. Maybe the fairies would visit him. "Your Nan was not wrong," Farsinger said. "But the Folk will not give you a boon without something in return." "L

  Tegan, a newly-minted bard from the Circle of Oak, awoke with the burning desire, no, the need , to be in the forest. He was trained to pay attention to these random urges, so he rose and left with only a pocket of walnuts and a leather flask of small beer. As he walked among the red oaks and pines, swaying with the distant sea breeze, he began to feel the Awen - the inspiration - come upon him. Shortly, he reached a bend in the trail where the light was just right and the wind fell still and the birds stopped to watch. He closed his eyes, and these words came to him... Wake, my dear! for the swaying trees, Stirr'd by the wind from off the seas, And Yunni songs so light and gay, Do bring us 'round to face the day. Wake, my dear! and you may see, Once more the sun so fair and free, And Yunni song floats high above, To warm your comely face my love. And that was it. The Awen departed like smoke, and the world went back to its own business. He opened his eyes, and a Yunni mai

  Deron, a bard of the druidic grove Tyto Blue, was almost ill. The Battle Museum's unapologetic glorification of war turned his stomach. He had seen war. Up close. Too often. He never wanted to see it again. His songs and poetry, while in demand in some places, would never be wanted in this town of soldiers and death. Still, a few here might heed his message. He walked outside and untied his guitar case. /// Copyright

The bard was dressed in blue, and though his face was weathered with years of travel, his voice was strong and pure. He stood on a little slope on the village green. A hundred murmuring revelers were below him, spread out on colorful blankets. Vendors (and a few pickpockets) strolled among the throng. Cheese, bread, wine, and beer were abundant, and the sky was incandescent in the springtime sunset. Today, mothers smiled and did not shush squealing children. Today, young lovers scooted closer on blankets, or, oblivious to the bard and the entire world, kissed with abandon. The bard had been singing pleasant melodies, letting his audience eat and drink, waiting for them to be in just the right mood for some real shenanigans. The time was finally right. Suddenly, he strummed his mandolin once for attention and launched into a lively chant most of them knew from time in the Duke’s service, sung on many a long march. The throng roared approval and joined in... What shall we do with

  Leeka was gathering firewood for her mother, and a glint caught her eye. She spotted a book with dried mud on the leather cover. Two glass beads glued in its corner were scattering the morning sun. The book was laying on top of a thorn bush like it had fallen from the sky. It tingled when she touched it, and she heard these words in a strange accent… I shall call this meditation “Claiming a Cloud.” Spoken in my true voice as Kalendarian the Bard in the fifth year of Duke Nultan of White River. I am in the forest with browsing deer. They look at me but they do not flee. I like that. It is as if I am a spirit here, without smell or threat. Just another forest citizen. In this timeless space, ancient information prevails. Bird songs and scamperings in dry leaves travel along little-used paths in my mind. No city noise here. No cries of sorrow. No traders bellowing their wares. No requirement for justice. The vivid blue after image of the dappled sunlight appears behind a tree s