Land of Salvania

Suddenly, the fighting died away. From the castle wall, archers and healers were scrambling down ladders and ropes. Both groups found more arrows and bodies than expected. Echoes of horns and drums sounded from various distances, sending commands and queries to those that understood. The field beyond the Duke's castle walls was once a lovely garden. Now it was a ruined expanse of dead and dying horses and fighters. Hooves from enormous cavalry steeds had ravaged the lawn, leaving it as pocked as the Duke's jousting ground. Burning wagons and siege towers left black, smoking scars. Some of the Elvenari Sisterhood were already walking among the twisted shapes of armored combatants, motioning for stretchers when they found someone alive from either side. Torben found himself squishing through mud that oozed with horse blood as he gathered a handful of decent arrows that could fly again. His little Rock Dragon rode on his shoulder and squeaked in dismay at the unpleasant smel

  Ritter, Ace, and Crow watched the wagon burn. The smoke was black from the unknown potions and oozing liquids they had glimpsed inside. That, and the creature now crisping in the flames. The day before, the pirate captain Droth had given them some important news about a shadowy figure lurking in the Dreamwood. "Misha the Wylderkin has seen and smelled this stranger. Misha says they smell like burned hair." Misha was one of the few forest people who would deal openly with the outpost, and their keen eyes and nose had proven invaluable. Misha had take a special liking to Captain Droth after being mesmerized by his many flowing tattoos. Ace, whose Elven name was almost too complex to shape on human tongues, had remarked, "Yes, I feel it too. Something has been moving, veiled, on the edge of my dreams for many days now." /// Before daybreak, three shadows slipped away from the outpost and followed a narrow trail through the Dreamwood. Ace was in the lead, movin

  (From the series "Gerantus and Pall") Pall glided overhead in silence, just another shard of midnight breeze. Gerantus, accustomed to his friend's terrifying hunting skills, stood at the edge of the Dreamwood with his lamp, thorns tugging at his woolen trousers. They had been on alert all night, Pall circling among the stars and Gerantus cursing the thorns, as the battle raged in the distance. "We are old and pitiful," Pall had said the day before. "Let the children play at death. They'll never learn to hate it unless they feel it." "Speak for yourself," Gerantus had grunted even as he felt the familiar twinge in his lower back. "We have some role to play yet. I know it." So here they were at midnight, seeking some way to help without feeling as useless as a first-time father watching his mate give birth. "Maybe we can spot retreating enemy and finish them," Gerantus had offered as the sun had set and the sound o

  Ulrich the Northman, unencumbered by the heavy armor worn by the cowards around him, waded into the fray, swinging his "borrowed" mace with devastating efficiency. By the gods, it was a new year, and he felt great! He smashed his way through the battling men until he reached within arrowshot of the enemy king. As poorly aimed arrows rained down - none within a sword length - he realized that it might be wise to put something between the king's archers and his tender skin. He turned and brained an enemy knight who had just raised his sword for a killing blow. As the soldier twitched, Ulrich removed his dented breastplate and strapped it on. But, by the time he had sorted out the unfamiliar straps, the battle had moved, and the king had departed with his retinue. Ulrich resolved to stop playing it so safe this year. He tossed off the breastplate with a savage grin. /// Copyright

  He really didn't want to slay the dragon. It was just an animal doing what animals do to survive. When the villagers complained about it killing a few cows every now and then, the duke waved them off. When it wrecked a couple of chicken coops, the castle had no response. But when it emptied its bowels while flying over the duke's archery match - that was too much. The duke's guard was turned out with orders to find and slay the evil beast. And you already know the rest of the story. /// Copyright

  The halfling cried out, "I am Wizard Zhame of the Stone Forest. Big people are not allowed in my lands!" He came at me with no warning, brandishing his glowing wand, intent on mayhem. I drew my wand just in time to defend against his savage onslaught. I remember little of the grueling encounter, just that I awoke hours later, sitting in my carriage miles away, exhausted. /// Copyright

  Cantellana had made a huge mistake. He knew it as sure as he knew the morning fog was hiding at least one enemy archer. He thanked the Ancestors that it was not a Yunni archer or he'd be full of new holes by now. Mistakes seemed to be following Cantellana around these days. Was he cursed? First an ambush had scattered his squad, then he lost half his equipment crossing a rain-swollen river.   He really missed his shield now that arrows were flying.  Cantellana knew from too many years on the battlefield that an arrow usually did not kill you quickly. Most times, one landed in your guts and you died slowly with immense pain. Another arrow thudded into the soft soil to his right. He did not recognize the fletching pattern that some used to identify themselves.  Odd how he thought that was important at this moment in time. Another arrow hit a tree a few feet away. The archer was not getting better. Maybe his luck was changing. The fog swirled closer now, and the arrows stoppe

  The old sergeant went out each night around midnight and held a lonely vigil with his lamp and sword. The rumors said that he started years ago after a squad had been scattered in battle, taking days to stumble back to the outpost in ones and twos. Most were injured. Some did not outlive the week. Night after night, he had been the first friendly face they saw, a steady voice in minds still hearing the screams of battle. Some did not return. But still he went outside the gate and waited, as devoted as a mother hen or a sailor's wife. After enough time had passed, and the old sergeant showed no signs of ending his vigil, the real reason faded from memory. It seemed that none left at the outpost remembered that the man's son was one of those who did not return. More about the Order of Jirrah here:  https://www.allianceatlantalarp.com/order-of-jirrah /// Copyright

As Kyllen led the last squad fleeing the Duke's burning town , he had a single moment of clarity amid the screams and roaring flames. A man in black robes was walking calmly within the chaos as unconcerned as a shopper strolling through the market looking for plums. He carried a glowing wand, and uncanny flames spread around him. Wooden structures, baskets, anything remotely flammable exploded into bright orange fire. The man was not even singed by the pulsing heat Kyllen could easily feel from a bow shot away. Kyllen grabbed an archer by the shoulder, spinning her around. "Can you hit that man in black?" He pointed into the town. She automatically raised her arm to reach for an arrow, but her quiver was empty. "Shit. I'm out." She started looking frantically for loose arrows on the ground. The heat increased, and Kyllen's squad instinctively stepped back. "The gods be damned heat is too much," the archer cried. "We cannot stay here

  The giant was not stupid. The man was not weak. Each was convinced they knew one important thing about the other. But "knowing" is tricky. They met in the forest on the first day of winter as agreed by their royalty. The giant's king wrote a royal edict saying "Go forth and smite the enemy's champion or come not back to these lands." The man's queen said, "Go forth with our blessing for your courage and success." The giant was not stupid. An unarmed man facing him calmly was not a powerless man. May it be that he was a sorcerer. The man was not weak. He had faced challenges more daunting than a large man with a shiny sword. He knew how this would go. The small would overcome the large, and the bards would wrap it in a lesson for children. The giant charged. The man called out "Stop!" using the Power in his voice. The giant was not knocked down.  He was not stopped. He took a mighty swing at the wizard.  The wizard scampered

  Somehow, the one-armed Northman was more terrifying than the others. He was not particularly large or fast, but he had this look... It was like he was unkillable. It was like he knew he was unkillable, too. How could someone lose an arm, go home, heal up, and come back to fight again? He must have found favor with his god or goddess. "I tell you," one of the survivors said as he stared deeply into the fire, "I stayed away from that one-armed bloke. It seemed smarter to fight a whole man than one who had endured so much suffering and still wanted to come at us. That ain't natural." /// 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

  The two shield maidens, surrounded by Gargs, fought like wildcats, their screams and bright blades striking fear in the enemy. And while the Gargs had the clear advantage, they were daunted by the prowess of the whirling humans. One Garg would drop from a savage wound, and two of his neighbors would fall back. A knot of Rangers watched from a distance, unable to cross the mass of Gargs to render aid, were amazed when the circle of Gargs faded back, leaving a ring of dead comrades behind. "No thanks, we got it," one of the blood-spattered women yelled to the nearby Rangers. "You just stay there and make us a nice sandwich." Inspired by an image from Beth Dooner, https://www.profounddecisions.co.uk/ Art effects and story by Mickey Kulp, 2022 Instagram: LandOfSalvania /// Copyright

Before Sir Andrew was knighted by a queen with questionable motives and a taste for Elvenari wine, he was called Sergeant Andrew. And before Sergeant Andrew was promoted on the battlefield after ransoming a king’s foppish son who enjoyed dressing up like a knight, he was called Private Andrew, just another farmer’s son looking for a way to move up in the world. Private Andrew slapped a fly that landed on his arm as he faced the line of Gargs that stretched for a hundred yards. They were about an arrow shot away, so sunburn was the only imminent danger. Andrew was on the left side of the Duke’s line, right next to a bloated Garg corpse covered in green flies. “Steady, boys,” Sergeant Hoyle barked as he walked along the line. “Arrow!” several voices called. Hoyle turned to face the Garg line and lifted his middle finger. As one, the entire squad joined him. The arrow landed well short of Hoyle, and he bellowed with laughter. As one, the entire squad joined him. This had been going o

From the scroll "Battle of Lindrin in the Ninth Year." Scholars of the Arcane Brotherhood think much of it was written by Duke Nultan of White River. "Lindrin'' is possibly the ancient name for Lyndaran, a small walled village notable for two standing stones atop a large earthen mound. Some say that birds refuse to land on the stones or the mound. The "ninth year" likely refers to his ninth year after inheriting his title and lands. Written by mine own hand one week after the battle. The battle raged throughout the night. Gargs without number, and other demon beasts, came out of the uncanny wall of flames in endless waves to break upon our lines. Our stout soldiers showed no fear as they repulsed one shrieking assault after another. I must admit, even when my own sword grew heavy, the raging shield maidens of the northlands seemed never to tire, dancing among the fell creatures and flailing slender blades like a mower's scythe. At last, I fel

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

Sir Andrew crouched behind some bushes and whistled gently, a simple warble indistinguishable from all the other bird calls around the lake. He was watching the two tents across the lake as his friend Quick Catcher landed on his hand. “Hello,” the small bird said. “As you can see, the bad men are still here. They are cutting wood and making a terrible racket. And some of them smell like trolls. Worse, really. Ya know, once I smelled a troll that had been dead for a week, and it actually smelled better, if you can believe it. Why I remember…” “Yes, my friend,” the old ranger interrupted. He peeked through the bushes; the camp was an easy kill-shot away - for a ranger. For this lot of ruffians, he doubted they knew which end of an arrow went first. “Thank you for finding them,” Sir Andrew whispered, trilling his “thank you” in songspeech. He must have gotten it right because Quick Catcher puffed up and flapped his wings twice in pride. “But now we must punish their many crimes

  Sergeant Andrew looked up at the east tower, toward Ekaterina's apartment. He thought he saw the princess for a second, then the curtains dropped closed. A horn blew. The drums started. "Rangers on the flank," Captain Velten bellowed. The captain dropped his steel visor and tapped his warhorse with one shiny spur. The small cavalry squadron followed him down toward the open field east of the castle. Andrew let out a piercing whistle that warbled up and down in a specific way. His Rangers recognized the command for "Forward, Right Flank." He heard a distant whistle from the other side of the half-mile long line of fighters. Another Ranger squad was heading "Forward, Left Flank." This was going to be a mess. Once the fighting started, it was always a mess. But, with wizards involved, something bad was always just around the corner. "Sergeant," a young page ran up to Andrew. "A word, if you please." The boy was way too cl