Land of Salvania

  The druid Mecmac donned his best green cloak. Usually, he wore a white cloak for ceremonies, but this night was different. Taking his ornate horn off a peg above the hearth, Mecmac slipped out of his small cottage and walked easily down the familiar path leading to the Dragon Stones. The moon was full, and the night was full of promise. He was the curator, of sorts, for The Stones. A few times a year, some visitor would stop to ask about the long-lost builders and the magic they must have used to handle such huge stones. Mecmac knew some of the story from the lore of his Order. He knew some from reading old scrolls that hinted at other scrolls he had never seen. That was how he had restarted a new/old ceremony: he had read from a crumbling scroll that the Order of Green, possibly an ancient mystic order like his, once held ceremonies at The Stones during the change of each season. Don thou the green of thy station And seek the standing stones. Do this under the Worm Moon in ...

  There was power here. The druid felt it as sure as he felt the sun on his face. All day he had walked slowly through and around the grove. Sometimes he stopped for a moment and let the power drift around him like smoke, holding out his hands as if he could touch it. A bit of snow fell, just a dusting, and the grove changed into a wonderland of glinting crystals, sending vivid shards of light into his mind. It took most of a day, but he eventually spiraled into the grove's center, letting the power guide his steps. There was no hurry, no goal, no task to be completed. He knew the power would come and go on its own, as transitory as a favorite cat. He let it happen, letting the power displace the darkness in him. The days were short now, and soon the dark would come in earnest with howling winds and ice clicking on his window. Slowly, the power faded, and he felt lighter for the first time in months. For just these few hours, he forgot about the funeral and the eternal hole i...

  Of those named "Wizard" But five are known: White, Grey, and Brown were named Two more, they say, were Blue. But there were more. Always, the few are seen While the masses work Without accolades or hope. Toiling away in silence, Tending and healing, Their ripples gently moving the Water so even the mighty Must clutch for purchase When the wave finally crests. And here we find the Green one. Clothed like an old beggar, Roaming without seeming purpose, Arriving when the Spring comes. Kindly and wise, they say, Knowing the ways of vegetables, Speaking with the trees, Helping bring in the new lambs. Some called him "druid" And he did not correct them. Some called him trouble And he sang them a song About old days coming again. Some called him a fool And he laughed like a drunkard With a flower in his beard. Excerpt from "The Green Wizard" translated from the Elvenari scrolls at the White River scriptorium. Set here by my hand, Bard Galen in the fifth year of...

  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

Norrion du Venecan, a senior ovate with the druidic order of the Thistle Grove, waited on the trail, breathing in the Autumn air and listening to the pixies chatter in the trees. The air had a bite of winter promise, but the sun was warm, and the strip of sky above the trail was vivid blue. He wiggled his toes in his leather sandals, feeling the firm earth below him, grounding him in this one eternal moment of contemplation. His mind was free to wander where it would, but his feet always reminded him of his place in the universe. He heard a distant crow. It was faint, but it sounded like "they are coming." They. The Elvenari. He sighed. He would have to meet them and, if his instincts were correct, the Elvenari would agree to his terms. "All done," Kelraz said. Norrion felt the giant wechu's deep voice rumble in his very bones. Kelraz crunched through the foliage, make little noise for all his mass. "Nothing like a satisfying bowel movement to start ...

The healer motioned Khevol to join her at the druid's campfire. The deep conversations were over, and the wine jugs had appeared. The druids, all women, and the Elvenari, all males, regarded this Dwarven in their midst. "This is Khevol. He is a wonderful bone carver and friend of my fire," the healer said. She looked at Khevol and winked. "So give us a story." Khevol was shocked. What kind of story would he tell to this auspicious group? "You have ambushed him," one of the Elvenari said with a smile. He stood beside a small shrine they had placed near the fire circle; Khevol saw a deer skull in a circle of tallow candles. Khevol pointed to the deer shrine, and said, "We of the Red Hills have a goddess named Artemin. One day, she was bathing in a clear mountain pool, and two trolls stumbled upon her. She was beautiful, and the trolls tried to violate her. Using her magic, she changed into a white doe and dashed between the trolls. They...