Land of Salvania

  Ritter caught a glint in the grass ahead of him, shaking him out of another meandering daydream. He had been trudging across the featureless moors for days with only the wind and his wandering thoughts for company. Was the glint just an illusion of a fraying mind? It had been four days, or was it five, since the gargs had rolled his camp and stolen his horse. He had managed to inflict enough harm to run them off before they took everything. Still he was missing some of his food, two daggers, and one of his boots. That was the most evil thing of all. Why take one boot? They were both sitting together. Why not take both? As the monotony of the endless heath took hold, his mind kept chewing on that over and over. Why one boot? It was maddening. He started singing to kill the time, but the songs kept turning toward the missing boot. Oh you shitty gargs you took a single shoe I hope you die real slow I really hope you do Oh you shitty gargs why do this to a bloke you took on...

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

No story today, more AI art. I used the Stable Diffusion AI to generate a basic image. Later, I slapped on the hocus pocus with some digital programs and additional layers. This Garg is wearing a helmet made from a troll's skull. The spear is made from a dragon scale. /// Copyright

No story today, more AI art.  I used the Stable Diffusion AI to generate a basic image. Later, I slapped on the hocus pocus with some digital programs and additional layers. /// Copyright

No story today, just art.  I was playing with the Stable Diffusion AI to generate some basic images. Later, I "doctored" them with a couple of digital programs. I am preparing for an Alliance LARP event in November, and my art/story time has been replaced with garb/armor time. This image reminds me of the guards in the Wizard of Oz This one has a Dune vibe. /// Copyright

  The old knight made it to the beach, and he had managed to lure the majority of the gargs after him. The queen's caravan should have enough soldiers to defeat those that stayed back. It helped that he had learned enough of their language to goad them with taunts like "come along, ya cream-faced loons" and "I'm over here ya crusty fopdoodles." They spread out in an arc, and he noted their caution with a smile. He would be nervous too if a single adversary appeared ready to take on ten others. They would be wondering if he had special powers. Gargs were superstitious about that stuff. When they seemed to regain their composure and began advancing, he whistled long and loud, piercing the sea breeze and echoing off the cliffs a mile away. It was a warbling call that made good use of his youthful skills as a shepherd directing his dogs. The gargs stopped again and began muttering to each other. He caught their words for "uncanny" and "not r...

  Kyllen, baker's apprentice turned soldier , would forever by mystified when recounting how he came to lead the last squad fleeing the Duke's burning town. Kyllen was just a conscript, pulled into the Duke's service for a month. That was almost a year past. Things had not gone well. Gargs were everywhere, burning and looting, their animal cries mocking the Duke's folly. Their cries filled his fitful dreams. In Kyllen's dreams, the terrified faces always turned to him, the "owner" of the glowing Elvenari blades, expecting him to lead them out of the mayhem. In his dreams, we smelled the stench of Garg and burning bodies and blood. Always blood. Everywhere. He still didn't know how he had done it. There were strange half-memories of the retreat. He had fought without tiring, without fear. Some inner coil had released. Or snapped. He didn't know. Maybe the softly glowing blades had taken over when his mind could stand no more. He took o...

  Kyllen was a baker's apprentice. The only blades he had ever handled with any skill were found in the kitchen. Even then, he managed to cut himself - somehow - at least once a month. Yet, here he was, walking the sunset ramparts with other untrained men and women called to service by the Duke's latest dustup with a cave full of pissed-off Gargs. The letter bellowed out by the town crier and nailed to the castle gate had said... By the DUKE A Proclamation For Protecting Our Beloved Subjects And Ancestral Properties Whereas our Sovereign Lands have been defiled by bloodthirsty Gargs having no respect for our Laws and our Ways and, Whereas by their many Disturbances and Slaughters of our subjects, our livestock, and properties have shown to be our Enemies and, Whereas enmity has forever been their lot against our peaceful people and, Whereas our recent enforcement Action against them has depleted our Soldiers We therefore declare that all Men of ages 18 unto 50 and all Women of...

  "So, tell me what you saw," the Captain of the Guard asked the jeweler with the bloody nose. "Oi, me head is swimming. Am I going blind?" The young fop dabbed his nose with a blood-stained rag. His fancy silks were torn, but the Captain had seen worse carnage at a wedding celebration. "I think you'll survive," the Captain said, already regretting his involvement. The sergeant and corporal of the gate were out chasing the hooligan, so he was stuck talking to the fop. "It was horrible, I yell ya." "What did you see? Be quick." The Captain was losing his patience. "It was soldier in a green tunic with a white lion on his chest." The Captain pondered the "white lion" comment. Most likely, the hooligan was a member of the North Regiment. They were encamped a mile outside of town gathering conscripts for their annual service. The Captain said, "And he just walked in and punched you?" The fop took a defensiv...

  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...