Land of Salvania

They called Samuel an idler. He just seemed to drift around, leaving town for a week or a month, then coming back. He sometimes came back dirty and ragged, thin as a shadow. Once he came back with a cut face and a skin disease that looked like he had been burned by a dragon or a druid's curse. "Stay away from him," upstanding mothers told their children, clucking in righteous judgement. "You don't want to be like him." The barkeeps knew better. Each time he came back to town, he had a purse full of dwarven gold. Yes, he thought to himself, his mind alive with memories and schemes, let the small people have their petty opinions. He swirled the ale in his tankard and looked idle indeed. /// Copyright

  Sir Andrew stood in the velvet silence of the Ranger Chapel. Here, it was easy to believe that the ghosts of a thousand generations stood beside him. It was easy to feel the abiding melancholy of so many who spent their entire existence in service against the darkness, and the darkness seemed as strong as ever. He looked at the simple, unadorned walls. Just like himself. Like all the Rangers, calling no attention to themselves, slipping in and out of civilization only when needed. His spirit felt heavy, as if it wanted to droop and ooze out of his boots and be free of the fading husk that housed it. If he let it go, would his spirit stay within these bare walls? Would it at last be content, commingled here with the dust and the ghosts of friends? Teng flew into the room and perched on a beam. "I feel your sadness," she said. "Come away from this place. It is not for you. Let us roam the hills again and be free to sing with the moon." Andrew nodded, the sp...