Land of Salvania

So far, my favorite characters in The Rings of Power series are... Arondir, a Silvan elf Elanor Kellamark Brandyfoot ("Nori"), a Harfoot hobbit  More information: https://www.amazon.com/gp/video/detail/B09QH98YG1/ref=atv_dp_share_cu_r

  Ranamir limped into the Shire, and his rough looks and piercing eyes immediately roused the wary citizens. Three months after the Battle of Bywater, life had only just started returning to normal. Was this another Ruffian coming back to defile their beloved land? Would they have to take up arms again? Bells rang and dogs barked. A large crowd bearing farm tools and frying pans materialized around the much larger man. A few scarred fellows had swords, now kept sharp since Trouble had so recently come to their land. The Shire folk had learned from bitter experience to face down evil at once, never let it take hold. The stranger claimed he was from some foreign place called Minas Tirith and he knew a hobbit called Peregrin Took in The War. A lad on a pony was sent to fetch Master Peregrin; the murmuring crowd remained. Those who left were quickly replaced by others who had just heard the news. Ranamir sat in the shade with his sword sheathed. When Master Peregrin arrived, the muttering

  Bandobras was weary as he tied his pony outside the cave. Goblin tracks were all around. He was sick of goblins, and the quicker he dispatched these last few, the quicker he could get back to his farm and his ale keg. He towered over his fellow halflings, and if any had doubted his primacy, he had sealed it at Battle of Greenfield last week. He had knocked the goblin chieftain off his feet with a club and finished him with an old Elven sword he had "borrowed" from the mathom-house at Michel Delving. Already, they were telling tall tales about the battle, and they got taller every day. Some even claimed he had knocked off the goblin's head with his club. Ridiculous. Bandobras didn't really care about all this acclaim. He wanted to get some rest and some beer in his belly. He just needed to finish off the last stragglers that had retreated to this abandoned troll cave. "Do you want us to go with you?" one of his companions asked. He was clearly not en

  Mithrandir took off his sword and sat in the horizontal light of sunset, savoring a bowl of Old Toby with his back against a tree. He was feeling the weight of centuries in his bones nowadays, but Autumn in the Shire had a way of settling his spirit. Nearby, he saw Balin and Bilbo at a trestle table that had been hauled out onto an open field used for parties - which were frequent. The pair were poring over a map that was held down at the corners with empty ale cups and half a wheel of cheese from their picnic. He heard snatches of conversation, "...and Bard has rebuilt Dale. You'd not recognize the place..." and "...I need to put that in my book, don't you know..." Mithrandir smiled, content to savor the bird song as he blew a small smoke-dragon to pester Bilbo. The hobbit laughed and, using his ink quill as a sword, did battle with the smoky replica. Bilbo was a small, remarkable fellow in a too-large world (though his waistcoat had expanded a bit). But

  Strider stood, one foot asleep, still wrapped in his stained Ranger cloak. He yawned and peered into the misty dawn as a fox trotted by Frodo's new Crickhollow house. He nibbled on some lembas as his foot tingled to life. The air smelled of rain. He'd need to get across the Baranduin before it swelled. Maybe the Bucklanders would sleep late today and miss his green shadow skirting the edges of their well-tended fields. "Keep an eye on Frodo, when you can," Gandalf had said last month over a pint at The Prancing Pony. "I feel the shadow stirring." Strider worked the stiffness out of his shoulders, thinking about a soft mattress in Rivendell and his lady's shining eyes. The fox looked his way, his nose held high. Yes, he was long overdue for a bath. Nothing like a splash in the cold Baranduin to cleanse the body and spirit. Inspired by the Lord of the Rings saga by JRR Tolkien. Art and text: Mickey Kulp, 2022 /// Copyright

  As Halbarad was crossing the Baranduin, he stopped and turned back. Aragorn had already vanished on the other side, like a shadow at midnight. Halbarad smiled, recalling a conversation with one of the small folk from the past week. "I am seeking one named Strider, a man like myself," Halbarad had said to the post mistress at Bywater. She cast a shrewd eye on the tall, weather-stained traveler. No doubt she saw greasy hair and a beard that needed trimming a month ago. "Ain't no striding men around here, but some say that all kinds of strangers pass through The Prancing Pony over in Bree." "Thank you m'lady," Halbarad said with a nod. The post mistress smiled, a blush staining her plump cheeks. "Well, ain't you a gentleman. In case I see this striding man, who might I say you are called?" "They call me Shadow," he said, noting her surprise and a return to guarded skepticism. The halflings loved to gossip, and Halbarad only h