Land of Salvania

  The Norns made it so. Perhaps they were bored. Twirling the fates, Assuring the end of all things In the Great Winter. Churning and growing Coming closer, colder, darker. Wind will cut As much as any ax. The light and goodness will fail. Some will struggle on, Giving the gods great entertainment, Hating them and begging them for mercy. The only warmth will be the forge. The endless ring of hammers. The only beauty: gleaming metal, Sharp as the north wind. Blood will spill and steam, Drifting in the steel sky. Hope must die. Or so it seems. There is hope, but it will be long in coming. Endure if you can. Become strong if you can. But abandon yourself as you are today. /// 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...

Osran stood back in the crowd, trying to be inconspicuous. He watched the traveling seer, named Ivakius, perform an elaborate ceremony with a smoking bundle of sage. He wore ceremonial face paint, and he had stripped down to a thin tunic in the summer swelter. "Now, my friends, this place has been purified," Ivakius said, his voice deep and serious. "I will begin to reach into the realm of spirits, and we shall see what we may." As the seer closed his eyes and mumbled, Osran reached out with his astral thoughts, seeing the situation with the Deep Magic. He almost giggled. There was no more magic about Ivakius than a house cat. No, he was being unfair. Osran had seen some house cats with a glint of magic, and this charlatan had none at all. "I can feel a spirit that wants to speak to someone in the crowd. Has anyone lost their father?" Osran smiled as half the crowd raised their hands. Of course. Ask enough vague questions and you can steer the cr...

The shaman tapped Khevol's arm and whispered, "We have a visitor." Khevol looked past his steaming mug and the crackling fire, his eyes following the shaman's gesture. A lovely, large hawk was perched atop the camp's totem looking back at him. The shaman said, "This is a sign to you, my Dwarven friend. Hawks are careful; they watch an area before taking action. Our lore says the hawk spirit invites you to study a situation thoroughly before making any quick decisions. Never be rash since every action brings consequences both seen and unseen." Khevol nodded. "Our word for this hawk spirit is 'trangnarn'. My people say that the trangnarn represents skill and precision. When you see a trangnarn, you should look at areas of your life where you should improve your choices more before acting." The shaman nodded. "Yes. We may look different, but our people are much alike." The hawk peeped in agreement. /// Copyright

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...

Elzalore had finally reached his limit. He had remained calm while the inbred gate guard with missing front teeth had looked him up and down. He had remained calm when the dolt asked him about his business at the castle. Then the guard stepped in it. Deep. "You will need to swear an oath on yer gods, if ya have any, that you are not some kind of deviant. Like a queer or a Dwarven-lover." The Deep Magic came so quickly, and so focused, that Elzalore was startled to feel it pouring out of his hands without effort. Indeed, he had never felt so in tune with the power of the universe. "AHHHH!" The guard cried out and stumbled back, the bones of his face twisting into a hideous mask. A lady at a nearby market stall screamed and ran away with a toddler in tow, his dirty feet barely touching the ground. Dogs all over the surrounding village began howling. A flight of crows called out and erupted from the trees. "Stop right there," another guard bellowed...

The village shaman stood before the bonfire in the cleared center of the pine grove. The crowd hushed in expectation; even the wild fae-folk, eyes glittering orange, listened from the forest shadows. He started tapping a small drum and chanting about the wheel of turning seasons and of the balance of light and dark. "Today is the ending of the equinox, the Alban Elfed. Now comes the waning of the day as the night takes her due. We mark this moment to give our thanks for the blessings of abundance." As if on cue, a new baby cried, and the assembly giggled politely. Smiling, he continued. "But we also have another blessing: the blessing of change. As the darkness grows, let us leave her with the things we discard. Bad habits. Sadness. Sickness of spirit. All of these, she will take, and gladly." He removed a piece of broken stalk, the chaff of the day's winnowing, and tossed it into the flames. "So I give my sadness to the night. So may we all....

  Leeka was gathering firewood for her mother, and a glint caught her eye. She spotted a book with dried mud on the leather cover. Two glass beads glued in its corner were scattering the morning sun. The book was laying on top of a thorn bush like it had fallen from the sky. It tingled when she touched it, and she heard these words in a strange accent… I shall call this meditation “Claiming a Cloud.” Spoken in my true voice as Kalendarian the Bard in the fifth year of Duke Nultan of White River. I am in the forest with browsing deer. They look at me but they do not flee. I like that. It is as if I am a spirit here, without smell or threat. Just another forest citizen. In this timeless space, ancient information prevails. Bird songs and scamperings in dry leaves travel along little-used paths in my mind. No city noise here. No cries of sorrow. No traders bellowing their wares. No requirement for justice. The vivid blue after image of the dappled sunlight appears behind a tr...

The little Yunni were all around the trader, some barely visible in the dense undergrowth, but all were armed with bows and wicked looking weapons. Some of the weapons looked too much like butchering tools. “Why are you in our hunting lands?” a larger Yunni, maybe as tall as his waist, demanded. The trader slowly sat on his wooden trunk and showed empty hands as a gesture of friendship. “I am a lost traveler, my friend. I did not know I was trespassing.” He heard movement behind him as well, and he was sure an arrow was pointed square at his back. “One does not just stumble into our lands while carrying such a heavy...” The larger Yunni rattled off a string of foreign words, and another Yunni answered. “Crate.” “Yes, well, my boat sank on the river near here. The rains swelled the river, sending us on a wild ride, and we broke on some rocks.” The Yunni chattered rapidly among themselves. “What is in this...crate?” the spokesman said. “Just a gift for my son.” It was not entirely...

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...

Sir Andrew entered the deserted town near sunset, hearing only the distant wind and the scrape of his travel-stained sandals on the cobbles. Somewhere, a shutter creaked and slapped a stone sill. Above the arch, someone had painted a black serpent, a warning to future visitors. He imagined one last brave inhabitant slinking back to paint the universal symbol, the sad admission that a dragon had invaded their land, eating cattle and brave defenders, finally tipping the balance of their harsh mountain existence from precarious to impossible. Since starting his long climb into the highlands a week earlier, he had seen more of these empty towns and overgrown fields with scattered bones of cattle. He had noted many fresh graves, their rows of makeshift markers, hurriedly pounded into the ground, some leaning. He had walked over to one and read the scrap of unweathered vellum tacked to a rough-hewn board. "Here lies our beloved Hildana. Rest well, brave shieldmaiden and protector....

Ulrich the Northman mumbled a song, frivolous as a drinking ditty or a child’s nursery rhyme, as he walked through the winter forest, his eyes scanning endlessly for red-berried troll bane to sell in the village. “In the land of fey, No morn is gray. Though rain will come When it may.” Thus said a crow I had come to know. Her silly name Was Icy Snow. Icy Snow never lied. Although once she tried. It made her sick And a bit cockeyed. Now, her sight awry, She grew quite sly. She trained to sharpen Her mind’s third eye. The brooding winter passed. She thrilled to feel, at last, Her vision wake With inner sight so vast. In forest fey our paths did cross. I stumbled through the fog and moss, Mind a-whirl with fairy spells. “I see your feet are at a loss.” So now we never stray. Her mind’s eye guides the way, And in my ear she croaks, “Let’s live our best this day.” /// Copyright

  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...

On a grey day of the waning year, Khevol overtook a man in the forest. He was tall and bearded, and an owl rode on his broad shoulder. He was dragging a small sled of chopped wood with a massive ax strapped atop the pile. "Greetings," he boomed, and his owl companion fluttered in agitation. "Easy, my sweet." He rubbed her brow as she settled. "We don't see many of the Dwarven kind around here." "Hello," Khevol said, wrapping his tongue around the man's language. "I have not seen another soul in five days. Is a village nearby?" "Indeed! Follow me; it's not far." They walked and chatted for an hour, and the subject of Yule celebrations came up. The big man said, "At the village, they have a custom where eight men dance wildly around the square with stag antlers on their heads. We say it brings good luck for the coming year." Khevol nodded. "My people sweep out every corner of their homes. E...

Everyone called her Aunt Matilda. Each day, she cooked a cauldron of pottage with peas, carrots, onions, mushrooms, a few nuts, and black kernels of Elvenari rice.  Very rarely, a sliver of meat might appear. Nobody asked where the meat came from. It was hot, and it filled empty bellies. That was all anyone needed to know. She carried it one wooden bowl at a time up the stone stairs running up to the outer wall. She would deliver her food, a kind word, and a pat on the arm to each of the weary soldiers manning the wall. The soldiers would smile and, staring across the once-manicured market grounds toward the forest, eat their pottage in silence. Sometimes, an arrow would come out of the forest and fall short. The soldiers would jeer and call to the invisible enemy to improve their aim. Sometimes the arrows would go long, and the soldiers would call out to the people in the courtyard behind them to watch out. One day, an arrow landed next to Elzalore, splintering on the cobbled lane...

I am transitioning my content from a subscription model on Patreon. During this transition period, you can still visit https://www.patreon.com/Salvania to see many vignettes that are free for everyone. I also invite you to visit Instagram @LandOfSalvania. This video was part of my Patreon introduction. It'll only take about a minute of your life. Music: Celtic Warrior by Damiano Baldoni  Attribution 4.0 International (CC BY 4.0)  /// Copyright

Andrew bore the curse well. Or was he flattering himself again? Aching knees carried him slowly among the ruins. Some long-forgotten king or noble had built the castle. He imagined long-dead children squealing in delight as they chased geese, their spirits passing like smoke among the weeds. He turned right, following a sheep trail along the river. A scarred hunting horn slapped his ribs in the usual place. He remembered that time an orc spear would have skewered him in the same spot except for that horn. He felt his thumb instinctively rub across the orc-gash. Yes, he had been spared that day when so many others of better quality had died. Was it all a random toss of the dice? Some days he thought so. So why keep coming to the ruins? Why keep the ritual if it was all random chance? "Well met, this sunset," the hawk said from her usual perch. Her voice was a faint peep-skwee among the gathering shadows. She too was a creature of habit. Andrew skweed back, "Wel...

     Sir Andrew, the old Ranger, went to the local wizard to see about a curse. Really, it was the son of the local wizard. The man Sir Andrew called "the wizard" had retired from public life a few years ago, and rumor had it that he had become a hermit up in the hills. He had given his remaining days to vegetables and contemplation. "So you want a curse removed," the wizard's son repeated unnecessarily. "You'll need to tell me more." The old Ranger spoke about obligations to his fallen comrades. He spoke about a new quest that the north winds had brought on a wolf's tongue. He spoke about the statute of limitations on responsibility. He spoke about suffering and memories and wounds that never quite close up. "So, if I stop summoning the spirits each evening, will I be struck dead, or given everlasting crotch rot, or something like that?" The wizard's son wasn't sure. If indeed a high quest had been visited on Sir Andrew, t...