Land of Salvania

  Mouser drew two long daggers as the black figure emerged from the midnight shadows. Somewhere behind the terrifying shape, Mouser heard a horse snort and stamp. Old Barley was right about "black riders" after all, Mouser thought as the black-robed shape stood before him, swaying a little like a silent, ebony tree. Barley was still shakey after his inn, The Prancing Pony, had been ransacked two nights earlier, "By men all in black, or more like...like shadows that has taken the form of a man." It had taken more cajoling, but the last thing he would say is, "They was after my guests, four nice Hobbits from the Shire. Then these Hobbits ran off with another ranger, meaning no disrespect to you yourself, you see." Mouser, a ranger of the North, had been looking for Strider, his captain. Many roads and rumors had finally led him to Bree, where, it seemed he had barely missed the 90-day wonder of intrigue and mayhem. Even the old men of the town constable

  “Home is behind, the world ahead, and there are many paths to tread through shadows to the edge of night, until the stars are all alight.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings Art (c)2022 by Mickey Kulp

  "Some of my kin look just like trees now and need something great to rouse them; and they speak only in whispers. But some of my trees are limb-lithe, and many can talk to me." - JRR Tolkien, 'The Two Towers'. Artwork (c)2022, Mickey Kulp

  "All about them as they lay hung the darkness, hollow and immense, and they were oppressed by the loneliness and vastness of the dolven halls and endlessly branching stairs and passages. The wildest imaginings that dark rumour had ever suggested to the hobbits fell short of the actual dread and wonder of Moria." Text from the Lord of the Rings saga by JRR Tolkien. Art (c)Mickey Kulp, August 2022

  I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen, of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been; Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were, with morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair. I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be when winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see. For still there are so many things that I have never seen: in every wood in every spring there is a different green. I sit beside the fire and think of people long ago, and people who will see a world that I shall never know. But all the while I sit and think of times there were before, I listen for returning feet and voices at the door. ~ J.R.R. Tolkien

  Aragorn: "The Beacons are lit! Gondor calls for aid." Theoden: "And Rohan will answer." /// "The Beacons Are Lit" (c)2022 Mickey Kulp Inspired by the Lord of the Rings saga by JRR Tolkien

This video is an homage to the world built by our beloved Professor. Images by Mickey Kulp, 2022 Fan art inspired by the Lord of the Rings saga by JRR Tolkien Instagram: LandOfSalvania MUSIC: Music from Bensound https://www.bensound.com

  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

  The elves on the edge of Mirkwood named him "friend of birds" so long ago that he barely recalled his true name. No matter. Aiwendil was content to roam the deep woods, accepted as a citizen by the ravens and badgers. Foxes would follow him out of curiosity, for everyone knew marvelous things could happen when The Brown Man was about. On Thursday, he found some snares set by cruel orc trappers. He removed the lure - a bit of meat - and urinated all around to warn his forest friends away. Then he added a little of his own magic with a swirling purple light (rewarding a pair of watching foxes for their patience). The next orc to reset the snare would be hanging by his foot from a glowing purple rope. Unfortunately for the orc (though great entertainment for any watching creatures), the magic rope would vanish once it pulled the trapper about ten feet up. On Friday, he found a half-eaten orc with a broken neck. /// Inspired by JRR Tolkien's Lord of the Rings saga. Copyr

  "So what's the news from Overhill?" Sam asked as his cousin Hal dropped onto a bench outside the Green Dragon. Sam was leaving and Hal was arriving. Hal looked at Sam and shook his head. "I don't rightly know no more." Hal had a queer look on his face, almost like he had seen a ghost. Hal took out his pipe; his hand shook as he lit it. "I think I saw a Tree-man tonight." Sam straightened, a tingle prickling down his spine. Those old stories about elves and tree-men and oliphants always grabbed him hard. "Alright," Sam said, sitting next to him. "Tell me." The cobbled lane was empty, and a few noisy patrons inside had started a song about "A pipe and same ale to keep yerself well..." "Ya see, I was out hunting grouse, out on the North Moors beyond Old Boffin's place." Hal patted the leather sling looped around his belt. "And I got the strangest feeling, like I was being watched." Sam s

  There would be none to record this deed, Feather thought as he drew his sword. "They are close," Rabbit Bane said, her voice a skwee of hawk speech as she glided overhead, her sharp eyes taking in the wind-blasted mountain top and clumps of twisted trees. Strider had been right, Feather thought. The orcs were coming west from Mordor as sure as Sauron's heart was black. The rangers were too scattered, as always, to stop them all. Still, very few orcs reported back to their master in the dark tower. He smiled at the exaggerated tale they must have told to justify their losses. Maybe he had grown to a dozen knights in shining armor, or a thousand archers raining death on the unsuspecting orcs. In reality, only a dozen rangers, spread too thin as always, patrolling alone along the eastern bank of the Gwathir were the "armies" holding the orcs at bay. But he knew the day was coming when even the grim hunters of the West, silently guarding the peace and shunned

  "I am weary of skulking in halls, and wish to face peril and battle. …  I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death." — Éowyn, in J. R. R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

  "Still round the corner there may wait A new road or a secret gate And though I oft have passed them by The day will come at last when I Shall take the hidden paths that run West of the Moon and East of the Sun." Words by J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King Art by Mickey Kulp, 2022 /// Copyright

  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