Land of Salvania

  Another arrow thudded into Ritter's shield. "That one close," Orok called from the thick tree cover. He knew too well that his orcish mass was an easy target for Yunni archers. "This is all your fault," Ritter growled back. "You like orcs. I like orcs. Why little Yunni hate orcs?" An arrow whistled over Ritter's head and splintered on a pine tree. "Don't worry, Orok is safe." "They are not shooting at you," Ritter said, trying to hide his tender flesh behind his shield. "Hey, little Yunni," Orok called. "You go home and we go home too." "You know we're about to get surrounded," Ritter said. "You need to give it back." "But Orok like it." He patted the small clay figure he found on a stump by the river. It was painted blue. "Looks like mommy." "It's part of their shrine protecting the river," Ritter said. Another arrow landed in front of

  Ritter had grown to despise the night. It seemed like all the things that wanted to harm him loved the night. He stood outside the tavern, a thatched building just outside the outpost's main gate. The townies said it had been burned down a few times, but not recently. Not since the Jirrahs had arrived. Cold rain was falling, and the sun was mostly gone. "I love the rain," Coriander said beside him. "I suspect a dryad would," Ritter groused. The tall, leafy creature next to him rumbled with mirth. "It is delicious." "It is cold," Ritter said. "I love the cold," Coriander said. Did anything bother this placid creature? "Well, there's plenty of that tonight." A large raindrop magically found its way under his collar and down his back. He raised his woolen hood in disgust. "When I was small, barely your size, we would throw enormous parties when the monsoons came." Coriander raised his arms and closed h

  Orc woods these are, I think I know. I will proceed now, going slow. They may not see me creeping here If my sword begins to glow. My magic sword is always near Since orcs were spotted late this year Between the castle and the lake With darkest portents from our seer. Assured my senses are all awake Here, I can't make one mistake. The only sound's the crunch and sweep Of frigid wind and icy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And orcs to slay before I sleep, And orcs to slay before I sleep. Inspired by " Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening " by Robert Frost, 1922-1923 /// Copyright

  Ritter stood next to his friend Sled'j and listened to the Orc growl each time a townie complained about the fighters' ability to protect the people from bandits. Many fighters had answered the call, but the bandits were everywhere, hitting a homestead, looting, and fading away into the dense forest called the Dream Wood. Sometimes, they took hostages. "Maybe we should negotiate with them," a soft merchant said as he wiped chicken grease from his glistening lips. A few townies agreed. Sled'j growled again. He had had enough of these plump, entitled fools. He tied on his trollskin bracers, took a long drink off his tankard, and walked to the middle of the room. His fellow fighters watched and smiled. They knew something was about to happen. "Silence," he roared, and the townies obeyed. Instantly. Some drew back. Some clutched their pearls or fanned themselves. None reached for a weapon. Not one. "I say we kill them all." He made ey

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