Land of Salvania

  "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

  The two shield maidens, surrounded by Gargs, fought like wildcats, their screams and bright blades striking fear in the enemy. And while the Gargs had the clear advantage, they were daunted by the prowess of the whirling humans. One Garg would drop from a savage wound, and two of his neighbors would fall back. A knot of Rangers watched from a distance, unable to cross the mass of Gargs to render aid, were amazed when the circle of Gargs faded back, leaving a ring of dead comrades behind. "No thanks, we got it," one of the blood-spattered women yelled to the nearby Rangers. "You just stay there and make us a nice sandwich." Inspired by an image from Beth Dooner, https://www.profounddecisions.co.uk/ Art effects and story by Mickey Kulp, 2022 Instagram: LandOfSalvania /// 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

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.