Land of Salvania

  The old sergeant went out each night around midnight and held a lonely vigil with his lamp and sword. The rumors said that he started years ago after a squad had been scattered in battle, taking days to stumble back to the outpost in ones and twos. Most were injured. Some did not outlive the week. Night after night, he had been the first friendly face they saw, a steady voice in minds still hearing the screams of battle. Some did not return. But still he went outside the gate and waited, as devoted as a mother hen or a sailor's wife. After enough time had passed, and the old sergeant showed no signs of ending his vigil, the real reason faded from memory. It seemed that none left at the outpost remembered that the man's son was one of those who did not return. More about the Order of Jirrah here:  https://www.allianceatlantalarp.com/order-of-jirrah /// Copyright

  Kyllen, baker's apprentice turned soldier , would forever by mystified when recounting how he came to lead the last squad fleeing the Duke's burning town. Kyllen was just a conscript, pulled into the Duke's service for a month. That was almost a year past. Things had not gone well. Gargs were everywhere, burning and looting, their animal cries mocking the Duke's folly. Their cries filled his fitful dreams. In Kyllen's dreams, the terrified faces always turned to him, the "owner" of the glowing Elvenari blades, expecting him to lead them out of the mayhem. In his dreams, we smelled the stench of Garg and burning bodies and blood. Always blood. Everywhere. He still didn't know how he had done it. There were strange half-memories of the retreat. He had fought without tiring, without fear. Some inner coil had released. Or snapped. He didn't know. Maybe the softly glowing blades had taken over when his mind could stand no more. He took o

  He was called Draig, Dragon in the common speech. None in the village knew his real name. He had arrived half-dead a month earlier clinging to his horse, a bloody mess, his sword broken, his mind delirious. A red dragon was stitched on his leather surcoat. The village healer, a woman known for poultices and herbs, had nurtured him like a sick calf, and brought him back to the living. "What do the people say about me?" Draig asked her one day. "They pity you," she said bluntly. He thought about that, his brow knotted, as he scratched around a long scab on his arm. "They're probably right." Draig continued packing a few bundles of bannock bread for his journey. "Have you remembered anything yet?" The healer dropped some chopped leeks into the stewpot. "Same as always," he said. "I have dreams, but they fade every morning." She knew about his dreams. The small cottage had no privacy, and she could hear him cry out sev

  "So, tell me what you saw," the Captain of the Guard asked the jeweler with the bloody nose. "Oi, me head is swimming. Am I going blind?" The young fop dabbed his nose with a blood-stained rag. His fancy silks were torn, but the Captain had seen worse carnage at a wedding celebration. "I think you'll survive," the Captain said, already regretting his involvement. The sergeant and corporal of the gate were out chasing the hooligan, so he was stuck talking to the fop. "It was horrible, I yell ya." "What did you see? Be quick." The Captain was losing his patience. "It was soldier in a green tunic with a white lion on his chest." The Captain pondered the "white lion" comment. Most likely, the hooligan was a member of the North Regiment. They were encamped a mile outside of town gathering conscripts for their annual service. The Captain said, "And he just walked in and punched you?" The fop took a defensiv

Outside the Battle Museum, Trevor watched the effigy burn. A sign below the blazing straw figure read, "So end all who want war." Although he was a member of the village guard, his position outside the door was ceremonial. This meant his sword was safely at home. He ground his teeth in impotent rage. These townies had no idea the kind of sacrifices he and his comrades made on their behalf. He doubted any of the soft, well-fed fools could survive a week of drills and hard living along the border where skirmishes were more common than sleep. /// Copyright