Land of Salvania

  "I bet they write a song about us," Egil told his brother as they crunched across the snow-clad field outside the White River Castle. Einar snorted. "Songs are for the high born, not for us. I'll wager old Duke Roundbelly will take all the credit anyway." "His bard was writing something when we brought in the prisoner. Maybe it was about us," Egil insisted. "More likely, he'll sing about the murdering bitch and her felonious ways," Einer grumbled. "Fancy words. Felonious. Do you even know what it means?" "It means you should mind your own business for once." *** Just a few days earlier, they had been encamped off the road a day's hard ride from the siege at King Rience's castle. They were bringing news to the Duke that reinforcements were needed.  Twice the King's guard had tried to break out of the encircled castle, and twice they had been repulsed by the brothers and the Duke's surrounding arm

 CW/TW: drugs and alcohol - and dragons! (Sung to the tune "Home on the Range" by Daniel Kelley, 1873) Oh, here is a gnome, with a sword near my home Where the imps and the unicorns play Sometimes, I hear, they all go for a beer And they disrupt our lives every day Home, home with the gnomes Where the ghouls and the Pegasus play By the bright yellow moon, they like to pick 'shrooms And they party like fools every day How often 'fore dawn, when the pixies are gone, With the wraiths under glitterin' stars, Have I crept out and gazed, and thought, much amazed If gnome glory exceeds that of ours? Oh, give me some woods, to bury my goods And a barrel to go down the stream Where Galadriel's swan goes gliding along Like an orc in a wizardly dream Home, home with the gnomes Where the dragons and basilisks play Sometimes I will sigh, as they all show up high And they burn up the pipe weed all day /// Copyright

The bard was dressed in blue, and though his face was weathered with years of travel, his voice was strong and pure. He stood on a little slope on the village green. A hundred murmuring revelers were below him, spread out on colorful blankets. Vendors (and a few pickpockets) strolled among the throng. Cheese, bread, wine, and beer were abundant, and the sky was incandescent in the springtime sunset. Today, mothers smiled and did not shush squealing children. Today, young lovers scooted closer on blankets, or, oblivious to the bard and the entire world, kissed with abandon. The bard had been singing pleasant melodies, letting his audience eat and drink, waiting for them to be in just the right mood for some real shenanigans. The time was finally right. Suddenly, he strummed his mandolin once for attention and launched into a lively chant most of them knew from time in the Duke’s service, sung on many a long march. The throng roared approval and joined in... What shall we do with

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