Land of Salvania

 Ulrich thought the full moon on the snow was beautiful.  The night was as silent as his shadow that stretched across the drifts. A distant, lonely call of a wolf floated over the hills, and a snatch of an old song came to mind along with a memory of dark northern nights around the fire in his father's long house. We fought with spears, 'Neath the snowy peaks. Our shields were bloody: Our swords were notched. Showers of arrows we endured, though some were pierced. And among the swords and cries,  Malkinir fell in the conflict, A greater king never was. Wide on the snow lay the newly dead: And we heard the wolves rejoicing. /// Copyright (Check out  Mick's Fantasy and Sci-Fi Emporium  for my curated list of goodies to satisfy your LARP and cosplay pleasure.  Look for the latest DISCOUNT codes from my partners.)

  The dryad led me to the dueling pavilion, bowed, and strode into the gathering dark. I noticed he (it?) dropped a leaf on the way out, and the autumn breeze sent it skittering along the stone walkway. The lamps were already lit, and the clan pinions were hung. Mine and my opponent's hung together. The duke's silver gryphon hung alone. I adjusted my armor - a shoulder strap was too tight. Damned squire had been in a hurry to go carousing. The leather strap grazed a raw spot on my hand. Shit. It was bleeding again. The hand had almost healed three or four times, but one battle or another kept aggravating it. My betrothed, the Lady of the Dream Wood (thought she insisted I call her Matilda), had gifted me a pair of doe skin gloves to help protect the injury, but they were for a courtly evening rides in a carriage, not the battlefield. A wolf howled in the distance, and I smiled as an owl - much closer - hooted in return. It reminded me of the animal calls a Biata had ...

  Pooki raised the hackles on her back and growled long before Sir Andrew spotted the hill worm. "Got over them hills quickly," the old farmer had said while Sir Andrew bartered with the farmer's wife for bread and cheese. "Don't let the sun set on you or I'll be collecting your bones tomorrow." Pooki stiffened as the huge worm raised up from the leaf litter, her growl changing to something more urgent. Gods, this thing was huge. Most of the worm - maybe two thirds - was still on the ground, but the part that raised up was taller than any person. It was as thick as his torso, and it stank of decay. "They got yella blood," the farmer had said. "It is poison. It also oozes out of its scales. I seen one. I know. One killed a stray calf last year." Pooki snapped her jaws, her nostrils flaring with the reek of poison. Sir Andrew drew his sword, already trying to figure out the best way to attack this unholy thing. The worm dropped ...

"Wolf!" Teng cried out, her voice came from high above the snow-laden pines. "Almost on you!" Sir Andrew flung back his cloak and drew his sword, his heart pounding. He was too old for this. "Turn left!" Teng's owl-speech was a frantic "skwee." He turned in time to see a blue-eyed canine bounding through the snow, dodging trees like a wraith, a foot of pink tongue flapping like a pennant. It was chasing a white rabbit, almost invisible against the winter background. Andrew positioned his feet, ready to strike. "Hallo," the creature said cordially as it leaned right and flashed behind Andrew, close enough to ruffle his cloak. "Beg pardon." "What the..." Andrew turned to watch the canine vanish in a spray of scattered snow. By the Fates, that was one wickedly fast animal! Tengweerfanda dropped silently into view and perched on a troll-high branch. Her head pivoted left and right facing the diminishing rust...

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...

      "You may call me King Borrhas," the big man said. Ulrich was surprised at the depth of his booming voice; it reminded him of an avalanche. "My lord," Ulrich said without bowing. He wore a crown, but if this giant man was a king, it was a kingdom of one. Ulrich had not seen another town, village, or hut in the past ten days. Borrhas whistled sharply, never taking his eyes off the smaller northman. In seconds, two white wolves came to his side. Like the king, the wolves were larger than usual, big enough for a child, or a Yunni, to ride. Borrhas indicated the wolf on his right. "Moonrunner will lead you to my visitor cabin. You will find dry wood and pemmican for your comfort. We will speak after you have been refreshed." "Most gracious, my lord." Might as well play along with the charade. He needed supplies and information about these gods-be-damned endless mountains. He followed the massive wolf to a cabin nearby. It was not lo...

     Sir Andrew, the old Ranger, went to the local wizard to see about a curse. Really, it was the son of the local wizard. The man Sir Andrew called "the wizard" had retired from public life a few years ago, and rumor had it that he had become a hermit up in the hills. He had given his remaining days to vegetables and contemplation. "So you want a curse removed," the wizard's son repeated unnecessarily. "You'll need to tell me more." The old Ranger spoke about obligations to his fallen comrades. He spoke about a new quest that the north winds had brought on a wolf's tongue. He spoke about the statute of limitations on responsibility. He spoke about suffering and memories and wounds that never quite close up. "So, if I stop summoning the spirits each evening, will I be struck dead, or given everlasting crotch rot, or something like that?" The wizard's son wasn't sure. If indeed a high quest had been visited on Sir Andrew, t...

  "For a wolf, he has the strangest accent. Move me closer, please." The old Ranger (some called him the Old Relic) lifted Tengweerfanda higher so she could hear the white wolf's low, rumbling speech. "He says the forest smells wrong. And, there is a new silence in the hunting lands far to the north." Teng ruffled her feathers slightly. "He has traveled many nights to bring this knowledge to the Rangers." "Good hunting," the old Ranger growled, dredging up one of the few Wolfkind phrases he could recall. The wolf did not reply. He turned and disappeared over the Ranger's wall. Teng looked at the old Ranger. He looked back. The wind ruffled his hood, and he breathed deep, imagining what the white wolf perceived about this new trouble. Trolls again? No, troll stink was easy to identify. This was something new. "Sir Andrew, you cannot be thinking about taking up this quest," Teng said, unnecessarily using his formal title....