Land of Salvania

  Cantellana had made a huge mistake. He knew it as sure as he knew the morning fog was hiding at least one enemy archer. He thanked the Ancestors that it was not a Yunni archer or he'd be full of new holes by now. Mistakes seemed to be following Cantellana around these days. Was he cursed? First an ambush had scattered his squad, then he lost half his equipment crossing a rain-swollen river.   He really missed his shield now that arrows were flying.  Cantellana knew from too many years on the battlefield that an arrow usually did not kill you quickly. Most times, one landed in your guts and you died slowly with immense pain. Another arrow thudded into the soft soil to his right. He did not recognize the fletching pattern that some used to identify themselves.  Odd how he thought that was important at this moment in time. Another arrow hit a tree a few feet away. The archer was not getting better. Maybe his luck was changing. The fog swirled closer now, a...

  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

  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...

Farsinger dropped lightly onto the waist-high stone wall, almost landing on Ritter's hand. The wall overlooked a stream valley and the town's water spring. Beyond was the edge of the Dream Wood, the source of many troubles these days. "I have news," she said to the man as she cocked her head sideways. "I have ears," Ritter said. He knew that Farsinger's notion of "news" was usually about some shiny thing she had spotted in the town market. "I saw five brigands just now. They had a Biata with them. It was all tied up like a goose on Yule Day." Ritter was astounded. This was the most lucid, succinct report he had ever gotten from his friend. He waited for her to revert to normal and start describing the colors of the autumn leaves or some other useless minutiae. She hopped along the wall and turned away from him. "They are over there." Her beak wagged toward the Dream Wood. "They have built a small cabin. The B...

  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 ...

  He was always so dramatic, saying cryptic stuff like, "Stay behind me. I feel something ahead." He reminded me of an actor playing a caricature of a wizard at the Spring Faire complete with his elaborate gestures and somber, black robes. Most of the time, when he stopped us on the trail, nothing happened. Maybe he sent some magic ahead to dispel whatever caused his "feeling." Maybe he was just full of himself. Or full of something. This time, he produced a handful of already lit candles, which was magic enough for me, and intoned, "I command you to leave this place in the name of the Eternal Light!" Nothing happened that I could see, but I drew my sword (as did my three comrades). Again, he said, "Leave this place. You are banished to the Outerland!" The candles seemed to get brighter, and I heard a rustle in the dark forest ahead. We waited a few more minutes, and he turned, the candles vanishing into his robes. How did he do that? ...

  I couldn't sleep, and my bladder was rousing me as urgently as any cat; the benefits of decrepitude never cease. I rose early and, after settling the score with my bladder, donned light armor. The Autumn sun was an hour from rising, so I stopped by the empty mess hall before heading outside. "Good morning, m'lord," the young sergeant of the guard said as he stood. His post was on the far side of the castle moat, and he doubtless heard the creaking drawbridge planks before he saw me. I offered him a slab of cold pork I had liberated from the mess hall. He nodded thanks, and the pork was gone in two bites. I asked for his report, and he replied simply, "All quiet. Heard an owl about an hour ago." "Any more smells?" I asked. The undead had a particular odor we had learned to recognize. "No, m'lord. But the wind is flat so far." I sent him to his bed and took my turn early. I hoped it would be quiet duty, just right for an old m...

  The desert sun baked him inside the heavy armor. As his burning thoughts began to wonder, he was sure that a dragon was bearing down on him, trying to cook him slowly. When he finally fell off, his horse happily trotted back to the dusty outpost on the edge of the wasteland. The knight was a fool, and he deserved a fool's reward. /// Copyright

No story today, more AI art. I used the Stable Diffusion AI to generate a basic image. Later, I revised the helmet and color scheme. Looks pretty good. Still working on my Alliance LARP gear, and more gear-related images will be coming soon.  /// Copyright

No story today, more AI art. I used the Stable Diffusion AI to generate a basic image. Later, I adjusted the colors and background - TADA! Still working on my LARP gear, so I can only spend a little time experimenting on this kind of art. /// Copyright

No story today, more AI art.  I used the Stable Diffusion AI to generate a basic image. Later, I applied liberal doses of digital magic. Garg with the distinctive red mask of his captain's rank. /// Copyright

No story today, more AI art. I used the Stable Diffusion AI to generate a basic image. Later, I slapped on the hocus pocus with some digital programs and additional layers. This Garg is wearing a helmet made from a troll's skull. The spear is made from a dragon scale. /// Copyright

No story today, more AI art.  I used the Stable Diffusion AI to generate a basic image. Later, I slapped on the hocus pocus with some digital programs and additional layers. /// Copyright

No story today, just art.  I was playing with the Stable Diffusion AI to generate some basic images. Later, I "doctored" them with a couple of digital programs. I am preparing for an Alliance LARP event in November, and my art/story time has been replaced with garb/armor time. This image reminds me of the guards in the Wizard of Oz This one has a Dune vibe. /// Copyright

  There was power here. The druid felt it as sure as he felt the sun on his face. All day he had walked slowly through and around the grove. Sometimes he stopped for a moment and let the power drift around him like smoke, holding out his hands as if he could touch it. A bit of snow fell, just a dusting, and the grove changed into a wonderland of glinting crystals, sending vivid shards of light into his mind. It took most of a day, but he eventually spiraled into the grove's center, letting the power guide his steps. There was no hurry, no goal, no task to be completed. He knew the power would come and go on its own, as transitory as a favorite cat. He let it happen, letting the power displace the darkness in him. The days were short now, and soon the dark would come in earnest with howling winds and ice clicking on his window. Slowly, the power faded, and he felt lighter for the first time in months. For just these few hours, he forgot about the funeral and the eternal hole i...

  Somehow, a few civilians from the Duke's burning town had attached themselves to Kyllen's ragged squad. Civilians. Kyllen had been a civilian just a year ago. Now, there were no civilians anymore. Everyone was in the war. One of the new followers was an old man with a bandage on his head and soot on his face. He had built a small fire, and he poked it obsessively, his eyes unfocused. He sat on a log, a naked sword was across his lap. A lady and a young girl, both in ragged skirts that once showed their high status, cut up some green apples and dropped them into their makeshift stewpot: a dented Garg helmet filled with water. Watching these mundane camp chores unfolding quietly around him, Kyllen was strangely empty of the venomous hate that had driven him for months. A numbness of spirit had settled over him. He had no desires, no hunger, no thoughts for the next moment. Perhaps cows lived like this, he thought. Placid and empty until the slaughtering time. He sipped...

  The old knight made it to the beach, and he had managed to lure the majority of the gargs after him. The queen's caravan should have enough soldiers to defeat those that stayed back. It helped that he had learned enough of their language to goad them with taunts like "come along, ya cream-faced loons" and "I'm over here ya crusty fopdoodles." They spread out in an arc, and he noted their caution with a smile. He would be nervous too if a single adversary appeared ready to take on ten others. They would be wondering if he had special powers. Gargs were superstitious about that stuff. When they seemed to regain their composure and began advancing, he whistled long and loud, piercing the sea breeze and echoing off the cliffs a mile away. It was a warbling call that made good use of his youthful skills as a shepherd directing his dogs. The gargs stopped again and began muttering to each other. He caught their words for "uncanny" and "not r...

In a departure from my usual Land of Salvania art and stories, I am providing a quick tutorial on making a Ruana cloak. I've heard it called a "ranger cloak" too.  You can see more about Ruana cloaks at Skill Tree here: https://youtu.be/dU1imeSWhQ4 . It's ridiculously easy to make, and I recommend this project for first-time crafters. Or, if you're in a hurry and you need something in 10 minutes, the Ruana cloak is the one for you. Material Go to your local thrift store and find some material you like. I used a throw blanket that reminded me of raw wool. It cost less than $2.00. Pro Tip: My local Goodwill store runs 50% off specials each week for tags with a certain color. If you hit that magic tag color on your material, then it was meant to be. The gods are commanding you to do the project. Hey, I don't make the rules. Measure Decide how long you want the cloak. Since I used a small throw blanket, I didn't need to make any length changes. If your materia...

  I was with the king that morning, serving as his squire and baggage boy. He was still sorely wounded from his fight with Pellinore, although he complained not. He even joked about the scolding he'd be getting from the armorer for the damage to his chainmail. We stayed at the cottage of a wise woman, and she worked with herbs and salves, tending his hurts for three days. When the king had recovered some, he paid her two gold coins and left. I was glad to be free of the warm, close air filled with the sharp odor of garlic and boiling ointments. We rode more slowly than usual, but at least we were back in the fresh air. The king, I noted long ago, was not fond of inaction. Nor was I, and I think he liked me for it. Merlin, his unblinking adviser, was the opposite. He seemed content to sit still all day and just read. I cannot imagine a more tiresome task. As we rode, the king said, "I have no sword. A king without a sword? It will not do." "Then we shall fet...

  "You are too loud," Greenfoot whispered more than once as we traversed the endless forest. "Can you breathe less?" I suspected my little Yunni guide with elaborate, dyed hair would be happy enough if I stopped breathing permanently. But, So far, he had proven trustworthy, although I still sensed he was annoyed at being picked to guide me. The Yunni chief, a withered creature even smaller than my guide had insisted that his nephew Greenfoot lead me away from their hunting territory as expeditiously as possible. "Stop," Greenfoot hissed. "They are watching us." I stopped and knelt behind Greenfoot so I could hear him better. "Greetings," he called into the empty forest. "I am Greenfoot of the North Clan. I am taking my friend to the White River." "What is his business in Yunni lands?" The voice was close, but I still could not see the speaker. "He is lost and confused. You know the Big People cannot find ...

  Duke Arthelon was worried. He gathered his advisers and said, "With the plague raging through the knights, how are we to defend the east wall? One said, we can dig a pit and fill it with vipers. Another said, we can setup empty armor on the walls to trick enemy spies. All of his other advisers spoke for or against these ideas. Except one. After the clamor died down, Duke Arthelon looked at the silent adviser, saying, "So, my friend Cendrol, you have said nothing. Do you have counsel?" Cendrol stood and looked at the faces around the room. "I have the solution, but you're not going to like it. Follow me." He led everyone to the wide balcony overlooking the east wall. A lad was below, looking up. He stood near a wooden crate big enough to hold a hunting dog. Cendrol said, "I found this specimen during my travels in the southern rain forest." He waved toward the lad. "Go ahead." The boy used a poleaxe to lift the crate's latc...

  In his fever dream, Ulrich stood just outside the vast, game-filled forest of Jaagerlandt. He knew this was a dream, because the only way to see this place was after death, and he didn't remember dying recently. A hunter stood by him and sniffed the breeze. "Rain coming today," he said. "The trees will be dripping on us all night." "What is that place?" Ulrich asked, pointing across scrubby grass to a distant gateway of stone. It seemed to glow and swirl like a heat-shimmer. The hunter squatted and ran expert fingers over a recent deer track. "That's the road to Midlandt where the humans live. They say it's a terrible place. Almost no game, and the women are hidden away. Never been myself." "But we're humans," Ulrich said, confused. "Speak for yourself," the hunter said, and as he rose, he seemed to stand twice as tall as before. His eyes were an uncanny yellow. The hunter began to jog along the fore...

As Kyllen led the last squad fleeing the Duke's burning town , he had a single moment of clarity amid the screams and roaring flames. A man in black robes was walking calmly within the chaos as unconcerned as a shopper strolling through the market looking for plums. He carried a glowing wand, and uncanny flames spread around him. Wooden structures, baskets, anything remotely flammable exploded into bright orange fire. The man was not even singed by the pulsing heat Kyllen could easily feel from a bow shot away. Kyllen grabbed an archer by the shoulder, spinning her around. "Can you hit that man in black?" He pointed into the town. She automatically raised her arm to reach for an arrow, but her quiver was empty. "Shit. I'm out." She started looking frantically for loose arrows on the ground. The heat increased, and Kyllen's squad instinctively stepped back. "The gods be damned heat is too much," the archer cried. "We cannot stay here...

  The wizard unrolled the partly burned scroll, looking from it to the monument and back. The scroll was written in a flowing Elvenari script, and the wording was so old, he could barely understand. His halting interpretation was: "Seek you the south bay whereupon stands the fox flame of Pamania. One whose art is pure may sense the power of the monument and be refreshed." Many weeks of continuous travel, storms, and hardship had brought him south. Long had he sought this legend, finally to determine its power for himself. His art was strong, but it refused to show him the way. Instead, he had to endure days of weary speech with suspicious villagers. None had heard of a place, god, or man called "Pamania." None seemed interested in the least in his origin or his quest. To the wizard, they were as witless as the cattle they tended. Finally, he met an old woman at a lonely cottage on the edge of some nameless village. He sensed a spark of the art in her, though...

 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