Land of Salvania

  Ritter caught a glint in the grass ahead of him, shaking him out of another meandering daydream. He had been trudging across the featureless moors for days with only the wind and his wandering thoughts for company. Was the glint just an illusion of a fraying mind? It had been four days, or was it five, since the gargs had rolled his camp and stolen his horse. He had managed to inflict enough harm to run them off before they took everything. Still he was missing some of his food, two daggers, and one of his boots. That was the most evil thing of all. Why take one boot? They were both sitting together. Why not take both? As the monotony of the endless heath took hold, his mind kept chewing on that over and over. Why one boot? It was maddening. He started singing to kill the time, but the songs kept turning toward the missing boot. Oh you shitty gargs you took a single shoe I hope you die real slow I really hope you do Oh you shitty gargs why do this to a bloke you took on...

  Captain Droth walked silently among the ancient ruins. Weeds reached for the spring sunshine slanting through rotten roof timbers. A shutter creaked back and forth in the warm breeze. The sound reminded him of ship's rigging, and the sadness of losing his beloved Misty Maiden washed over him again. He imagined that fish roamed her sunken decks trying to make sense of the alien cargo. Signs of battle were everywhere among the ruins. Bones were scattered and cleaned by the feasting birds and dragons. Large troll skulls were also mingled with smaller human and elf remains. "I doubt dragons did any of this," Pall said from outside the gate. He was too big to walk through, even if he folded his wings. "Why? You dragons are known to enjoy a tasty human from time to time." "There would be no bones left," was the simple reply. Pall was always straightforward even in the face of sarcasm. His nostrils opened wide. "Nothing but ghosts here. Or, m...

  Ritter had grown to despise the night. It seemed like all the things that wanted to harm him loved the night. He stood outside the tavern, a thatched building just outside the outpost's main gate. The townies said it had been burned down a few times, but not recently. Not since the Jirrahs had arrived. Cold rain was falling, and the sun was mostly gone. "I love the rain," Coriander said beside him. "I suspect a dryad would," Ritter groused. The tall, leafy creature next to him rumbled with mirth. "It is delicious." "It is cold," Ritter said. "I love the cold," Coriander said. Did anything bother this placid creature? "Well, there's plenty of that tonight." A large raindrop magically found its way under his collar and down his back. He raised his woolen hood in disgust. "When I was small, barely your size, we would throw enormous parties when the monsoons came." Coriander raised his arms and closed h...

  Ritter, Ace, and Crow watched the wagon burn. The smoke was black from the unknown potions and oozing liquids they had glimpsed inside. That, and the creature now crisping in the flames. The day before, the pirate captain Droth had given them some important news about a shadowy figure lurking in the Dreamwood. "Misha the Wylderkin has seen and smelled this stranger. Misha says they smell like burned hair." Misha was one of the few forest people who would deal openly with the outpost, and their keen eyes and nose had proven invaluable. Misha had take a special liking to Captain Droth after being mesmerized by his many flowing tattoos. Ace, whose Elven name was almost too complex to shape on human tongues, had remarked, "Yes, I feel it too. Something has been moving, veiled, on the edge of my dreams for many days now." /// Before daybreak, three shadows slipped away from the outpost and followed a narrow trail through the Dreamwood. Ace was in the lead, movin...

  Ritter stood at the water's edge, dense fog hiding the opposite bank. His sparse campsite was only twenty paces away, and he could barely see it through the uncanny mist that had descended overnight. He yawned. His sleep had been uneventful, even though the local villagers had warned him about the old barrow near the lake. He stretched, letting his back crackle like breaking celery. Every village had their local superstitions. A mossy pile of stones denoting an ancient battle would not scare him. Still, something seemed odd. He couldn't quite place it... /// Copyright

  Ritter never had a good feeling in the Dreamwood. He always felt eyes on him. Watching. Planning. It was like he was interrupting a sinister gathering, and "they" were waiting on him to leave. He never had this feeling anywhere else. He grew up surrouned by deep forests, and he loved the opportunities they afforded for boyhood mayhem. But today, he was crossing the heart of the Dreamwood. The outpost required his tracking skills to follow some horse thieves back to their lair. The thieves had been scattered during a fight the night before when all but one horse had been recovered safely. Every nerve in Ritter's body was strung as tight as a harp. Every careful footstep seemed as loud as a tree falling. Any moment, he expected an arrow to slice into his belly. /// He was not wrong. A pair of green eyes watched him from the high branches. She smelled his strange scent: an enticing mixture of bacon and leather and clean soap. Not like the stink of the other man-...

  Ritter was still panting from his run toward the smoking portal, a healer's quick bandage streaming behind him, her potion still bitter in his mouth. He felt the heat as another fire elemental roared out of the portal and tore a scorched path through the outpost's defenders. It was shaped vaguely like a human with crackling arms of flame that lashed out like whips. It was midnight, and the creatures had been coming through the portal all day. It started as a few at a time, probing the defenses. Then, as the winter darkness rolled in, they began pouring out by the dozen. The defenders were exhausted, but the healers and the blacksmiths kept everyone vertical. Ritter ran past the latest elemental and got in a few hits with his sword. The heat was almost unbearable. The hellspawn screeched and veered toward Ritter. Then Crow and Ace appeared from the darkness and laid on from behind. The elemental turned toward them, and Ritter spun to attack from behind. They had learne...

Maybe the bandits thought he was dead. That was the only explanation Ritter could dream up as his vision swam from the three-on-one attack that left his head pounding and his nose bloody. He got up slowly as the world spun around him. He blinked and spotted movement through the trees. He saw the three bandits in a clearing an arrow shot away. They were standing over a body. Ritter blinked again. It looked like Ace. Yes, his ringing brain remined him, Crow and Ace had also been with him when the bandit meeting had gone sideways. Ace wasn't moving. Shit. They killed the kid. And it was only his first adventure. Suddenly, a bandit fell, an arrow magically appearing in her left eye. Another cried out and fell, writhing on the ground, an arrow in his guts. It would take him a long time to die. Another figure emerged from the woods, his quiver empty, his longsword drawn. Crow! "Back off or I'll finish him," the last bandit said, his sword poised above Ace's chest. It wa...

 The second LARP event for Alliance Atlanta was held recently.  Here are some images (mostly of my kit). Friday check-in.  The cold was already starting to settle over us. This was my garb for most of the event.  The fur stole was way too hot, so this is its only apperance. Watching for bandits (and worse) from the tavern porch. Saturday was a little warmer, but still needed layers. Saturday night before the big midnight battle.  Light rain had started, and the ambiance was grim.  Powerful elementals were rifting in, and the little skirmishes were getting heavier as more appeared.  It took about 50 (yes, 50!) of us in a pitched battle to finally save the day.  A friend took much more professional photos, and I'll be sharing them soon.  Here are a few more of the general event. /// Copyright

My LARP shield did great at the recent Alliance Atlanta January Event.  Here are a couple of photos. This is the final version.  I added weathered "metal" bands, rivets, and more battle damage. She took a beating during the two-day event, but she held up well in the cold and rain. You can see some of the blue foam starting to re-appear where most of the hits landed.  /// Copyright

This DIY will focus more on the final art steps, and less on the savage construction steps. Each step has been faithfully copied from the ancient Elvenari scrolls at the White River scriptorium by Bard Galen in the fifth year of King Nordram.   Step 1: Slam thy boogie boards onto the rack under the shade of watching trees. Tis ok to be rough. Verily, they like it that way. (We have a “Buy Nothing” group in my area that you can use to offer free items you have and ask for free items you need. I got these from that group. Cost = zero!) Step 2: Flay the skin right off to reveal the harsh truth underneath. Slice deeply into the white, tender flesh and force thy straps all the way in. Test thy adhesive (see green circles) to assure thy alabaster beauty will feel no pain. (The brown leather strap is for my hand, and the black nylon strap is for my forearm. This view shows the outside of the shield. The black tape is reinforcing the area where the straps meet the cuts. The straps ar...

  (From the series "Gerantus and Pall") Pall glided overhead in silence, just another shard of midnight breeze. Gerantus, accustomed to his friend's terrifying hunting skills, stood at the edge of the Dreamwood with his lamp, thorns tugging at his woolen trousers. They had been on alert all night, Pall circling among the stars and Gerantus cursing the thorns, as the battle raged in the distance. "We are old and pitiful," Pall had said the day before. "Let the children play at death. They'll never learn to hate it unless they feel it." "Speak for yourself," Gerantus had grunted even as he felt the familiar twinge in his lower back. "We have some role to play yet. I know it." So here they were at midnight, seeking some way to help without feeling as useless as a first-time father watching his mate give birth. "Maybe we can spot retreating enemy and finish them," Gerantus had offered as the sun had set and the sound o...

  Ulrich the Northman, unencumbered by the heavy armor worn by the cowards around him, waded into the fray, swinging his "borrowed" mace with devastating efficiency. By the gods, it was a new year, and he felt great! He smashed his way through the battling men until he reached within arrowshot of the enemy king. As poorly aimed arrows rained down - none within a sword length - he realized that it might be wise to put something between the king's archers and his tender skin. He turned and brained an enemy knight who had just raised his sword for a killing blow. As the soldier twitched, Ulrich removed his dented breastplate and strapped it on. But, by the time he had sorted out the unfamiliar straps, the battle had moved, and the king had departed with his retinue. Ulrich resolved to stop playing it so safe this year. He tossed off the breastplate with a savage grin. /// Copyright

  How the times have changed, the monk thought as the Northman came roaring into the monastery's storage room. Indeed. See ya, 2022. Let's hope 2023 is better. ~Mick /// Copyright

  He really didn't want to slay the dragon. It was just an animal doing what animals do to survive. When the villagers complained about it killing a few cows every now and then, the duke waved them off. When it wrecked a couple of chicken coops, the castle had no response. But when it emptied its bowels while flying over the duke's archery match - that was too much. The duke's guard was turned out with orders to find and slay the evil beast. And you already know the rest of the story. /// Copyright

  Orc woods these are, I think I know. I will proceed now, going slow. They may not see me creeping here If my sword begins to glow. My magic sword is always near Since orcs were spotted late this year Between the castle and the lake With darkest portents from our seer. Assured my senses are all awake Here, I can't make one mistake. The only sound's the crunch and sweep Of frigid wind and icy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And orcs to slay before I sleep, And orcs to slay before I sleep. Inspired by " Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening " by Robert Frost, 1922-1923 /// Copyright

  The halfling cried out, "I am Wizard Zhame of the Stone Forest. Big people are not allowed in my lands!" He came at me with no warning, brandishing his glowing wand, intent on mayhem. I drew my wand just in time to defend against his savage onslaught. I remember little of the grueling encounter, just that I awoke hours later, sitting in my carriage miles away, exhausted. /// Copyright

  King Largen of the frozen north Took his sword and went he forth To seek the dragon Dalenboke That sorely plagued his peaceful folk. Five days had passed upon his way And then he met a princess fey Who asked him why he bore his sword Across her stream and tranquil fjord. He told his tale of dragon hate And bid her help him seek his fate. So boon he asked, and boon he got She led him to a sacred spot. "Rest you now, here by this stream When you awake perhaps you'll seem To find a new way to your goal Just listen to your dreaming soul." The fey, they think in slipp'ry ways. Unlike men: too straight their gaze. Largen slept just like a child And in the dreamland he was exiled. When last he woke at break of day The world had turned, gone was the fey. His sword had rusted red as blood The stream had risen like a flood. The season changed, whole years had passed; New trees had grown in tall green grass. Fear and wonder filled his mind He rose and left this place behind. N...

  This is art.  In LARP, we use safe, foam swords and daggers. In the Alliance LARP system, I am fond of a fighting style called "Florentine." Florentine is the art of wielding two weapons at once, one in each hand. Florentine is named after the city - Florence, Italy - where it was developed. Typically, the dominant hand holds a sword or a dagger, and the non-dominant hand holds a dagger. Since most people have left hand as non-dominant, the French called this dagger a main gauche, which literally means "left hand". This technique is difficult to master, but lotsa fun! More here: https://rules.alliancelarp.com/Florentine /// Copyright

  Khevol knew the enemy was ahead somewhere in the dark forest.  His skin tingled with the thought that they were watching him even now. Any breath could be his last.   He froze.  Did he hear something? "Have courage, my little dwarven boy," he thought to himself, remembering his father's words as they had tracked a wounded troll forty years before. "Everything in life balances on the word 'maybe.'  Every step you take may be a risk, a mistake, or a great reward.  But you gotta take the step to find out." Maybe he would have a child one day.  Maybe he would tell them about this dark forest.  Maybe, if he lived.   Khevol took the next step. /// Inspired from "The Collected Works Of William James", William James (1842–1910) “So far as man stands for anything, and is productive or originative at all, his entire vital function may be said to have to deal with maybes. Not a victory is gained, not a deed of faithfulness or courage is done...

  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 ...