Land of Salvania

  There would be none to record this deed, Feather thought as he drew his sword. "They are close," Rabbit Bane said, her voice a skwee of hawk speech as she glided overhead, her sharp eyes taking in the wind-blasted mountain top and clumps of twisted trees. Strider had been right, Feather thought. The orcs were coming west from Mordor as sure as Sauron's heart was black. The rangers were too scattered, as always, to stop them all. Still, very few orcs reported back to their master in the dark tower. He smiled at the exaggerated tale they must have told to justify their losses. Maybe he had grown to a dozen knights in shining armor, or a thousand archers raining death on the unsuspecting orcs. In reality, only a dozen rangers, spread too thin as always, patrolling alone along the eastern bank of the Gwathir were the "armies" holding the orcs at bay. But he knew the day was coming when even the grim hunters of the West, silently guarding the peace and shunned

  Ulrich could barely hear the druid's calm voice. It was as if she was receding into the distance. "...in through the nose...and out through the mouth." He breathed deeply, following the druid's direction. "You are in the forest. It is dappled in spring colors..." He remembered a lovely spring day when he was young. He pictured himself as a young man, roaming the deep, ancient forests of his homeland. No cares or worries. Young, hale, vigorous. "A thing you seek, your secret desire, is on the trail ahead of you..." Ulrich saw a deer on the trail. It turned to look at him, and as it did, it transformed into a woman in a white dress. She smiled and walked over a small ridge, beckoning him to follow. He trotted after, but when he reached the top, he saw a sword jammed into the ground with an old skull nearby. The wind shifted, bringing a chill and the dank smell of a cave. "You reach your secret desire and look at it closely. Take your

  "I am weary of skulking in halls, and wish to face peril and battle. …  I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death." — Éowyn, in J. R. R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

  "Mind your step, my friends. From here onward, the deeper halls are treacherous." The guide pointed to a crack running along our path. It was wide enough to swallow a horse, and its bottom was invisible in our flickering lights. The Northman called Ulrich pulled out a coil of hemp rope. "Vee should tie up for to be safe." He tied an elaborate knot around his waist and looped it around the guide's leather belt. "Maybe now ze ground will not swallow up our friend." The rest of us tied similar loops around nearby companions. Except the wizard. She stayed back, aloof, as usual. Watchful, suspicious. As usual. /// Copyright

  Osran, a young wizard of the Order of the Hidden Gateway, didn't mind his incarceration too much. They fed him twice a day and kept his water jug full. He had a window to look out when he was bored. It was not much worse than university. He had his spell book which the two city guards had not tried to take. Being mostly illiterate and entirely ignorant of a wizard's - even a young one's - power, the guards only took his small dagger. Osran smiled at the memory. The two jelly heads thought they were safe. No dagger, no danger. He stepped back from the window and opened his ornate leather spellbook and began meditating. "What would be fun, today?" he asked silently. He felt a familiar cool breeze flow through his mind. The book said, "We could turn the bars into licorice twists. Or maybe turn a guard's member into a limp noodle?" Osran chuckled. "You're naughty." "You know it, babe," the spellbook echoed in his mind.

Thanks for visiting. Please enjoy this short video featuring catchy tavern music from Kevin MacLeod and art from Mickey Kulp. MUSIC Master of the Feast by Kevin MacLeod Licensed under Attribution 3.0 Unported (CC BY 3.0) /// Copyright

  "Milady queen wishes you good health, Great Healer. She cautions you and all newcomers to take care in the hills. Trolls are on the move, none knows why. I heard some speculation from the fishmonger's daughter that every 27 years, the trolls pick a new leader. The wresting and fighting is savage, I hear. I hear a lot in my travels. I suspect that is why Milady queen asks me to greet all visitors. Why, just last week, I greeted a giant brute of a Northman with tattoos from his fingernails to his earlobes. Nice enough fellow, but he used butter to slick back his hair, and it had gotten rancid..." The healer let the queen's emissary continue for a full five minutes. The little bird may have gone on forever, but a shadow obliterated the sun. "Oh, dear," the bird squeaked. "I must go now. The dragon Hom is visiting today, and he may have news. Goodbye." The healer smiled as the little gossip sped away, chasing the enormous creature while castle horns

  "Still round the corner there may wait A new road or a secret gate And though I oft have passed them by The day will come at last when I Shall take the hidden paths that run West of the Moon and East of the Sun." Words by J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King Art by Mickey Kulp, 2022 /// Copyright

  Khevol wandered among the winding alleys in the sprawling market district. The sights and smells left him reeling. A fishmonger's catch drifted on the same breeze as the incense seller's eye-watering powders. At one alley opening, he spotted a woman with exotic paint on her eyelids. She was from the southern desert, and she danced to a nearby musician's wooden flute, the glittering rings on her low-cut satin dress jingling. Castle guards were here and there, just enough to keep everyone on good behavior. But it was the owls that unsettled Khevol most. They were everywhere, and most shops and stalls had a perch for them to rest and stare. He heard that they hunted mice that would otherwise pilfer or spoil the sellers' goods. Still, they looked like they were watching him. Intently. Hungrily. /// Copyright

  Farsinger was unusually insistent. "I saw it glowing. It's magicked, I tell ya." She hopped on Ulrich's shoulder and pecked him gently on the neck. "Pick it up. It may be lucky." "Or it may turn me into a worm," Ulrich growled, his pagan sensibilities and his Oma's old stories had him on alert. "Then I'll have a nice breakfast," Farsinger cawed, laughing. "Or it may bring some luck. Pick it up." "It's just a stick," Ulrich said with a dismissive wave. "I think you're scared," Farsinger said with a raven growl of derision. And that sealed it. Ulrich picked up the stick. Except it wasn't a stick. /// Copyright

  "Ahhhh!" Farsinger squawked and leapt off Ulrich's shoulder. "Fek, fek, fek," she cursed in Raven Speech as she winged through the trees in terror. It was equivalent to Ulrich's most violent swear word, "Fook." "Gods be damned, stupid bird," Ulrich cried, trying to drop the glowing magic "stick" that Farsinger had said "might bring good luck." But his hand was locked on the vibrating wand, and no amount of shaking would release it. Then a hideous, distorted face appeared in the sickly cloud swirling around the tip and said, "Hullo, there. Got any raw meat you don't need?" /// Copyright

  Strider stood, one foot asleep, still wrapped in his stained Ranger cloak. He yawned and peered into the misty dawn as a fox trotted by Frodo's new Crickhollow house. He nibbled on some lembas as his foot tingled to life. The air smelled of rain. He'd need to get across the Baranduin before it swelled. Maybe the Bucklanders would sleep late today and miss his green shadow skirting the edges of their well-tended fields. "Keep an eye on Frodo, when you can," Gandalf had said last month over a pint at The Prancing Pony. "I feel the shadow stirring." Strider worked the stiffness out of his shoulders, thinking about a soft mattress in Rivendell and his lady's shining eyes. The fox looked his way, his nose held high. Yes, he was long overdue for a bath. Nothing like a splash in the cold Baranduin to cleanse the body and spirit. Inspired by the Lord of the Rings saga by JRR Tolkien. Art and text: Mickey Kulp, 2022 /// Copyright

  The old caretaker gasped as a giant Northman came into the museum, a scarred crate on his shoulder. "I greet you," the stranger said with a strong accent. "Do you be the owner here?" The caretaker nodded, unable to make his tongue work. He glanced around at the Battle Museum's walls and cases filled with priceless relics. All the stories about the wild, fearless marauders from the frozen mountains poured through his mind. "That is a good. I am called Ulrich." The caretaker nodded again, then stammered, "Please don't break the cabinets." It sounded ridiculous even as it came from his mouth. Ulrich looked around and nodded. "They are being lovely work. My papa is like wood working." Ulrich strode toward the museum counter, and the caretaker stepped back until a wall bearing crossed halberds stopped him. One rattled off it's hook and clattered to the stone floor. The Northman placed the crate on the counter and opened it. A j

  As the sunset's long shadows filled the forest, the prince realized that storming out of the castle in a snit over some bad wine might have been a mistake. /// Copyright

  Of those named "Wizard" But five are known: White, Grey, and Brown were named Two more, they say, were Blue. But there were more. Always, the few are seen While the masses work Without accolades or hope. Toiling away in silence, Tending and healing, Their ripples gently moving the Water so even the mighty Must clutch for purchase When the wave finally crests. And here we find the Green one. Clothed like an old beggar, Roaming without seeming purpose, Arriving when the Spring comes. Kindly and wise, they say, Knowing the ways of vegetables, Speaking with the trees, Helping bring in the new lambs. Some called him "druid" And he did not correct them. Some called him trouble And he sang them a song About old days coming again. Some called him a fool And he laughed like a drunkard With a flower in his beard. Excerpt from "The Green Wizard" translated from the Elvenari scrolls at the White River scriptorium. Set here by my hand, Bard Galen in the fifth year of

  The villagers were sure the Beltane fire had been "pixied." No matter what they tried, they could not get the annual bonfire to stay lit. It didn't stop the celebrants from eating and drinking their fill, but it was getting dark, and Beltane without a bonfire just would not do. Even the best huntsman who boasted he could start a fire in a rainstorm had no luck. "What about old Ulias?" the cobbler asked, slurring his words a little and taking another pull off a wineskin. "He ain't done any wizarding in a while." Ulias, the old village wizard, had never been known as a great conjurer. His advice mostly involved herbs, mushrooms, and the peculiarities of the weather. But desperate measures were required, and someone dispatched several dirty, barefoot boys into the walled city to round up the wizard. He arrived a few minutes later, buttoning his ceremonial robe. "We need a fire," someone said. "Pixies have gotten into the wood," a

  As Halbarad was crossing the Baranduin, he stopped and turned back. Aragorn had already vanished on the other side, like a shadow at midnight. Halbarad smiled, recalling a conversation with one of the small folk from the past week. "I am seeking one named Strider, a man like myself," Halbarad had said to the post mistress at Bywater. She cast a shrewd eye on the tall, weather-stained traveler. No doubt she saw greasy hair and a beard that needed trimming a month ago. "Ain't no striding men around here, but some say that all kinds of strangers pass through The Prancing Pony over in Bree." "Thank you m'lady," Halbarad said with a nod. The post mistress smiled, a blush staining her plump cheeks. "Well, ain't you a gentleman. In case I see this striding man, who might I say you are called?" "They call me Shadow," he said, noting her surprise and a return to guarded skepticism. The halflings loved to gossip, and Halbarad only h

  Deron, a bard of the druidic grove Tyto Blue, was almost ill. The Battle Museum's unapologetic glorification of war turned his stomach. He had seen war. Up close. Too often. He never wanted to see it again. His songs and poetry, while in demand in some places, would never be wanted in this town of soldiers and death. Still, a few here might heed his message. He walked outside and untied his guitar case. /// Copyright

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

  The two shield maidens, surrounded by Gargs, fought like wildcats, their screams and bright blades striking fear in the enemy. And while the Gargs had the clear advantage, they were daunted by the prowess of the whirling humans. One Garg would drop from a savage wound, and two of his neighbors would fall back. A knot of Rangers watched from a distance, unable to cross the mass of Gargs to render aid, were amazed when the circle of Gargs faded back, leaving a ring of dead comrades behind. "No thanks, we got it," one of the blood-spattered women yelled to the nearby Rangers. "You just stay there and make us a nice sandwich." Inspired by an image from Beth Dooner, https://www.profounddecisions.co.uk/ Art effects and story by Mickey Kulp, 2022 Instagram: LandOfSalvania /// 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

"So, good Sergeant, you will attend us at the ball tonight." Princess Juliska had eyes like a barn owl: large, beautiful, unflinching. She reminded him of Teng, a little. Andrew of Salvania, Sergeant of the king's wilderness guard, bowed - but not too deeply. She was a princess, but he was her elder by probably ten years. Hard to tell with girls, though. The Autumn day was cool, but the sun was just right. They were meeting in an alcove off the castle courtyard instead of the throne room. That suited Andrew just fine. He didn't care to be indoors much. He saw her glance again at the fresh scar on his whiskered cheek. She seemed quite taken with it in an unsettling way. He could tell she was dying to know. He touched the scar and said, "Troll got too close last week. It was my own fault; I'm much, much faster than a hill troll fattening up for his winter sleep." Her eyes never changed, but her mouth softened, almost like her lips wanted to say

Khevol was perfectly positioned to spot a troll yearling, probably no taller than seven feet, moving along an established trail. A steep valley separated them, so neither were in danger from the other, and besides, the yearling would not be ready for harvesting for a dozen more winters. Normally, he would watch the creature’s behavior carefully, hoping to learn something new that would keep him alive when he was hunting in earnest. But today, he was introspective. Something made him look back on a year of troll hunting along the White River, living among the whispering, insular villagers who hated his Dwarven ways but were too frightened to face him or too greedy to risk losing access to his fine pelts. He was sure he paid higher taxes than others on his prized skins, but that had ceased to rankle. Maybe he was growing complacent here, domesticated by a lovely mate, sleeping under a real roof most nights, eating seasoned food with a spoon at a table. He snorted. His kith back home

The fur trader sat at his stall outside the castle walls. He watched the Dwarven troll hunters haggle over a massive pelt that weighed as much as a cow. The filthy foreigners, coming here to take business away from him, to take food from his family’s mouth. Before those uncouth savages had come to White River, everything had been perfect. He could set his own prices, and he had lived well from fairly small, substandard pelts. He stood and rearranged his samples for the tenth time; maybe a buyer would come. But it had been a week since his last sale. Old Wilmer had come by and said, “I need some rabbit for my grandson’s gloves. How’s the business?” “Rabbits are good this year. Business is booming.” Old Wilmer nodded, playing along with the lie. “Ya know them Dwarven are all the rage. I hear they are planning to stay. Maybe start some kind of village of their own.” “Rages come and go,” the fur trader growled. “Remember when everyone wanted Elvenari shoes a few years back?” Old W

Ulrich blinked in the gods be damned desert heat as he trudged over the baked scrubland toward a shadow, a castle. They built it around an oasis for parched travelers if the rumors were true. Maybe they built it around an eligible princess as well. He was amazed that there was only one guard outside the castle. He wore no obvious armor or shield, and his desert scimitar was no match for the Northman’s axe. Moreover, he looked well past his prime. When Ulrich reached a spear-throw from the guard, the man stepped forward and held out his hand. A string of unknown language followed. “I am sorry, my friend,” Ulrich said, showing his empty hands. “I do not speak your language.” The leather-skinned guard regarded him for a moment and scratched his scruffy beard. If he was like every other castle guard in every other part of Salvania, he was probably figuring how to extract a “toll” for entry. He stepped forward to meet Ulrich.  “Why is you be here?” the guard asked. “What is you busy