Land of Salvania

  Ranamir limped into the Shire, and his rough looks and piercing eyes immediately roused the wary citizens. Three months after the Battle of Bywater, life had only just started returning to normal. Was this another Ruffian coming back to defile their beloved land? Would they have to take up arms again? Bells rang and dogs barked. A large crowd bearing farm tools and frying pans materialized around the much larger man. A few scarred fellows had swords, now kept sharp since Trouble had so recently come to their land. The Shire folk had learned from bitter experience to face down evil at once, never let it take hold. The stranger claimed he was from some foreign place called Minas Tirith and he knew a hobbit called Peregrin Took in The War. A lad on a pony was sent to fetch Master Peregrin; the murmuring crowd remained. Those who left were quickly replaced by others who had just heard the news. Ranamir sat in the shade with his sword sheathed. When Master Peregrin arrived, the muttering

  The trap was sprung the instant Bartelemi took the mace from the corpse's skeletal hand. He heard distant thunder, and the shaft of dusty light entering a hole in the roof faded. Bartelemi scraped the tomb lid shut and ran, the dead king's weapon heavy as a sack of grain. He had dawning admiration for anyone who could wield this monstrosity in battle. They said it was forged by an ancient Dwarven smith and given as a gift back when relations were closer. Bartelemi could believe that. He had seen only a few of the Dwarven folk in his life, but they all had seemed stout enough to have forged this daunting weapon. Outside, the lone tomb sat under a brooding sky like the last tree after a forest fire. The empty moor stretched endlessly in all directions with no cover from the sky's wrath. Bartelemi took a deep breath and began to trot, the first drops already falling, thunder landing deep in his chest. It would take two hourglasses, maybe more, to reach the nearest vill

  Mothers clutched their children and hustled away when Morden walked down the street. Soldiers hands unconsciously drifted toward their weapons when Morden appeared in town. The wise watched carefully when Morden stood still, eyes closed. Some days, Morden was amused at this ridiculous behavior, some days he was annoyed. Even getting a beer at the pub was a huge disruption, crowds falling silent, eyes wary. Forget about attending any town festivals or market days. Accidentally summon a red dragon just one time, and you pay for it forever. /// Copyright

  Aragorn: "The Beacons are lit! Gondor calls for aid." Theoden: "And Rohan will answer." /// "The Beacons Are Lit" (c)2022 Mickey Kulp Inspired by the Lord of the Rings saga by JRR Tolkien

This video is an homage to the world built by our beloved Professor. Images by Mickey Kulp, 2022 Fan art inspired by the Lord of the Rings saga by JRR Tolkien Instagram: LandOfSalvania MUSIC: Music from Bensound https://www.bensound.com

  He had taken to roaming at night when the annoying clamor of the population's minds at last fell silent. It would be different if their minds were more interesting. But, alas, no. They only cared for the moment, the perceived slights to their pride, the small revenges, the petty fears. Even their nighttime dreams, now a breeze where their waking minds were a gale, were small and boring. Some wanted love, some fought faceless monsters. All typical and dull. Bovine. "Let them be sheep," Vecnan purred in his mind. He looked at the jewel glowing faintly on the end of his staff. The star stone. Vecnan was the only one who understood him. Indeed, their bond was closer than any parent or lover. The jewel seemed to pulse as the words came. "We will rule them all one day, and they will never even notice." /// Copyright

  Bandobras was weary as he tied his pony outside the cave. Goblin tracks were all around. He was sick of goblins, and the quicker he dispatched these last few, the quicker he could get back to his farm and his ale keg. He towered over his fellow halflings, and if any had doubted his primacy, he had sealed it at Battle of Greenfield last week. He had knocked the goblin chieftain off his feet with a club and finished him with an old Elven sword he had "borrowed" from the mathom-house at Michel Delving. Already, they were telling tall tales about the battle, and they got taller every day. Some even claimed he had knocked off the goblin's head with his club. Ridiculous. Bandobras didn't really care about all this acclaim. He wanted to get some rest and some beer in his belly. He just needed to finish off the last stragglers that had retreated to this abandoned troll cave. "Do you want us to go with you?" one of his companions asked. He was clearly not en

  The wizard Elzalore opened his lamp, pulled out the sputtering, feeble remnants of the tallow candle, and used it to light the last candle in his haversack. The tunnels under the Queen's castle were rumored to be so vast that entire squads of soldiers and miners (and doubtless hundreds of treasure-seekers) had vanished over the years. He believed the stories now after spending two days in the chill damp, sleeping on stones in the utter silence. But Elzalore had a map. The old herb lady at the edge of the moors had said it was a true map from her grandfather. Her grandfather had helped build a new tower on the castle as a young man a hundred years earlier. Elzalore had paid her ten gold for it, a princely sum he hoped to recoup with a single discovery. For, in addition to the map, he had a scroll that pulled him toward his destination. Soon, he hoped, he would find old Skandarnish's dusty bones and the jewel he had carried when alive. The jewel was reward enough, but the

  Somehow, the one-armed Northman was more terrifying than the others. He was not particularly large or fast, but he had this look... It was like he was unkillable. It was like he knew he was unkillable, too. How could someone lose an arm, go home, heal up, and come back to fight again? He must have found favor with his god or goddess. "I tell you," one of the survivors said as he stared deeply into the fire, "I stayed away from that one-armed bloke. It seemed smarter to fight a whole man than one who had endured so much suffering and still wanted to come at us. That ain't natural." /// Copyright

  "Danger! Danger!" the magic staff screamed in his mind. It jumped out of his hand and clattered on the cobbled bridge, flopping like a fish out of water. Ever since he had found the staff in that abandoned lair under the mountains, he had regretted bringing it with him. Far above the castle, he heard a dragon's piercing cry from somewhere in the storm clouds. The staff screeched again in his skull and started inch-worming away from the castle. It was going to be that kind of week. /// Copyright

  It had started about a week before. Two priests of the Hedronia sect had met each other on a roadway, each one heading for the same destination. After learning that each had been struggling with dreams that had called them toward the White River, each was relieved that they had not gone insane. But relief had been followed by troubling thoughts. "Where should we go?" "What do the dreams mean?" "We must fast and meditate." They continued toward the White River, seeking signs known only to the wise. They fasted each day, taking only water and mushrooms known to aid visions and dreams. They chanted each night until exhaustion forced sleep. On the fifth night of their vigil, both dreamed of a cave hidden by an ancient grove. The next day they arrived. The dreams did not predict the staff floating near the entrance, it's tip glowing with blue swirling mist. The dreams did not say what to do now. And the adventure began. /// Copyright

  forever this will be true, my child... in the gentle twilight before the savage night and dark dreams, we move, awake still, but drifting, in control of less and less and when the shadows overtake us why are we surprised? sharpen your wits and light your lamp for these are the true weapons against the night keep your sword if you must it has a use; but the shadows fear a blazing mind more than any steel /// Copyright

  The elves on the edge of Mirkwood named him "friend of birds" so long ago that he barely recalled his true name. No matter. Aiwendil was content to roam the deep woods, accepted as a citizen by the ravens and badgers. Foxes would follow him out of curiosity, for everyone knew marvelous things could happen when The Brown Man was about. On Thursday, he found some snares set by cruel orc trappers. He removed the lure - a bit of meat - and urinated all around to warn his forest friends away. Then he added a little of his own magic with a swirling purple light (rewarding a pair of watching foxes for their patience). The next orc to reset the snare would be hanging by his foot from a glowing purple rope. Unfortunately for the orc (though great entertainment for any watching creatures), the magic rope would vanish once it pulled the trapper about ten feet up. On Friday, he found a half-eaten orc with a broken neck. /// Inspired by JRR Tolkien's Lord of the Rings saga. Copyr

  "Follow Farsinger," the small Yunni shaman said, her bracelets jingling as she ladeled more stew into her guest's bowl. The raven heard her name and stirred from her nap on the pronounced bosom of a carved fertility totem. Farsinger looked at the guest, a human healer from the White River village, and cooed in Ravenspeech, "Yes, I know the way, friend Don-lee-sar." The healer nodded thanks to the large black bird. Then he turned to the Yunni. "You have seen the artifact yourself?" "I have," she replied. "They have no idea how important it is." Two weeks later, Farsinger landed on a thatched roof and squawked, "We are here." The healer waved greetings to a few dirty children who ran into a nearby cottage. He waited just a moment, and a woman came outside, wiping her hands on her apron. "Hello," he said with a friendly bow. The lady nodded without a reply. "My name is Donlisar. I am a healer traveli

  This was a stupid idea, Henri thought. He wondered if the other more experienced troll hunters were playing a prank on "the new laddie," leaving him out here while they swilled beer back in town. "You block this trail," one had said. "The troll will spot you long before you spot him, and he'll slip to the left since the river is on the right. See?" Yes, Henri saw. He saw he had been played for a fool. "We will be spread out over here," he had pointed left. "And one of us will drop him." He gave it another hour, and he stomped off. This was a stupid idea. /// Copyright

  The little Yunni were tough traders. It seemed like part ritual and part sport for them. "Oi, you're killing me! I won't be able to feed my five babies," the Yunni tentmaker exclaimed with elaborate hand gestures. "Do you want them to starve?" Gar One-eye snorted. "Come on, Fal, they're trying to rob us." But neither man made a move to leave the negotiation. Both were sitting on low Yunni stools, their butts only two hands off the ground. The tentmaker was standing, and he barely matched the men's eye-level. "Look at this stitching," the Yunni declared, holding up a canvas seam and running a tiny finger along the edge. "Many nights I toiled by candlelight, my fingers aching, my stomach empty." Fal ran his own finger down the seam. "It gives credit to your skill, my friend. I can go up to nine, but no more." He held out nine silver pieces, then shook his purse to show it was empty. "Yes, nine i

  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

  He was called Draig, Dragon in the common speech. None in the village knew his real name. He had arrived half-dead a month earlier clinging to his horse, a bloody mess, his sword broken, his mind delirious. A red dragon was stitched on his leather surcoat. The village healer, a woman known for poultices and herbs, had nurtured him like a sick calf, and brought him back to the living. "What do the people say about me?" Draig asked her one day. "They pity you," she said bluntly. He thought about that, his brow knotted, as he scratched around a long scab on his arm. "They're probably right." Draig continued packing a few bundles of bannock bread for his journey. "Have you remembered anything yet?" The healer dropped some chopped leeks into the stewpot. "Same as always," he said. "I have dreams, but they fade every morning." She knew about his dreams. The small cottage had no privacy, and she could hear him cry out sev

  Tommy was a boy who visited the ruins every chance he got. Even though he liked the same games and roughhousing as the other village boys, he also liked to stand alone in the shadows and let the silence bear down on him. He noted that some horses liked to wear a blanket when it stormed, and he guessed he was the same. The silence was his blanket, calming the storm in his mind, helping him forget the beatings. Years later, after many adventures and battles that had torn the boy out of him, Sir Thomas the Bare returned to the ruins. He earned the nom de guerre "The Bare" for selling his great war helm to buy food for his troop. After that, he never wore a helmet in battle again. It was foolish, but it emboldened his soldiers, and that was enough. Sir Thomas let the silence soak in. It took a while, for he was out of practice, and his mind had become accustomed to a continuous swirl. But, inch by inch, he calmed, reclaiming a bit of the boy. The boy recalled the bruises

  Mithrandir took off his sword and sat in the horizontal light of sunset, savoring a bowl of Old Toby with his back against a tree. He was feeling the weight of centuries in his bones nowadays, but Autumn in the Shire had a way of settling his spirit. Nearby, he saw Balin and Bilbo at a trestle table that had been hauled out onto an open field used for parties - which were frequent. The pair were poring over a map that was held down at the corners with empty ale cups and half a wheel of cheese from their picnic. He heard snatches of conversation, "...and Bard has rebuilt Dale. You'd not recognize the place..." and "...I need to put that in my book, don't you know..." Mithrandir smiled, content to savor the bird song as he blew a small smoke-dragon to pester Bilbo. The hobbit laughed and, using his ink quill as a sword, did battle with the smoky replica. Bilbo was a small, remarkable fellow in a too-large world (though his waistcoat had expanded a bit). But

  The old shaman needed an obscure spice called turmeric. He had his youngest son accompany him on a rare visit to White River. "It is the name they have given to the river, the castle, and the town surrounding the castle," the old shaman said. "Creative bunch," his son quipped. "I once heard it described as a wretched hive of scum and villainy," the old shaman said with a secret smile and a wink. "We must be cautious." /// Copyright (Special thanks to Old Ben Kenobi.)

  He claimed to be a man Sent from our lovely Queen. His sword was sharp and bright, Though he was quite unclean. The man, his name was Loo, He painted half his face. He said it helped him hide In trees without a trace. He traveled with a troll As tall as any tree. Loo found him as a babe While fishing in the sea. A dragon too he knew With breath as hot as fire. She flew on wings of red, And never did she tire. And so they roamed the land To right the evil deeds Caused by the filthy Gargs That sprouted up like weeds. Loo waited for the Gargs To come out in the night And he would growl and groan To give them all a fright. The Gargs would run away Straight toward the waiting troll If any got past him The dragon took her toll. So now the land is safe For you and mom and dad. And we can sleep at night While Loo defeats the bad. Translated from the Dwarven scroll "Songs for Wee Babes" at the White River scriptorium. Set here by my hand, Bard Galen in the fifth year of King Nordram

  "So, tell me what you saw," the Captain of the Guard asked the jeweler with the bloody nose. "Oi, me head is swimming. Am I going blind?" The young fop dabbed his nose with a blood-stained rag. His fancy silks were torn, but the Captain had seen worse carnage at a wedding celebration. "I think you'll survive," the Captain said, already regretting his involvement. The sergeant and corporal of the gate were out chasing the hooligan, so he was stuck talking to the fop. "It was horrible, I yell ya." "What did you see? Be quick." The Captain was losing his patience. "It was soldier in a green tunic with a white lion on his chest." The Captain pondered the "white lion" comment. Most likely, the hooligan was a member of the North Regiment. They were encamped a mile outside of town gathering conscripts for their annual service. The Captain said, "And he just walked in and punched you?" The fop took a defensiv

  Maddock started as the court's first birdmaster after Queen Juliska (then, a young princess) encountered a dashing ranger with a fresh scar and an owl companion . The owl was so in tune with the young ranger it was like they could speak to each other. It took several interviews, but Princess Juliska finally found Maddock, a retired ranger with his own bird companions and his own scars that he never discussed. Maddock had been living in a stone hut a few miles from her castle when he was invited to join the court. "Milady, too many years of battle have made me fond of solitude," he had said. He petitioned the queen to let him stay "in my little home." She had agreed, saying, "In light of your service to our realm, we grant you ten acres of forest surrounding your hut for as long as you draw breath. Your duties at court will be to present your birds for our entertainment and education." And that was that. He received a monthly wage - a princely sum

  Tegan, a newly-minted bard from the Circle of Oak, awoke with the burning desire, no, the need , to be in the forest. He was trained to pay attention to these random urges, so he rose and left with only a pocket of walnuts and a leather flask of small beer. As he walked among the red oaks and pines, swaying with the distant sea breeze, he began to feel the Awen - the inspiration - come upon him. Shortly, he reached a bend in the trail where the light was just right and the wind fell still and the birds stopped to watch. He closed his eyes, and these words came to him... Wake, my dear! for the swaying trees, Stirr'd by the wind from off the seas, And Yunni songs so light and gay, Do bring us 'round to face the day. Wake, my dear! and you may see, Once more the sun so fair and free, And Yunni song floats high above, To warm your comely face my love. And that was it. The Awen departed like smoke, and the world went back to its own business. He opened his eyes, and a Yunni mai