Land of Salvania

  The Norns made it so. Perhaps they were bored. Twirling the fates, Assuring the end of all things In the Great Winter. Churning and growing Coming closer, colder, darker. Wind will cut As much as any ax. The light and goodness will fail. Some will struggle on, Giving the gods great entertainment, Hating them and begging them for mercy. The only warmth will be the forge. The endless ring of hammers. The only beauty: gleaming metal, Sharp as the north wind. Blood will spill and steam, Drifting in the steel sky. Hope must die. Or so it seems. There is hope, but it will be long in coming. Endure if you can. Become strong if you can. But abandon yourself as you are today. /// Copyright

So far, my favorite characters in The Rings of Power series are... Arondir, a Silvan elf Elanor Kellamark Brandyfoot ("Nori"), a Harfoot hobbit  More information: https://www.amazon.com/gp/video/detail/B09QH98YG1/ref=atv_dp_share_cu_r

  He was the last. He was last of the queen's special group of healers, the gaggle of five misfits she had collected in her first year. He stood on the scoured mountain top while the ceaseless wind whipped his Mabon fire. Sandar had died of old age years ago. Then Kal and Venin died in the war in the same year, one in winter and one in summer. The last was just this year. Galean the Fair, they had called her. She was the best of them all, now she was gone. Now, the apprentices called him Walda the Wise. As if being the last somehow meant he was wiser than the others. Ridiculous notion. Walda watched the fire crackle and found little in this year's equinox to give him balance. It should have been a time of harmony and setting new intentions. He should be thankful for the harvest and the new peace after so much war. He was the last. It kept weighing on his thoughts. Walda could still see them all around the first Mabon fire. Young (except Sandar) and full of vigor, a li

  The giant was not stupid. The man was not weak. Each was convinced they knew one important thing about the other. But "knowing" is tricky. They met in the forest on the first day of winter as agreed by their royalty. The giant's king wrote a royal edict saying "Go forth and smite the enemy's champion or come not back to these lands." The man's queen said, "Go forth with our blessing for your courage and success." The giant was not stupid. An unarmed man facing him calmly was not a powerless man. May it be that he was a sorcerer. The man was not weak. He had faced challenges more daunting than a large man with a shiny sword. He knew how this would go. The small would overcome the large, and the bards would wrap it in a lesson for children. The giant charged. The man called out "Stop!" using the Power in his voice. The giant was not knocked down.  He was not stopped. He took a mighty swing at the wizard.  The wizard scampered

  Watching Girl was born with a twisted leg. She could not do some of the things that other children could do; it bothered her parents, but it didn't bother her. She seemed to get around the tiny village and surrounding woods well enough with her walking stick. Watching Girl's mind was keen, and she could sense things that others missed. It might be the flick of a squirrel’s tail or a distant ripple of a pond turtle's snout, but she was the first to notice it. She could see the frog struggling to emerge from a piece of wood, needing only a little sculpting with her carving knife to free it. As she grew older, she came to see other invisible things. She could see the sadness in the grandmother who stared into the fire at night. She could see the brooding anger in the skinny boy who always lost the wrestling matches. On the same night that her long-anticipated womanly flow arrived for the first time, there was a bright star that flashed across the sky, heading north, in

  "A wizard's power of Changing and Summoning can shake the balance of the world. It is dangerous, that power...It must follow knowledge, and serve need." ― Ursula K. Le Guin, " A Wizard of Earthsea " Artwork (c)2022 Mickey Kulp

  “You who so plod amid serious things that you feel it shame to give yourself up even for a few short moments to mirth and joyousness in the land of Fancy; you who think that life hath nought to do with innocent laughter that can harm no one; these pages are not for you” ― Howard Pyle, 1883, "The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood" Artwork (c)2022 Mickey Kulp

  The trackers listened carefully to the queen's emissary, Blue Eye. The rapid cadence and accent of her Bird Speech were hard to follow, and the news was too important to get wrong. "The insurrection leaders are in the forest about a crow-hop away," she chirped. "What is a crow-hop?" Mishka asked as the bird paced along his finger. "Is it longer than the queen's castle wall?" "Yes, maybe two walls long," Blue Eye said. Mishka looked at his cousin. Vinka's striped hood was pulled up, and he swore it helped trap sounds coming from ahead. He was kneeling and looking at the clearing they would need to cross. Vinka cast off his hood and shook his head. "We cannot cross without being seen. You should claim your favor." "Favor?" Blue Eye asked as she looked from one face to the other. Mishka seemed to think it over, and he signed heavily. "It is a shame to waste it." Vinka shrugged. "I can't th

  Ulrich sat in the Seeing Lady's wagon as she lit an oil lamp. The wagon was more like a small house, in truth. It was just big enough for two curtained rooms. The main room was her public space, it seemed, with silken hangings, a folding table, lamps, and too many pillows. When he glimpsed through a gap in the linen curtain, he could see her sleeping cot and two fluffy cats: one asleep and one staring at him without blinking. "Please to be comfortable," the Seeing Lady said, pointing to a three-legged stool topped by a white pillow with a swan embroidered in red. It was also covered in cat hair. The Seeing Lady wore an elaborate, silk and linen dress and head scarf favored by ladies in eastern Salvania. Her fingernails were painted bright red to match her lips. Her eyelids were painted green. She fell into that indeterminate age somewhere between too young and too old. It seemed like eastern ladies went to a lot of trouble painting themselves each day. They sho

  “Home is behind, the world ahead, and there are many paths to tread through shadows to the edge of night, until the stars are all alight.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings Art (c)2022 by Mickey Kulp

  The old man lit his pipe and blew an elaborate smoke ring. "So, you say you've seen a tree man." "Indeed, I have, sir," the small Yunni said. Even seated on a fallen log, the man was taller than the Yunni. "I have seen them too. Not near these parts, though." The man blew another ring and said, "I even spoke to one." "They speak?" "They do, but they prefer not to," the old man said. Then he smiled. "Old people are much the same, sometimes." The Yunni waited for him to go on, but the man seemed content to poke around his small campfire. They were in a forest clearing outside the man's cottage. His name was not a sure thing among the Yunni, so they called him the Hermit. He seemed to have lived in the same manner for decades, puttering around his cottage and tending a small garden. Finally, the Yunni said, "This tree man was walking and tapping on trees, almost like he was...well, it's silly.

  "Some of my kin look just like trees now and need something great to rouse them; and they speak only in whispers. But some of my trees are limb-lithe, and many can talk to me." - JRR Tolkien, 'The Two Towers'. Artwork (c)2022, Mickey Kulp

  I was traveling through an unfamiliar part of Salvania, north and east of the White River Castle, seeking new herbs for my apothecary. Storm clouds were gathering, and distant thunder echoed over the swaying wheat stalks. I stabled my horse at a tavern and settled in for a night with the regulars. I sipped a leather jack of frothy ale, and listened to the chatter nearby. A group of obvious adventurers was drinking heavily near the fireplace. "I tell ya, I seen it myself," a scarred Dwarven man-at-arms said as he ran his dagger over a whetstone, his voice raised as if launching into a well-worn debate. "I was part of the Duke's timber crew before I got started in this line of...business." "Yes, yes. And the trees attacked the timber crew," a woman in a blue robe with matching eye coloring said with acid sarcasm, her many bracelets jingling as she waved away the idea. A small Yunni laughed as he continued to stitch a leather patch over a gash in

  Fairy-tale Logic BY A.E. STALLINGS Fairy tales are full of impossible tasks: Gather the chin hairs of a man-eating goat, Or cross a sulphuric lake in a leaky boat, Select the prince from a row of identical masks, Tiptoe up to a dragon where it basks And snatch its bone; count dust specks, mote by mote, Or learn the phone directory by rote. Always it’s impossible what someone asks— You have to fight magic with magic. You have to believe That you have something impossible up your sleeve, The language of snakes, perhaps, an invisible cloak, An army of ants at your beck, or a lethal joke, The will to do whatever must be done: Marry a monster. Hand over your firstborn son. Art by Mickey Kulp, August 2022

  Of fairy sisters, I know three: Solarn, Treelass, and Lauralee. They were born like you and me, But grew up wild and running free. Each had a house in forest green With rivers running cold and clean. Like weeds they grew, tall and lean, And ripe wild fruit was their cuisine. At night they danced around the fire; With laughing spells, they sent it higher. The flames curled round like twisted briar. Sizzle and snap: their forest choir. The midnight mist came rolling in To calm their mood and quiet the din. Drinking deep from one wine skin They laughed as dreams began to spin. They stumbled off to home and bed With wobbly feet and drowsy head To dream all night without a dread Of forest green and berries red. More fabulous fey poetry in my latest book ‘ Wishes Cost Too Much ’ from Rochak Publishing.  /// Copyright Some art elements based on results from Wombo AI.

  Kyllen, baker's apprentice turned soldier , would forever by mystified when recounting how he came to lead the last squad fleeing the Duke's burning town. Kyllen was just a conscript, pulled into the Duke's service for a month. That was almost a year past. Things had not gone well. Gargs were everywhere, burning and looting, their animal cries mocking the Duke's folly. Their cries filled his fitful dreams. In Kyllen's dreams, the terrified faces always turned to him, the "owner" of the glowing Elvenari blades, expecting him to lead them out of the mayhem. In his dreams, we smelled the stench of Garg and burning bodies and blood. Always blood. Everywhere. He still didn't know how he had done it. There were strange half-memories of the retreat. He had fought without tiring, without fear. Some inner coil had released. Or snapped. He didn't know. Maybe the softly glowing blades had taken over when his mind could stand no more. He took o

  Here is a video montage of some new plus already published art.   Try it on full screen mode for the best experience. Thanks for visiting. 

  Kyllen was a baker's apprentice. The only blades he had ever handled with any skill were found in the kitchen. Even then, he managed to cut himself - somehow - at least once a month. Yet, here he was, walking the sunset ramparts with other untrained men and women called to service by the Duke's latest dustup with a cave full of pissed-off Gargs. The letter bellowed out by the town crier and nailed to the castle gate had said... By the DUKE A Proclamation For Protecting Our Beloved Subjects And Ancestral Properties Whereas our Sovereign Lands have been defiled by bloodthirsty Gargs having no respect for our Laws and our Ways and, Whereas by their many Disturbances and Slaughters of our subjects, our livestock, and properties have shown to be our Enemies and, Whereas enmity has forever been their lot against our peaceful people and, Whereas our recent enforcement Action against them has depleted our Soldiers We therefore declare that all Men of ages 18 unto 50 and all Women of

  Farsinger hopped off his shoulder and walked among the forest floor's shadows. "The trees are whispering," she growled in Ravenspeech. The bard gripped his little wood chopper as if it could offer any protection from the horrors known so well by the village grannies. He had grown up with their stories of pixies that stole your memories and fairies that enticed and enchanted the unwary. "They say the forest has grown darker," Farsinger said. "They don't like it." "My Nan said to sit quietly at sunset of the full moon to see the fairy people. If you were worthy, they might grant a wish." Farsinger croaked in laughter. "The Folk are already watching you. The trees have already announced our visit." The bard sat still anyway, still gripping his hatchet. Maybe the fairies would visit him. "Your Nan was not wrong," Farsinger said. "But the Folk will not give you a boon without something in return." "L

  "All about them as they lay hung the darkness, hollow and immense, and they were oppressed by the loneliness and vastness of the dolven halls and endlessly branching stairs and passages. The wildest imaginings that dark rumour had ever suggested to the hobbits fell short of the actual dread and wonder of Moria." Text from the Lord of the Rings saga by JRR Tolkien. Art (c)Mickey Kulp, August 2022

It had taken some serious wheedling, but Handol finally agreed to hand over one of the red jewels he had "acquired" from a troll statue . Bradyn opened his spellbook, the writhing letters slowly drifting into place, forming words he could read for just a moment before scattering. "Gem of blood," he said aloud as Handol watched. "Wall of stone. Open now and take us home. Powers high and powers low, heed my words and make it so!" The stones seemed to melt and run like ink, forming a low doorway filled with light and colors. It remined Bradyn of lamp oil spilled onto a pool of water. He closed the stained leather tome and tossed the gem back to his friend. "Let's see what happened," the wizard said as he stepped into the shimmering light. As he looked into the next room, he was astounded at the vivid colors. It was as if he had stepped into a painting. Or perhaps he had found a different reality. /// Copyright

  I soar upon the darkling sky and seek out far below A thing within my beating heart that only I can know. It calls to me up in the sky, it speaks my own true name. Sometimes far, and sometimes near in voices wild and tame. So on I seek up in the sky that thing down in the soil. And although I am tired and old I cannot cease this toil. Art and words (c)Mickey Kulp, August 2022

  I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen, of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been; Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were, with morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair. I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be when winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see. For still there are so many things that I have never seen: in every wood in every spring there is a different green. I sit beside the fire and think of people long ago, and people who will see a world that I shall never know. But all the while I sit and think of times there were before, I listen for returning feet and voices at the door. ~ J.R.R. Tolkien

  The portal shimmered behind them, churning with disturbed light. Handol, the aging thief from the southlands pulled out his "pig skinner" and stared into the misty castle courtyard that had appeared before them. "Steady, my love," Bradyn cooed, stroking the hawk that rode on his shoulder. "All done. See, it wasn't that bad." "Speak for yourself," Handol said. "I thought I was gonna puke." His eyes never stopped moving, scanning the misty courtyard bathed in flickering red and yellow light. Although they were surrounded by swirling fog, it was daytime here on the other side of the magick. "The architecture looks correct," Bradyn said. He blew out the candle in his lamp. "And there it is." He pointed toward a fountain set into the stone wall. Handol followed as Bradyn walked slowly forward. The water from the fountain seemed to pour slowly, almost like syrup, into a stone basin. The basin drained into

  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