Land of Salvania

  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, except upo

  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, and the arrows stoppe

  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