Land of Salvania

  The druid Mecmac donned his best green cloak. Usually, he wore a white cloak for ceremonies, but this night was different. Taking his ornate horn off a peg above the hearth, Mecmac slipped out of his small cottage and walked easily down the familiar path leading to the Dragon Stones. The moon was full, and the night was full of promise. He was the curator, of sorts, for The Stones. A few times a year, some visitor would stop to ask about the long-lost builders and the magic they must have used to handle such huge stones. Mecmac knew some of the story from the lore of his Order. He knew some from reading old scrolls that hinted at other scrolls he had never seen. That was how he had restarted a new/old ceremony: he had read from a crumbling scroll that the Order of Green, possibly an ancient mystic order like his, once held ceremonies at The Stones during the change of each season. Don thou the green of thy station And seek the standing stones. Do this under the Worm Moon in Marc

  Mouser drew two long daggers as the black figure emerged from the midnight shadows. Somewhere behind the terrifying shape, Mouser heard a horse snort and stamp. Old Barley was right about "black riders" after all, Mouser thought as the black-robed shape stood before him, swaying a little like a silent, ebony tree. Barley was still shakey after his inn, The Prancing Pony, had been ransacked two nights earlier, "By men all in black, or more like...like shadows that has taken the form of a man." It had taken more cajoling, but the last thing he would say is, "They was after my guests, four nice Hobbits from the Shire. Then these Hobbits ran off with another ranger, meaning no disrespect to you yourself, you see." Mouser, a ranger of the North, had been looking for Strider, his captain. Many roads and rumors had finally led him to Bree, where, it seemed he had barely missed the 90-day wonder of intrigue and mayhem. Even the old men of the town constable

  Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Ritter stepped outside wearing a fresh tabard, and most of the grime from his days of confinement was scraped off his face and hands. His kidnapper walked beside him. Both were smiling. Wellorg, the massive dragon queen sniffed the air and stiffened. The bandits' twenty dragons surrounded her, bowing and cooing their greetings to the green and black queen. A few of the larger blue dragons were starting to posture and nip each other to showoff their worth as possible mates. If she stayed around any longer, they would start fighting in earnest. "Like I said, she is huge, powerful, and more dangerous than you'll ever know," Ritter said, still smiling. "She will happily slaughter everyone - man and dragon - you see here if this goes sideways." "You're just trying to save your own skin," Morgan, his captor-turned-reluctant-ally, said. "You bet I am," Ritter said. "Just do what I said,

  Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Ritter almost jumped out of his skin as the long dagger clattered to the floor. "We're here," Farsinger croaked, landing on Ritter's chest and gripping his nose with her beak to rouse him. "I brought help, too." Ritter, heart pounding, sat up from the tower's cold stone floor. His muscles ached, and his head was fuzzy from days of fitful sleep and gnawing uncertainty. He blinked crusty eyes; a recessed window sent a single shaft of vivid light across the empty room. His raven friend hopped to his shoulder then his hand, nipping at his dirty clothes, her excitement palpable. "His name is Pavia." She nodded toward the large vulture standing nervously in the shadows. "He was strong enough to lift the dagger all by himself." Ritter smiled at the vulture. "Impressive, Pavia. Thank you." Pavia nodded and said nothing. Ritter heard the echo of boots on the spiral stairs leading up to his

  Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Wellorg felt Droth's spirit before she ever smelled him. He felt like a lonely wolf call in the night, full of sadness and purpose. He felt like the consort she never had, so unlike the dozens of other man-kin she had been knighted to over the swirl of centuries. She stirred in her rocky nest, opening one red eye to watch the steep pathway up her mountain. Maybe she would fly down to meet him, snatch him up in gentle talons and feel his tiny spirit flame up with bright fear and excitement. No, that would not do. She would not come running to him after this long apart. Still, her black heart beat just a little faster when she saw Droth walking up the path. He waved and she snorted, sending a fine mist of acid to sizzle the nearby moss. "My lady," Droth said with a short bow. "You are lovely, as usual." "I greet you, Sir Droth." There. That would set the tone. Cold and distant until he had groveled sufficiently. He

  Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 The Jirrah named Ritter was a tough one to read. He seemed to be both truthful and deceptive at the same time. "I tell you," Morgan said. "I'm sure he is lying about this." He held out the golden dragon scale. The flickering lamp on his table reflected in a dozen directions off the angles and facets. "Looks real to me," Evie purred as she regarded him with the utter disdain mastered by all cats. She was resting on a pile of wrinkled vellum covered in some kind of meaningless scribble. "Only one way to know for sure." She was right. When it came to the unusual or arcane, she was always right. "I hate to ruin it." "Then don't. I don't care." Morgan went over it again. They had come back to the dragon keep after a botched raid, and here was this Ritter character standing in the middle of their courtyard like he owned the place. He had seemed friendly enough, asking for help from Morgan

  Part 1 Part 2 The company of twenty Jirrah warriors moved through the night-clad forest, their way lit by blazing stars and a few dim lamps scattered along the line of march. For being so heavily armed and armored, they moved with minimal noise across the dewy land, a mark of their expertise that never failed to impress Droth. They made a hasty camp with bedrolls, woolen cloaks, and sleeping furs. Talk was hushed and professional. Ritter, one of their own, was in trouble, and the mood was somber. Droth simply sat with his back against a tree and, wrapped in his cloak and hood against the early Spring chill, nibbled jerky and sipped water. The digestion would keep him warmer; it was an old woodsman trick. Well before sunrise, Droth tapped Briar, the company commander for this adventure. "I'm heading out earlier than we discussed. The more I think about it, the more I think I'll need extra time to convince her to help us." "Good luck. I'll see you ther

  Part 1 Farsinger was exhausted from flying all night, and the heavy fog near the outpost only added to her confusion and anxiety. When she finally found her landmarks in the mist, she winged through the village to Flint's cottage. He was the only one who knew Ravenspeech, and he could carry her urgent message to his flock. He wasn't there. "Fek, fek, fek," she burst out in dismay, using her mispronunciation of Ritter's favorite swearing word. "What shall I do?" "What ails you, sister blackbird?" The voice came from a nearby branch. It was Suncatcher! "Ah, sister bluebird, I must find your Flint. My errand is urgent. My Ritter is in trouble!" "Follow me." Suncatcher sped through the narrow lanes between cottages with Farsinger close behind. Soon, they emerged over farmland showing early spring growth. But Suncatcher kept going back into the misty forest. She landed near a fox. "Hello brother fox," Suncatch

  "I told you the map was worth it," Farsinger had declared as the hilltop castle had come into view. "It will only be worth it if we find the chest." Ritter and Farsinger explored outside the ruins for most of two days. Strangely, there was no village or ruins of a village in the area. Most castles had a town nearby for farmers and craftsmen to raise a family. Most disturbing of all, there seemed to be no way into the fortress. Farsinger had flown all around and through the ancient castle. "There are no gates for those on two legs or four. But I think you can work your way up an old stairway on the other side." "How did they resupply the fortress without gates for the wagons?" he wondered out loud. Ritter had spent most of another day huddled in a partly-roofed guard shack as cold spring rain lashed the hilltop, sending rivulets down from a hundred drainages. He ate pemmican and drank captured rainwater. He mended his armor and took a nap.

  Being dead was strange this time, Droth mused as he walked through the "wild land." He was in a forest where the colors were vivid but the edges were indistinct. It was like someone had draped colored fabric haphazardly on all the trees. The sky was brighter here. Sounds were muted. He stopped walking and let the moment stretch out. He laughed when he couldn't feel his heart beating. He recalled he had laughed last time too. It was good to be back. He started walking again, but he had no destination. Just me and my sleeping heart taking a stroll in the sunshine, he thought. Last time he had died, he remembered feeling more disconnected from the wild land. Last time, he felt like he needed to move along to his unknown destination. Not this time. He was in no hurry. No agenda, no stress. Stay. Go. It didn't really matter. Not this time. He had finished his task and was...what? What was this strange feeling? Several words came to mind, but he settled on

  "My nose itches," Ritter said. "Be still," the artist said, her charcoal-stained hand flying over the canvas. "Just a few more minutes." Ace stood beside Ritter and used his Elvenari discipline to remain as still as a statue. It made Ritter's nose itch more. "I'm thirsty," Ritter complained. "Hold on," the artist said without looking up. "You remind me of a sausage," Ace said, barely moving his lips. His sword was heroically crossed over Ritter's. The portrait was going to be amazing. "Why?" "Because you're a brat," Ace quipped. "Yeah? Most people don't know how I struggled with a serious drinking problem."  Ritter's tone was suddenly serious. "Oh, I'm sorry," Ace said, immediately contrite. He even moved his head to look at Ritter, eliciting a loud sigh from the artist. "It's better now. I brew my own so I have a reliable supply!" /// Co

  Crow dreamed he was looking in a mirror. An old man looked back. His face was similar to Crow's, but he looked ancient and tired. The old man spoke a strange foreign language, but Crow could still understand scattered bits of it. "...and when the <foreign word> is open upon the midnight, beware the <foreign word> that will spring forth to rend." "I don't understand your words, uncle," Crow said, adding the honorific "uncle" as a courtesy. "Heed me, boy," the old face said. "You will be asked to <foreign word> upon the midnight when the <foreign word> opens. You must act with great courage and remember to <string of foreign words> lest you die without awakening." Crow shook his head, knowing this was crucial information. "I cannot heed you, uncle. I do not understand." The old man looked annoyed. "Ask Ritter. He may know." Then the dream was over. Crow crawled out of hi

  In a cabin by the brook I saw a glowing magic book. Protected by a circle green That glowed with magic yet unseen. The book did shimmer like a fish, And bade me come to make a wish. If my heart be not askew, Could my wish at last come true? I fought back the fear and doubt. Without remorse it bubbled out. And you may think it awful funny, I asked, just once, to slay a bunny. [Some may be curious about all this talk of slaying bunnies. First off, I am not anti-bunny. I think they are cute and cuddly. But, during a recent LARP event with Alliance Atlanta , we were set upon by vicious NPC (non-player character) bunnies that mauled us. And later, a smaller group of us (the badass Order of Jirrah) were taught a valuable lesson about pride and when to ask for help. Again, it was bunnies. Ferocious jackalopes, to be exact. So, now you know. Fear the bunnies.] /// Copyright

  Idium was not a wizard. He had found a wizard's staff in the Dreamwood a year earlier, and it did all the work. It called itself "Branch." Most recently Branch seemed to get more bossy than usual. Just this morning, it had said, "We need to be at the White River Castle before the full moon." "Why? I'd like to find a nice tavern and make some coin." "I don't need coins," Branch said. "Abusing our relationship for parlor tricks to amaze a few backward villagers is a waste of my devastating talents." "A guy's gotta eat." The thought made his empty stomach rumble. "I see free food all around. There, eat that mushroom," Branch said. A purple light glowed from the crystal at the staff's tip and reached out to caress a small white mushroom growing at the foot of a rotten stump. "Is it poisonous?" "After all we've been through, you don't trust me?" Branch seemed hurt

  Tengweerfanda drifted on silent wings as the battle raged below. She kept a sharp eye on Ritter, one of the few warriors who had joined this ridiculous errand. "We must do this, Teng," Ritter had said as she perched on his shoulder on the march out to meet the foe. "Even if we lose, we will not let the outpost be overrun without a fight. The townspeople may join us yet." "Men are fools," she had replied. Her opinion was not improving as she watched the heavy troops of Jirrah lose ground a little at a time. Even though they inflicted frightful damage on the enemy, nothing seemed to stem the tide of beasts emerging in seemingly endless waves from the Dreamwood. Teng saw a shape - it was Ritter! - stumble back from the ragged lines of his comrades. He gulped some water from his leather wineskin and tightened a strap on his bracer. Wiping his brow, he charged back in. For a moment, she lost him among the claws and fur of the enemy. Then she spotted hi

  A calm part of Ritter's mind noted that he was in deep trouble. It also noted that it was raining, and this could be to his favor. "Remember, a lone fighter has the advantage over multiple fighters," his old sword teacher once said. His teacher was named "Lefty" since he had lost an arm (perversely, the left one) in a battle. "They cannot read each other's minds, so you can shift and feint so that your opponents collide or separate." The first bandit lunged at Ritter. The calm part of his mind took on old Lefty's voice. "That was clumsy. You should step right and bash him on the head with that big ass shield as he goes by. If bandit two delays his attack for half a second, you could also skewer bandit one on the ground." Ritter went through these exact motions: shifting, bashing, and skewering as Lefty's voice suggested. Except he slipped on the rain-soaked leaves as he was in mid-skewer. Well, two out of three... Bandit t

  Another arrow thudded into Ritter's shield. "That one close," Orok called from the thick tree cover. He knew too well that his orcish mass was an easy target for Yunni archers. "This is all your fault," Ritter growled back. "You like orcs. I like orcs. Why little Yunni hate orcs?" An arrow whistled over Ritter's head and splintered on a pine tree. "Don't worry, Orok is safe." "They are not shooting at you," Ritter said, trying to hide his tender flesh behind his shield. "Hey, little Yunni," Orok called. "You go home and we go home too." "You know we're about to get surrounded," Ritter said. "You need to give it back." "But Orok like it." He patted the small clay figure he found on a stump by the river. It was painted blue. "Looks like mommy." "It's part of their shrine protecting the river," Ritter said. Another arrow landed in front of

  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 one si

  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-