I’ve recently felt an aversion to social media, even to writing this blog which has been a welcome diversion for about over a year now. I think I can attribute this reluctance to the recent submission of my book, The Many Antlered Crown, to my publishers. Sending away a book feels something like how I imagine it must feel to send a child off to college. I have spent my time tending this book with all the love, frustration, and elation of a parent, and now that I’ve sent it away, I feel a little unmoored. It has taken some time to readjust to life away from my creation and perhaps some time to mourn that it has officially left the nest. During that time, I had little appetite for social media or desire to write blogposts. Now I’m ready to brave the apocalyptic wastes of social media and again feel the pull of The Great Blank Page.
I have a great love for myths and legends, and have endeavored to create some of my own for my fantasy worlds. Below is an excerpt from an epic poem I began a few months ago and abandoned. I hope to get back to it someday, but have recently been busy with other projects (like actually writing my books). Hopefully I’ll get back to it soon. So far the poem is over a thousand words long, and I plan to make it substantially longer. This poem is entitled, “The Coming of Rænor”, an epic telling of humanities greatest and oldest hero.
Listen now to legend’s birth
in grinding ice and hunger’s dearth.
His people fled from dreadful East
where dark things do on corpses feast.
A great Kingdom forever lowed.
Of blood, they say, a river flowed,
from battles won and lost more oft
‘till land did reek of death’s foul waft.
From home long engulfed in nightmare
a remnant ran, without thought where
their weary legs may at last lie
and if they laid them down to die
at least it were a place apart
from misery and breaking heart.
Into that remnant he was born,
golden-haired, as if made to scorn
the dark that could not quench the light
though it may seem to pass from sight.
Through the mountains they struggling came
then over frozen seas untamed
that groaned a haunting song of cold
that called to sleep and froze the bold.
On they pressed through untold perils
into Rabdranas, land of feral
things that dwell in endless winter.
Raenor had grown from child tender
to a youth hardened, strong, and fell,
who sang and fought and crafted well.
Yet still he was a stripling lad,
no feats of arms or deeds he had.
Then in a raid both hard and fast,
giants stole the light and then were past
the reach of those who would return
the lost treasure for which they yearned.
None of Drothin’s men would dare climb
where ravens fly in endless line.
Then from despondent host arose
Raenor, swearing to end all foes
who would dare to steal from his King.
Then did Drothin begin to sing
a song of doom and hope entwined
and bid Raenor the last light find.
He began his tread ascending
up the pinnacles unending,
winding up to snowy mountain peaks
to slay the foes, to treasure seek.