A Tour through the Empire: Ephyria

Continuing on our tour of the Halystrian Empire, this week we’ll enter Ephyria. This powerful province is situated between the banks of the Illydia and the Gray Mountains. It is bordered to the northwest by Tythia and to the south by Halystria. The dwarf kingdoms lie not far to the east of Ephyria, among the peaks of the mountains. Ephyria is bounded to the north by the Derenor River and the bogland known as Haldin’s Slog.

Ephyria is one of the Empire’s most powerful provinces both in military might and economic strength. It’s long border along the Illydia supplies the region’s farms with alluvial soil, while the mountains provide a rich source of ore. Trade has long been a great source of wealth for Ephyria, and its caravans regularly travel as far afield as the Frostlands and the Yrfed Kingdoms. Chief of Ephyria’s trading partners are the dwarfs of the Gray Mountains, who have long supplied the province with gems and finely wrought steel. Ephyria’s capital, Illyricum, lies near the confluence of the Illydia and Evidon rivers, making the area one of the most fertile in the Empire and a natural convergence of trade routes. The Evidon allows Illyricum to profit from trade with such far provinces as Bythnia and Rhegia, markets whose distance would otherwise render them nigh inaccessible.

Illyricum itself is a city that rivals the capital in opulence if not in grandeur. The city’s great buildings are constructed of myriad colors of marble which were quarried from the mountains, though white and green are its primary constituents. As in Parthicum, the city rises towards the east, which is where the majority of its great houses may be found. The wealth which Ephyria has brought her nobility ensures that they hold some of the Empire’s highest political powers, and Illyricum’s east side is continually changing as the noble houses seek to outdo one another. 

Ephyria’s military prowess goes back to the days when Illyricum was only a city-state. At it’s height, Illyricum’s domains extended throughout all of Ephyria, into much of Tythia, and threatened the very gates of Parthicum. It was Aurelanus Denarius’s conquests of other regions that gave him sufficient strength to finally subdue the Ephyrian kingdom. Ephyria responded to the defeat by wholeheartedly engaging in the politics of the new Empire, so that the endless power struggle between Ephyria and Halystria continues in the Senate chamber. 

During the recent Halystrian Expansion Wars, Ephyria was placed on the front lines against the dwarfs of the Gray Mountains. Though the campaigns were initially successful, they ground to halt during the interminable sieges of the great dwarf strongholds. The ensuing economic burden, combined with loss of life, was a blow to Ephyria from which she is still recovering. The reopening of trade with the dwarves has been integral in restoring Ephyria to her former prosperity, a decision that has made Ephyria staunch supporters of the Emperor Tiberius. Ephyria’s amiable history with the dwarves has made the province the nucleus for reestablishing a friendship between the two nations. The nobles in Illyricum have been winning the goodwill of the dwarves the only way they know how: with opulent parties and generous displays of wealth.

In The Wind from Faerie, Kellan meets Varrus Calavius, who is a native of Ephyria. The Calavius family is a powerful noble house that maintains a large residence in Illyricum’s east side. The Calavius’s have a distinguished ancestry going back to the days of Ephyria’s independence and are a formidable force in imperial politics today.

The Sensiahd word of the day is “arganth“ meaning “silver” or “money”. Example sentence: Es ean dhun arganth. I’ll give you silver.

A Tour through the Empire: Tythia

In anticipation of the imminent release of The Wind from Faerie, I’d like to begin a multi-part series giving my readers a tour around the Halystrian Empire. In my book, Kellan travels through several of the provinces of the Empire and meets representatives from many of them. In this series, I’ll be revealing some information that isn’t in the books, so you won’t want to miss these posts.

We’ll begin our tour of the Empire in Tythia, where Kellan’s own journey begins. Tythia lies on the northern edge of the Empire, bordered by the depths of the Faywood and the Grass Sea. To the east, Tythia is met by Ephyria, and to the south by the province of Halystria. Though Tythia is only at the margin of the massive Faywood, the forest dominates much of its landscape. Tythia also bears the dubious honor of being the only province not contained within the River’s Cradle, a fertile zone existing between the Evidon and Illydia Rivers. Tythia lies on the “far bank” of the Evidon and the Illydia, rendering it outside of what was once considered the sole home of civilization. Despite this exclusion, Tythia has a bustling agrarian community that thrives on the banks of the Evidon which forms the province’s southern border. The Illydia River to the east hosts some farming, though its marshy confluence with the Tandurin (appropriately called Haldin’s Slog) makes the land less desirable than the banks of the Evidon.

Dalium serves as Tythia’s capital, and is where the governor and provincial magistrate keep residence. The provincial capital is a frequent stop for traders moving beyond the edge of the Empire and sees its fair share of foreign imports. The fortress of Arbantian in Tythia’s wild northwest corner is the most northerly outpost of the Halystrian Empire and its principal defense from Syrvatian raiders. Arbantian hosts the Ninth Telon and is the largest concentration of troops in Tythia outside of the garrison in Dalium. The Tythian governor is nominally in charge of both armies though Arbantain has long been relegated to a general. 

The Faywood is the largest contiguous forest in Purovus. It begins in Tythia then stretches west to the Eyrie Mountains and north to the coast of the Crithed Sea. Some say that the Faywood was once a part of Costyriendar, before the Eyrie Mountains rose to part the forests. The Faywood is named thus by the Tythians because of its storied association with magical beings. Elves have been resident in the Faywood longer than humanity has been in the River’s Cradle, and their chance encounters with the mortals have always left an impression. Though the Halystrian Empire has been heavily inspired by the teachings of the Tegalocaen elves from beyond the Eyrie Mountains, the Cosilien elves who dwell within the shadowed forest have always been a mystery and sometimes an enemy. The most impactful and recent interaction between the Halystrian Empire and the elves was during the bloody end of the Expansion Wars, in which the Cosilien unexpectedly invaded from the Faywood. The entrance of the elves into the war brought about its swift end, and was nowhere as psychologically impactful as in Tythia. 

The elves have long held a place in Tythian folklore, but their role in the Expansion Wars has seen them become dominant in the Tythian consciousness. The fay themselves are creatures which have been swept up in the elf mania. Originally conceived as forest spirits, the fay are now regarded as the spirits of departed elves. In the Tythian mind, the Faywood has always been a source of mystery and magic, but has also been at the heart of Tythian culture.

The favorite instrument of Tythia is the harp, which is both a reflection of the province’s ancient roots and the degree to which it has adopted the tendencies of the Cosilien. Though the forest prevents Tythia from becoming a major agricultural power, it is also a source of prosperity. Hunting is the favorite pastime of Tythian nobles and they fortunately possess the greatest hunting grounds in the Empire to sate their appetite. The high-born from other provinces flock to join their Tythian counterparts during the various hunting seasons, which grants the backward Tythian nobles power and prestige. Since hunting is such a cherished tradition and a source of political clout, hunting is closely regulated by the nobility. Despite the nobility’s hunting regulations on their own lands there are a large number of freemen in Tythia who are free to hunt in the wild lands of the northwest. 

Tythia holds the honor of being one of the first provinces of the Empire settled by humans. Humanity originally migrated from Fyrvar in the distant northeast of Purovus, an area called the Frostlands by the Halystrians due to the harshness of its winters. Tythia was occupied by humans hundreds of years before Halystria extended its dominion over the other states of the River’s Cradle, and was first settled nearly a thousand years before the events of The Wind from Faerie.

Tythia trades in quality timber and a few goods imported from beyond the Empire, but is hardly more than self-sufficient. The province has a meager population dominated by the lower classes who require little of the fine goods produced in the wealthier provinces. Tythia is almost entirely self-sufficient, occupying an economic position that reflects its marginal position in the Empire. Though small and seemingly inconsequential, Tythia has played a large part in Imperial politics through the centuries due to its large garrison and capable people. The Tythians have long guarded the richer provinces from the barbaric men in the north and their service is never more appreciated than in times of crisis. Perhaps the greatest service that Tythia will serve is to serve as the birthplace of Kellan the Fey, who shake the foundations of the world.

The Sensiahd word of the week is “cos”, meaning “forest”. Example sentence: Nes swep tae eth cos. We sleep in the forest. 

Taboo: Geas and Kenning

Most fantasy writers place their world within a pseudo-medieval time period or earlier, and often base their created people groups on historical examples. I certainly am one of those writers, and think that writing from analogy is a very effective method. That being said, trying to mimic the culture of ancient peoples is not as easy as it may seem. Even cultures within our own historical tradition have some traits that seem very foreign to us now. 

Taboos are a cultural feature that generally don’t translate well. There are a few mostly universal “taboos”, which are really the grounds of a shared and inherent morality. Those aren’t what we’re discussing here. What I’d like to look at are two instances of taboos within my own ancestry (an ancestry at least partially shared by most people of European descent). This first instance of taboo is found in Celtic culture, primarily surviving in the Goidelic and Brythonic branches. One who is new to reading the old Irish legends will certainly be struck by an odd and recurrent theme: the geas. Nearly every Irish hero was under some kind of geas, a taboo which lent its bearer strength until it was violated. The geas was similar to the tale of Sampson; his hair was the source of his power until it was cut (a simplification, I know). The violation of a geas usually meant that the death of the hero was imminent, and would see him stripped of his strength in the final moment. The greater the hero, the more numerous his geasa. Geasa were specific to the hero and were most commonly put on a hero by a woman, often some sort of goddess or sorceress. The Irish geas finds its counterpart in the Welsh tynged, which was most used as conditions that must be met for a hero to die rather than being seen as a source of strength in themselves. 

Taboos were also common in ancient Germanic culture, and were so influential that Germanic languages still bear their effects. A mild sort of taboo may be seen in the concept of a “kenning” which was a poetic device used by the skalds of old. When a poet wished to avoid saying a certain word, such as “warrior”, he might instead say a kenning, such as “feeder of ravens”. The kenning uses figurative language to obliquely point to a subject. The most influential taboo among Germanic people was the bear. The bear was so admired and feared by both Germanic and Uralic peoples that they refused to ever speak its name (we think the ancient word is something like “arkto”), and would use kennings to refer to it instead. The taboo was so widespread that our modern English word “bear” is actually a kenning itself. Our word, “bear”, means “brown”, as does “bruin”. The Old English hero, Beowulf, has a name which means “Bee-wolf”, another kenning for bear. The taboo of the bear is most obvious when reading the Kalevala, in which the bear is called by the most creative names (Honey-paw, Brown One, Destroyer, Shaggy Coat, Bachelor of the Woods). 

Taboos played a large role in ancient societies, a role which is often lost in the fantasy genre’s casual restyling of history. We know that people in the past were as smart as we are today, but that does not mean that our cultures are analogous, a point that goes double for fantasy cultures. Diving into a fantasy novel should be like exploring a world that’s been long forgotten, where a modern reader should feel like an alien interloper. As a writer, I recognize that it’s very difficult to construct a culture that thinks differently than my own, but that’s exactly what would give my stories the feel of authenticity. I certainly need to reexamine the role of taboos in my writings, and I hope that my fellow writers will consider it as well. 

The Sensiahd word of the day is “loitos”, meaning “oath”. Example sentence: Ser rho mrathom loitos’ol. He has betrayed his oath.

On Dwarves

Continuing in the general theme of explaining the evolutions of myth, today I’ll be discussing the evolution of the concept of dwarves. Dwarves are a mythological race that were popularized in fantasy literature by J.R.R. Tolkien and which have subsequently become a common feature in all forms of fantasy media. Even Tolkien’s grammatical mistake of “dwarves” rather than “dwarfs” has become so widely followed that it is no longer considered an error. Despite the degree to which the modern dwarf owes its new life to Tolkien, the concept of dwarves is one with a very ancient pedigree.

Dwarves, like the elves, are a mythological race with origins in germanic mythology and folklore. In the opening poem of the Poetic Edda, the Voluspa, we are told of the origin and end of the world. The dwarves were fashioned from the blood of Brimir and bones of Blainn. The name “Brimir” means “bloody moisture” in Old Norse, and though the etymology of Blainn is unknown, it’s reasonable to guess that it means something like “bones”. Scholars generally believe Brimir and Blainn to be alternate names for Ymir, the primordial giant. The Norse gods used various parts of Ymir’s body to create the world in its entirety, making the seas from his blood, the earth from his flesh and the mountains from his bones. Thus it may also be said that the dwarves were made from the mountains and the seas. 

The dwarves were created in “man’s likeness” and emerged “from the world’s rock, earth’s foundation” to walk on the earth. Joining the dwarves on their emergence in the earth are three of the Æsir, the Norse gods, who find Ask and Embla, the first man and woman. Ask and Embla are given spirit, blood, and sense by the gods, thereby making them truly living. Dwarves therefore predate man in the Norse cosmogony. Most scholars believe the Prose Edda identifys the dwarf homeland as Svartalfheim, literally home of the swarthy elves. 

The role of dwarves within the created world is varied, though they are never shown to be friendly creatures. Dwarves seem only to ever cooperate with others to achieve their own ends, oftentimes resorting to deceit to get what they want. Despite their surly and miserly disposition, dwarves seem to hold some important roles. In the Prose Edda, four dwarves representing the cardinal directions hold up the sky. Additionally, several stories mention dwarves as guardians of the doorways in the mountains, which may be the doors to the afterlife. Above all, dwarves are beings associated creating great treasures which they reluctantly share with others. Some of their more famous creations include the mead of poetry and the reforging of Gram, Sigurd’s sword. In the late sagas, dwarves said to have skill in healing as well as smithing.

According to the earliest sources, there is no mention of dwarves being particularly short, though the later sagas call them small and ugly. It’s likely that Christianity led to the diminution of the dwarves, much as it did with other mythological races. As the dwarfs transitioned from early mythology into later folklore, they became identified by their small stature, their long beards, and lust after mortals of the opposite sex. Dwarves were commonly held to have the power to become invisible and had supernatural strength. As with the earlier myths, dwarves were still held to be master craftsmen who hoarded treasure troves of gold and magical items. 

In the modern era, dwarves appeared first in the Brother’s Grimm 19th century tale of Snow White. There they appeared as small, bearded miners. The contemporaries and friends, J.R.R Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, both included dwarves in their most famous stories, The Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia, respectively. Dwarves in the modern era of fantasy media appear generally as they did in the folklore stage of their history: as short and bearded, mountain-dwelling smiths.

King Arthur and the Evolution of Myth

Anyone who spends enough time around me comes to realize that I have a complete obsession with the King Arthur legendarium. There are many reasons I’m drawn to the legends of King Arthur and his knights. I think there certainly something in the story that makes it powerful and active even in our modern era. One of the more academic reasons I find King Arthur fascinating is the long history of the evolution of his story. With Arthur, we get to see the making of a myth as it develops from a rudimentary concept into the massive corpus of literature and media that it has become today.

The origins of the Arthur legends are shrouded in mystery and have been debated by scholars for generations. Suffice it to say that some people believe the figure of Arthur to be grounded in historical fact while others think his story is purely mythological. I fall solidly in the former camp, though even a believer as fervent as myself can’t deny that Arthur’s story has been impacted by mythology. King Arthur would have been a Brythonic warlord living sometime in the 5th century. Britain had been severed from Roman in the early days of the 5th century, and though it saw a return to a more traditionally Celtic mode of life, it was still heavily Romanized. At that time, Britain was plagued with endless waves of invaders, the most troublesome of which were the Saxons. After a series of disasters, many of the Britons fled their homeland and set up a new settlement in Armorica, now called Brittany after their settlement. King Arthur purportedly defeated the Saxons and won peace for the land until the tragedy of Camlann which brought an end to the peace of Arthur. After the loss of the Pendragon, the Britons suffered a centuries long defeat which ended with only their most remote kingdoms surviving the onslaught with their culture in tact. The Saxons became the English while the Old English word “Wælisc”, meaning “foreigner”, became the national name of the Welsh. Understandably, the Britons have held onto the legends of Arthur as memories of the golden years.

There is little early evidence for an Arthur legend because very little information whatsoever made it out of the turbulence of Late Antiquity Britain. The earliest work on the period is a polemic written in the 6th century by a Brythonic monk named Gildas, who gives a scathing analysis of his contemporaries and how they’ve ruined Britain. Gildas mentions the victory at Mount Badon, a feat attributed to Arthur by later authors, but does not mention Arthur. Still, even a generation later, it is evident that the 5th century was regarded as the brief golden age of the Britons. It isn’t until the 9th century at the earliest that Nennius, another monk, writes a history in which he sings the praises of Arthur as a great warrior and commander of battles. Arthur is praised for supernatural feats of strength and skill, but is never called king. 

By the 11th century, Arthur’s story began to take on even more mythological qualities. In the story of Culhwch and Olwen we first see Arthur mentioned as a king accompanied by the retinue of knights with whom we are familiar. Culhwch is Arthur’s cousin and enlists the help of the famous king and his knights in his quest to wed the beautiful Olwen, daughter of the giant Ysbaddaden Pencawr. Their quest takes them on many adventures, including the hunting of the King of Boars, the freeing of a Celtic deity from prison, and a quest for a magical cauldron. The tale of Culhwch and Olwen was clearly not the first story to feature Arthur as king and supernatural hero; undoubtedly there were many stories told of Arthur between the 9th and 11th centuries. Though difficult to date (estimates vary from the 6th century to the 14th), the poem, The Spoils of Annwn, contains what is probably the most impressively mythic achievement in all of Arthuriana: the voyage of Arthur to the underworld. Through this cryptic and beautiful poem by the bard Taliesin, Arthur takes his place alongside Hercules, Orpheus, and Aeneas in the pantheon of our greatest heroes.

Arthur’s name was forever immortalized by the work of Geoffrey of Monmouth, who wrote the pseudo-historical History of the Kings of Britain in 1136 which seized the imagination of Europe. The book was translated into Norman and Middle English, and formed the basis for Arthurian stories told across the continent. Sir Thomas Mallory’s Le Morte d’Arthur, which was published in 1485, became the definitive edition of the story and is still considered a classic today. From Mallory onward, nearly every retelling of Arthur’s story would include Lancelot, the Knights of the Round Table, and the Grail Quest, though they are all later additions. 

The legend of Arthur has had myriad forms as it has grown and changed through the centuries. It has pulled lesser stories into its orbit, drawn inspiration from cultures across Europe, and continues to evolve today. Pieces of Arthur’s legend even spread beyond the bounds of his story and populate innumerable others. One day, I hope to pen my own retelling of the great story of Arthur and I hope that I can do it justice. For those of you who are close readers, I’m sure you will find some Arthurian themes in The Wind from Faerie and its sequels. I simply can’t help it.

The Sensiahd word of the day is “rhis”, meaning “king”. Example sentence: Eth rhis ys boudican. The king is victorious.

On Elves

Ever since the publication of J.R.R. Tolkien’s seminal works, the elf has played a role in the fantasy genre. Despite the degree to which Tolkien popularized its use, the elf was not his invention (unlike the orc). In creating his elves, Tolkien was leaning on a storytelling tradition going back thousands of years. That tradition is what we’ll discuss today, as we examine the development of elves.

The elves are deeply rooted in the western mythos, though many of us may not be aware of their beginnings in the mists of forgotten mythology. The word “elf” is Germanic in origin, hailing from as far back as the Common Germanic language, which was the common ancestor of all Germanic languages, including English. Looking back at the Indo-European root (*albh-) for the word reveals it to be intimately connected with an idea of whiteness. The frequency with which the names of both places and persons reflect the Germanic “elf” is indicative that the idea was an important part of a shared Germanic culture. 

Unfortunately, the sources that mention elves do so sparingly and oftentimes only in vague allusions. Much of what we know comes from the Old Norse Eddas. The Prose Edda mentions black elves, dark elves, and light elves (which no doubt formed the basis for those races in the lore of Dungeons & Dragons), but those terms are now believed to have referred to dwarves, demons, and angels in an interesting example of the “paganisation” of Christian beliefs. The best references to elves are focused in the Poetic Edda, called the Elder since it predates its prose counterpart. Even then, the only character who is identified as an elf is Volund, called Weyland the Smith in Old English. Volund is called the “elf king” and “wise elf”, but there is nothing more in the poem that reveals what is meant by the titles. 

Despite the paucity of sources on elven characters, there are more references to elves in a general sense. Often the elves are mentioned in the same breath as the Norse Gods, the Æsir, reflecting the importance of the elves within the Norse cosmogony. Some scholars believe that the Vanir, a family of gods subjugated by the ruling Æsir, are in fact elves. That Freya, a Vanir, was given Elf-land as a present is used in support of this theory, as is the infrequency with which the term “Vanir” was used. Regardless of whether we can justly associate the Vanir with the elves, it’s clear that the elves were considered an important and powerful part of the Germanic world. 

From the earliest days, elves have been recognized as magical beings. The Norse attributed elves with seidr, a form of magic that includes divination and enchantment. They were also held responsible for causing illness in those who crossed them, using their “elf-shot” to inflict their victims with aches and pains. Elf-shot was often conflated with neolithic arrowheads, which were supposed to be the means by which the elves afflicted their victims. Though elves were associated with the gods and were wielders of great magic (Volund alone is responsible for creating many legendary items), they were nevertheless held to be a people rather than a pantheon. In the Germanic mind, elves were beautiful and powerful neighbors that was best avoided or appeased. 

The Anglo-Saxon invasion of the Britain, followed by more Germanic settlers from Scandinavia and Jutland in later years, caused the Germanic concept of “elf” to blend with the native Celtic culture. The Celts already had conceived of the faeries, now found in the Welsh Tylwyth Teg and the Irish Daoine Sídhe. The faeries, like the elves, were closely associated with the gods, were very fair, and were a race with supernatural powers. The two concepts very naturally combined. In all likelihood, both elves and faeries are reflections of an Indo-European belief system that has been lost to the ages. The convergence of the two belief systems lent strength to them both, causing belief in both the elf and the faerie to survive into the modern era. 

The Elizabethan era heralded in an age that was both an time of enlightenment and darkness in its effect on folklore. Writers were eager to record many of the myths that pervaded the countryside, but in their retellings they neutered many of the stories. The awe inspiring faerie was reduced to a mischievous sprite with butterfly wings, and the elves fell to a similar fate. Elves were miniaturized and bastardized until they became the helpers of Santa Claus at the north pole. The lamentable trend was reversed with such luminaries as Andrew Lang, the Brothers Grimm, George MacDonald, Lord Dunsany, and J.R.R. Tolkien. Elves were once again refitted with their age old grandeur and became fixtures within a new class of myth: the fantasy novel.

The Sensiahd word of the week is “morna”, meaning “great or high”. Example sentence: Eth Sendyn rh’ys ath dyn morna. The elves were a great people.

The Nightingale and the Western Mythos

When I was in grade school, my library had a point system that encouraged children to read by making it competitive. Kids could read a book, take a short quiz to confirm that they had indeed finished the story, then would get awarded a number of points determined by the book’s length and difficulty. I was already an avid reader before the introduction of the point system, but those ingenious librarians pushed me into the depths of obsession. I read nearly every novel in the library (short of the romances and other girly books) in my fiendish desire for more points. My mania eventually drove me to a little used corner of the library, where a dusty volume of the Illiad sat. That epic was my first introduction to mythology, and I’ve been hooked ever since. 

In the thirteen years since that day, I’ve kept a steady stream of mythology in my reading diet. I’ve primarily read the myths and legends of Europe, and in my reading I’ve found something peculiar. Many people are aware of the themes in ancient stories, even if they have never heard of the stories themselves. For example, most people would say the nightingale has a plaintive song, even if they have never heard it. Listening with an objective ear, one can recognize nothing particularly sorrowful about the nightingale’s song, leaving us to wonder why the association. Few people know the Greek tale of Aedon and how she mistakingly murdered her own sun, then was changed into the form of a nightingale to mourn for all eternity. The symbol of a nightingale has imprinted on the psyche of western Europe, so that most of us feel that its song is melancholy.

I’m fascinated by examples like the nightingale, themes and symbols that have left an indelible mark on the thought of western civilization. I’ve begun calling this collective of ideas the “western mythos”, a system of beliefs that pervades our lives without most of us knowing it. When I began writing, I determined that I would use the western mythos to my advantage. I began scrounging the most ancient texts I could find for more examples, more themes that seemed so familiar and strong. I love the feeling that the mythos creates when used well: a peculiar sense of familiarity akin to deja vu. It’s almost as if one has read the story before, which makes it seem to be in the same class as those original myths. Like Tolkien, I want to create a story that can substitute for myth or even expand upon it. Tolkien’s conception of elves and dwarves changed forever the way we imagine those creatures, an effect that has colored every subsequent fantasy work to use their names. 

When crafting my tale, I drew on as much of the mythos as I could grasp. I even wanted the names to sound familiar, harkening back to the Proto-Indoeuropean root that all European languages share. Reflected in the name of Danuliel, water goddess of the Myri faith, are the Danube, the Dnieper, and the Don, the great rivers of Europe. I also drew heavily on themes from the mythos: the mysterious forest, the elusive elves, the great but flawed kingdoms of men, and the cycle of the seasons. Even in my poetry I mimicked styles from the Kalevala and other great works. 

I think the result of my research and incorporation of ancient themes is a book that is as familiar as it is fresh. The story of Kellan the Fey is far from finished, but I hope that its completion will mark the end of a story that has been within the great tradition of storytelling. Perhaps it even may make its own small contribution to the development of new themes that will flow ever onward in the current of the western mythos. 

Why Poetry?

As with many fantasy writers, the works of J.R.R. Tolkien have been an important influence upon my writing and my life in general. I like to think that I’m a particularly devoted fan of Dr. Tolkien’s and enjoy discussing his work with anyone who will give me the time of day. During one such conversation, I was horrified to discover that some people do not like the poems he includes in his works, many going so far as to skip over them. Now I’ve never been under the illusion that the general public are great fans of poetry; I can still remember the plaintive groans of my classmates during the poetry lessons at school. However, it still surprises me that people skip Tolkien’s poems because in his rhymes I see the harkening back to an earlier age. 

Long before the first novel was first penned, poetry reigned supreme. Poetry might have been accompanied by music or recited alone, but verse was spoken the world over. In that time, poetry strode abroad in the land and was chief reservoir of all stories. Poems recorded religious beliefs and national epics alongside odes to nature and love. A poem could be about a hero who strove with the gods, or could revel in the comforts of a warm hearth. Today we have retained the love poem and the ode to nature, and we have even gained whimsical poems for children of all ages, but we have left behind the grandest poetry. Tolkien’s poems about warriors and dragons, his poems of kings and prophecies, recall the grand verse of the Poetic Age.

I have a theory as to why people can skip Tolkien’s poems: they do not like poetry. Their dislike of poetry has been carefully germinated with the over-analyzations of school teachers and was watered with the lie that poems are only for children and the over-emotional. The unfortunate result is that one can watch the hackles raise when poems are mentioned until everyone looks like an insecure german shepherd. Thankfully, I’ve found the condition to be treatable. Many people just need to be shown that poetry is not what they expected; they need to be seized by the collar and shaken by some powerful verse. Then they’ll say, “Wow, I never knew a poem could do that.” Oftentimes, even one good experience with poetry can open someone up to a new world of appreciation. Suddenly most poems are not only bearable, but enjoyable.

I decided to write poetry and include it in my novels for myriad reasons. My first creative writing was with poems, so it seemed wrong to abandon them when I dove into prose. I also love how poems work, how they can capture feeling in a way that prose cannot, how mysteriously they do their work on us. From reading a lot of old books I gained a love for dramatic englyns, heroic epics, and stark couplets. I determined that those were the kind of poems I wanted to include. I wanted to move away from the whimsical or rococo verse that most people associate with poetry and into the dark and dramatic. I wrote poems that deepened the world, like Tolkien, but shied away from his light-hearted songs. I want my readers to grow to associate poetry with the best parts of the book, with the mystery and magic, or even action. I don’t do this just because I’m altruistic, but also because the poems make those sections even better. I write poems that are important to the plot because I see them as central, not extraneous. 

I realize some of my readers may still skip my poems, and they will be the poorer for it. The poems aren’t there to alienate people, but to draw them in and show them a wider world. As a writer, I’m required to tell the truth and poems help me do that. I sincerely hope that they can help my readers hear it.

World Building Part Three: Culture

In this series on world building we’ve discussed geography, magic, and technology. The next step is to create cultures to inhabit the world, groups of people with a common heritage and way of life. This step is aided by an understanding of history and anthropology, but requires only a sense of intuition. People have always been and will always be the same. In whatever setting or story we see humanity, even among nonhuman races, we will always see the traits that typify our race because they are the traits with which the reader can empathize. We like to read stories that reveal something about ourselves, even if it something with which we are already familiar. An intuitive understanding of humanity will allow us to create realistic cultures. When thinking about cultures and people groups, we need to ask a few essential questions: how do they live, how do they view themselves, and how do they view the world?

Understanding how a people group lives is understanding the rhythms of its daily life and the seasons through which it cycles. This will first and foremost be affected by their geography. People who live in a rich, alluvial plain will probably be farmers. Farmers are sedentary people who build homes and eventually cities. Their farms bring them plenty, which needs to be protected. They may develop trade from their surplus, their lives growing in wealth and comfort as a result. All these are the building blocks of a culture, aspects which will form an essential part of the final image. 

These farmers will begin to form opinions of themselves and how they relate to the world, which will be the real beginning of their culture. It’s the stories we tell each other that define us. Perhaps the farmers tell each other that humans come from stars that fell from the heavens. That story tells us that the farmers think that human life is valuable because they have a beautiful origin, and it also tells us that they have a great reverence for the heavens. If the farmers believed that humanity was created from the blood of an evil dragon, as the Babylonians believed, then we would know that they had a very low view of humanity. Creating these stories, the myths and legend of a people, will help us determine their identity.

When creating a culture’s beliefs through stories, on might be tempted to depart from that which we know humanity to be capable. One might want to create a culture in which the people entirely subscribe to modern rationality and spurn the idea of the supernatural, but no reader would ever believe it. We intuitively know that no such thing could ever exist, just as we know that there can be no wholly evil culture nor wholly perfect society. When writers try to create cultures that are completely monochromatic, they are trying to sell something. Fr the reader to empathize, the culture must be human, meaning it inherits all our virtues and vices.

Knowing the stories that a culture tells helps us determine its identity. Does this culture sing of heroes battling in thundering chariots or of an old man solving his problems with magic? One culture may celebrate feats of valor while another praises the intellect. Both routes are valid because we know that such things are praiseworthy. If one is creating a hedonistic society which is in cultural decline, that culture may praise things that our intuition says are vile, but that’s the point. The reader and writer both know that this is a bad society and they can wag their fingers together.

Understanding how a culture views others is integral for determine how it will function in the wider world. If a culture believes that they are vastly superior to their neighbors, they will either turn to isolationist policies or conquest. A culture with a more favorable opinion of its neighbors is more likely to be diplomatic. Inevitably there will be another people group that becomes the enemy of a culture and becomes hated. A society without hatred feels to sugar coated. We know people too well to think that such a thing could exist. Hatred may be born from fear, jealousy, envy, vengeance, or any number of other reasons. A society doesn’t hate randomly, at the basest motivation a society may hate something because it is other. The reason a society hates is immaterial, only that the society does hate and it does have a reason. Hatred is a realistic expectation for humanity, as is love and loyalty. Without having traits with which we are familiar, a fantasy culture will alienate the reader. 

Stories affect the future of a society as well as coloring its conception of the past. It’s said the Celts did not fear death but only feared that the sky would fall on them. In a vacuum, both of those beliefs seem ridiculous. That Celtic society could operate for hundreds of years on such principles seems almost comical. We know precious little of Celtic faith, but we do know that they believed in reincarnation, which explains the bravery in the face of death. That bravery allowed the Celts to make mercenary work a huge part of their economy, which is a very striking splash of paint in their cultural mural. The fear of the sky falling is another matter. We don’t have the story behind the belief, so we don’t understand their reason for believing it. Without the story it seems ridiculous to presume that this belief featured prominently in their direction as a society, in the rise and fall of their civilization, but it may have been as influential as their bravery in the face of death. Beliefs determine action and story determines belief. Skipping a step in the progression will leave a reader scratching his head just like we do with the Celts.

Culture is a somewhat amorphous concept and is certainly existential. Instead of asking, “who am I”, we are asking, “who are we?”. The answer lies in how we live and the stories we tell each other. Using a honed sense of intuition a writer can take this information to build new cultures that are alien to us but eminently relatable. Cultures that are relatable seem authentic because the reader can understand how one might come to have those beliefs. Creating cultures is the most difficult and most rewarding part of world building for me because I find that they are what truly make the world come alive. 

Thank you for following this small series on world building. I hope it has been helpful for writers and satisfying for the curious. Keep an eye out for next week’s post, which will have something to do with the art of story.

The Sensiahd word of the week is “dyn" meaning “people”. Example sentence: Nes ys dyn oin. We are one people.

World Building Part Two: Magic & Technology

Magic and technology are perennial world building issues for fantasy writers, both amateur and professional. Fantasy allows for unbridled creation, allowing the writer’s imagination to run and kick until it has worked up a sheen. This freedom deceives writers because though we are unbridled, we are still fenced in a pasture. Even fantasy has its limits. The limits of fantasy are the limits of all genres, the bounds that no writer should ever dare to cross. 

The boundaries of writing are determined by the reader. No matter how artful or unique or brave you think your work is, the reader is the ultimate arbiter of worth. Many new writers puff out their chests and announce that they are “writing for themselves”, like they’ve just informed us that they’re going to off to war and we may never see them again. They may indeed write for themselves, but all that is written is intended for a reader; all art must be judged by another. 

The reader, though nearly infinitely forgiving in all other respects, cannot abide being lied to. Humanity has always had a great appetite for fiction in general and fantasy in particular. Myths and legends prove that we have never minded giving leniency in storytelling, but only as long as fundamental truth and common sense are not compromised. The reader can suspend disbelief to accept dragons but cannot accept that our world would be exactly the same if dragons were flying in it. This is why magic can make world building so troublesome: inserting fantasy elements into a world must change it.

I think the Harry Potter series is a particularly visible example of poorly integrating magic into a world. Now is the time in which I’m required to say that I loved the Harry Potter books and devoured them like a termite when I was young, but the series is not without its flaws. Part of the charm of those books is that a magical world lies so closely beside our mundane muggle existence, but that charm begins to crumble rather quickly when we realize that common sense seems to be conspicuously missing. For instance, I refuse to believe that even an official at the Ministry of Magic could not ascertain the purpose of a rubber duck. Mr. Weasley could have magically compelled a muggle to reveal the secrets of the rubber duck, or he could have simply observed its use by using any number of spells and magical devices at his disposal. Any time we apply common sense to the twin worlds of Harry Potter, we see that in no way could they remain separate. Poor integration of magic makes Rowling’s world a fantasy for which it is difficult to suspend disbelief.

Magic rocks the foundation of how a world works in every aspect. It’s politics, wars, architecture, stories, and technology will be irrevocably changed by the introduction of magic. If magic allowed one to transform common dirt into a beautiful stone building within a matter of seconds, there would never be any need for masons and quarriers. Buildings would be extraordinarily cheap because they cost nothing to construct. The entire idea of equating larger houses with more prestige would cease to exist. Inventing one spell can cause ramifications that ripple through a world and irrevocably change it. If the world were not changed by the presence of that spell, the reader would call foul play. The reader might even grow to distrust the writer, and begin to pick everything apart. Whenever a willing and amicable reader is transformed into a critic, something has gone horribly wrong. 

The best way that I’ve found to integrate magic into a world is to set boundaries. In my world, magic is practiced by a very small subset of the population and there are concrete rules to what can and cannot be done with magic. This allows me to prevent one disgruntled or stupid wizard from undoing the strong nuclear force and destroying the world. Systemizing my magic and providing it with boundaries allows me to have a predictable and manageable number of consequences for its presence in the world. Since the mages of Purovus are few, secretive, and jealous of their power, I am guaranteed that they will not be upsetting the construction industry. History, technology, and culture are certainly affected by magic, but I can manage those changes. Those are the sorts of changes that will make a world an exciting new frontier for the reader because no writer handles them in exactly the same way. 

Though not as treacherous a consideration as magic when world building, technology is an important factor that can certainly be tricky to do well. Most fantasies are set in a pseudo-medieval time period with the appropriate technology and a roughly European culture. If I were reading about a knight in this setting who is going on a long journey and decides to check his watch to see how long he’s been riding today, I’m going to be very upset. If that knight is going to be wearing a watch, there better be a good explanation as to why this world has watches but no steam engines. Avoiding anachronisms in general would be much simpler. 

“But wait,” you cry, “this is a fantasy world and there are no anachronisms unless I say so.”

You are certainly right, but adopting a setting with which the reader is familiar has its costs as well as its benefits. If one adopts the standard pseudo-medieval fantasy setting, the reader is beginning the book with a great many assumptions of how the world will function. This saves writers a lot of time if they generally keep to the script. They don’t have to explain every aspect of how the world works because the reader has already got the gist of it. However, the readers are not expecting to see wrist watches on the knights or cell phones in the purses of the princesses. When the unexpected strikes them like a hammer to the forehead, they will be jolted out of the story and may receive enough brain damage to become a critic.

If I were to construct a world that was completely different from a common setting or recognizable period in history then I could put wrist watches on the greshit and no one would bat an eye. No one knows what a greshit is but me because I just invented them. The reader is completely reliant on me to tell them that a greshit is a furry crab-like creature with small pincers that are perfect for making intricate mechanical devices, and that they are sticklers for punctuality. Now we’re all dying to hear more about this world and these strange creatures that inhabit it. I’ve got a lot of work cut out for me because I’ve got to build the greshit world, Tsesk, from scratch, but I’ll slowly build my own fences. Once the readers know that the greshit are frutivores and pacifists then they won’t believe me if I say that the greshit  invented guns. The greshit have no use for guns and the reader knows it because I told him so. I have built the fence for my pasture and the reader will be keen to keep me inside.

My world in The Wind from Faerie is roughly based on the time period when the Roman Republic was becoming the Roman Empire. It’s a period of history with which I’m familiar and is one that is not often used for a fantasy time period. This allows me to construct a world which is fresh and familiar, and I’m able to get the details right. I take great pains to ensure that the plants I mention are native to my climate, that the weapons and method of dress are period appropriate. I want every detail of the world to be filled in and I can lean on history for a great portion of that. The fantasy setting gives me a lot to work with but it imposes limits as well. I cannot err from my chosen technology level without good reason, and my introduction of magic to the mix has ramifications that must be dealt with. Getting those details right will make my world feel more real and will keep the reader engaged in the story. 

The Sensiahd word of the day is ninaim, meaning both “knowledge” and “magic”. Example sentence: Sendyn ninaim ol. Elves have magic.