A Canvas of Many Colours

Our Q & Ayl’gard – Part 1

 

Last time I welcomed you all to offer your questions to me regarding my works of fiction as a way of marking a recent milestone in the history of the Forge. I asked you good folks if there was anything you wished to know about the dark fantasy world of Ayl’gard and some of you have responded with your most appreciated inquiries. I shall now endeavour to answer some of those questions that were most suited to this subject matter.

However, after going over my previous Q & A post for a quick summary of how it transpired, I thought that this time I would do things a little differently. That last one turned out to be quite a lengthy read at well over two thousand words and upon the realisation that this one had the potential to far surpass even that in sheer content, I decided to alter how I would respond. This time around I thought I’d give each question its own individual spotlight and here is the first one.

 

‘Which of the races you’ve created is your favourite?’

 

There are a fair few races that dwell amongst the lands of Ayl’gard. The O’kr, or Ogres, of the Highlands, the Mithylfar of Sollistar, the heartland race of men in Ayrlaston and the Arj’Beral of Suthershore to name just a few examples. But to pick a favourite? Argh! I don’t believe that I can. It’s a bit of a cop out I know but stay with me because you may as well ask me to choose which race I will favour or torment based upon my own personal preferences. I’m not a sadistic bastard who specifically created a particular group just to have them suffer at the mercy of my whims, I think. We’ll see (insert ruthless laughter where appropriate), shall we!

Each race comes with their own unique characteristics that can help to give some definition to an outsider looking in. Were you to cross the Severed Sea and travel deep into the forests of Ardenea, you would eventually happen across the Yslfar (pronounced ee-sil-far), a race of pale green and brown skinned forest dwellers that value their isolation. Some of them who are able survive to live for over a hundred years have been known to have grass where their hair once grew, twigs and branches where there were once beards and their eyes begin to glow a distinctive green hue. Some of the wilder clans also consider clothing to be something of an optional ‘hindrance’ which can be a little disconcerting to an uptight foreigner.

In the marshes of Middemire their exists a peculiar race of diminutive creatures known as the Alamaxia. If I had to give them a simple explanation for the purpose of clarity, I would describe them as a race of bi-pedal, half salamander, half axolotl folks that grow to be no taller than four feet in stature. They can breathe underwater which suits their often many expeditions to the depths of the deep waters, have two sets of eyelids to be able to see clearly when submerged, are capable merchants who revel in commerce as well as having a potent desire for silver, gold and trinkets valuable and old. Some of the chubbier Alamaxians, which isn’t surprising considering they also like to eat their fair share, have a propensity to waddle around when they move which doesn’t help their reputation as fat, little con merchants to the many who didn’t quite manage to best them in the art of trade.

Far to the east, across the nigh impassable Sea of Fire, dwells the Drohken in the coastlands of Kyr’Qandor. When the beasts of the sky lost their wings ages ago, some perished and some prospered. The Drohken were one such race who settled far and away from those who hunted them into near extinction several thousand years ago. It is thought that they almost conquered the world long ago though there is very little evidence to support this vague theory still held by a few scholars today. By their own recollection though, should be you be fortunate, or unfortunate enough to actually meet one, they were once feral and ravenous beings who sought the destruction of all whereas now they live in peace as they meditate within their sanctuaries. Think of a dragon without wings, walking upright on its hind legs, dressed in simple cloth and leather and you will have a good idea of what they look like.

The overall point is that I don’t really favour one race over the others. I created each of them for a good reason, they all interest me and all have their value in the grand tapestry of the lore of this world. I will likely write a great deal more about certain races than I will others but that doesn’t necessarily mean I shall reject what they all bring to the greater narrative. When I created Ayl’gard, I wanted to work with a diverse array of peoples and cultures so that I could add substance to my tales where appropriate. Toward the beginning I decided that I couldn’t only work with humans. The prospect of only writing about our own race, frankly I was bored by the very notion. Now that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate what other authors write when their primary focus is that of men and women. A great work of fantasy fiction is defined by its quality, not its quantity. For me though, I wanted to work with more than just humans. I wanted the availability and capability of working with a canvas of many colours and not just the tried and tested beige of humanity. That is why this world is populated with so many different races, each one has the potential to offer new challenges and opportunities in writing for any future projects.

This question was given by Minerva’s Emporium to whom I offer my thanks as we get the ball rolling on this series. To those of you who also participated (thank you once more), I will attend to your inquiries over the coming days and if any of you reading this would like to add your own questions, then I welcome the opportunity to continue answering them in due course. By all means, feel free to participate if you are inclined to do so.

 

 

A Milestone Forged of Five Hundred

Greetings folks and welcome again.

I know it has been a little while since I came to you with my fictions of fantasy and musings born of causality, pens and papers all cluttered amongst the candlelight, ready to forge my reverie anew. But like a wondering wave in the ocean water, I’ll always come back ashore, eventually.

Bloody hell, that ended up being a little more melodramatic than I intended. Oh well, sod it! I think you can tell I’ve had a few days away. My inner muse is getting it all out of our system in a great, big splurge of creative word slush. Truthfully, I’ve been a little under the weather lately. I’ve still managed to get to work and back but the process has left me a little drained to do much else. Its nothing too problematic though. Last I checked I still had all of my appendages intact, I think. Hold on a second…..

*Wanders off to the bathroom to make sure nothing fell off during the night!*

All good. Just a few beard hairs gone astray. It looks like some of those growing on the left side of my face are desperately trying to escape, the ungrateful, gravity defying buggers. Anyway, my faculties are returning to some degree of normality now, if ‘normality’ is or has ever been the right term to describe my faculties, and I would like to address something rather good that happened recently.

Whilst sifting through the many wonderful works made by you good people in our community I happened to notice that a new milestone has been surpassed here at the Forge. I know the numbers relating to our statistics are relatively unimportant in the grand scheme of it all but every so often, they do tell their own tale. As of the last couple of weeks, WordPress follower number 500 granted me the privilege of allowing me to attain that little notification, the one that offered some semblance of acknowledgement and congratulations.  An appreciation inspiring acknowledgement that, little by little, you good folks are joining me as I continue with my writing and my work toward my overarching projects.

To all of you who have joined me over the last year and some, whether from the beginning or just recently, I offer you my heartfelt gratitude once again. I doubt I’ll ever reach monumental numbers of followers in the tens of thousands but I am not too fussed about it if I’m honest. I’ve achieved something I already consider to be significant by gaining the recognition and support that many of you have offered up to this point and if I ever come to feel that isn’t good enough, then I hope I one day come to possess the ability to reach forward in time from this hour to give future me a mighty slap in the face. Or the groin if he pisses me off enough!

One of the last times I reached a milestone, a few months back now, I commemorated the event by doing my first Q & A post where you guys submitted some questions to me that I could answer to the best of my ability. And I did so as you can find out below.

Letters Forged from Curious Thoughts

Well, I thought we’d give it another go, only this time with a bit of twist to the context of it all. Since that day I have offered various excerpts and segments of my work relating to my world of fantasy that is Ayl’gard, and many of you have been good enough to read, absorb and engage me in conversation about what I written here and brought to the Forge. There is a fair amount available so far but there is also so much written down and rattling around in my mind that I have yet to bring out of the shadows and into the candlelight.

So to celebrate this little achievement, I would humbly ask you to join me in conversation once again as I aim to do my second Q & A for the Forge. If any of you have any questions or have ever wanted to know a particular something, anything about the world of Ayl’gard and all that it entails, then this is your opportunity. If this is the case, please post your questions in the comments below, or send me a message if you wish, and I shall endeavour to respond to each of them in next posting I provide. Feel free to ask me whatever you like and as many questions as you like. For those of you finding me and my realms of fantasy fiction for the first time and would like to know what in the bloody hollow (reference!) I am prattling on about, then you can discover for yourself on the following page.

The Realms of Ayl’gard

Cheers and thank you again kind folks and followers for joining me here this day and in days past. I shall raise my glass to you all. Well, mug. I’m drinking tea right now. HURRAH!

Forged From Reverie.

The Damned Sons of Baron Thorn

In the heart of Ayrlaston, at the centre of a vast region of rivers and marshlands known as the Middemire, lies the city of Daggeron. It is an old city of water and wood, one with a history divided by circumstances of both valour and vanity. Which era can be attributed to which though is entirely dependent on who sits as the baron of the riverborn at any given time.

Today that man is Baron Edrik Thorn, second son of the late Elwin Thorn and husband to Lady Miriam. Ambitious, cunning and resourceful are all words that have been used to describe this man and none can be considered more appropriate than the former. He has earned the mocking title of the ‘Mire King’ by his fellow lords and ladies, such is his desire to rule his lands, and some might say the entire country, without having to bend the knee to another.

The great silver hall known as the Chamber of Kings is the seat of the silverborn and the House of the Valorayne Kings of Ayrlaston. Every year, the barons of the kingdom are summoned to an assembly to discuss the matters of rule and realm. Before the long talks and feasting may commence, each baron must bow to their king before all to see as a continued show of allegiance to their master and ruler. For the barons of Stonehold, Frosthaven and Amberfall this a formality that takes mere seconds to fulfil. They understand the prosperity of their unity and will not allow hubris to sully their allegiance. Yet for the stubborn Edrik Thorn, whether through spite or pride, the simple act of kneeling before his king is a burden almost too heavy to bear as he is always the last to bow.

‘The House of Valorayne and the House of Thorn, once we were equals in the great Court of Winter, when men ruled solely in the northern realms. Now I must bend the knee to that pompous arse of a king every time I see him? He who drinks wine with our so-called allies from Wintermere and dallies over trade agreements with those gold peddling Mithylfar fools to the south. The very thought vexes me. One day my son, our roots will grow deep and we shall be free of the rule of fools.’ – Edrik speaking to a young Edgar Thorn as he comes of age.

Many men and women have served the Baron of Daggeron in the decades since his father and elder brother disappeared, a dark hour for the barony still mired in mystery and murmurings of foul deeds. To this very day their bodies, nor any evidence of their whereabouts, have ever been recovered. Upon being informed of his father’s disappearance, after weeks spent enjoying the company of his new bride in Frosthaven, is was said that Edrik walked over to the fire pit in his father’s hall and burnt the letter from the king informing him that he must take up the mantle of baron before taking his seat as lord of the Middemire. In the years since, many have also fallen, in dark ways and in death, to the whims of a man never having been content with his station in life.

Edgar Thorn, firstborn and heir to his father’s seat, was killed in a bloody battle as he led the River Bann in the war against the Dothylfar years ago. The House of Thorn and every proud citizen of Daggeron would have you believe he fell to the Bloody Horde in a glorious clash of blood and blades, dying with honour as he served his House and his king to rid the Eastreach of this terrible scourge. The more commonly known story though is that he tried and failed to kill the son of the king whilst the fight raged on. There are some who doubt such a claim, saying how can Edgar Thorn have mistaken the silver clad son of the king for an ashen, blood smeared Dothylfar. Many others, including the nearby survivors who were said to have witnessed this, speak of the battle being so bloody that there was not a soldier amongst them who was not coated in a blood red veil and that the son of the baron seized the opportunity to carry out his father’s orders that night. A tale furiously denied by the Edrik Thorn to this very day. Any who speak the words saying it was so within earshot of the Bann are sentenced to be executed.

Cedrik Thorn, secondborn and now next in line to succeed his father after his brother’s death, may never see the day he becomes the Baron of Daggeron. He was a popular, charitable man and well-liked by his subjects and the people of the city, yet he never saw eye to eye with his father. Their conversations rarely ended in anything but aggressive debate. Those who consume, intentionally or not, the sap of the ebonroot are condemned to sleep for eternity. No one knows for sure how he quite managed to ingest such a substance but the effects are unmistakable. His eyes are unblinking and ever open, unable to close but he sees nothing. His skin bears a strange hue of darkened grey as if every day that passes his life to continues to gradually drain from him. Cedrik’s days are now spent in this perpetual ‘sleep’ within his room where his frail mother Miriam watches over him, day and night, tending to his needs in the hope that he will one day awaken from this nightmare. Every now and then he whispers a single word, father, yet despite this still he remains ignorant and cold to the waking world.

Though the fate of his elder brothers remains clouded in uncertainty, there can be no doubting what happened to Edmond Thorn, third son of Edrik. Whilst feasting with his family one evening, Edmond looked around their table to see the seats of his brothers and mother empty. Gripped by sorrow and angered by the ambitious machinations of his father, Edmond lost his temper and proceeded to shout words riddled with years’ worth of pent up anguish and frustration.

‘Look around father, look at this feast and all we have and yet our table grows emptier with each passing year. My brothers lie dead, broken or are trapped in towers miles away succumbing to the madness of your wishes. How many sons are you prepared to lose before you are finally satisfied?’

Edrik said nothing at first in response to this assault on his pride and on his honour. Instead he drew his blade, a sword of sapphires and black steel passed down through the ages from father to son, that was resting by his seat and plunged it deep into his son’s chest and spoke these words before he died.

‘You are my son, my blood, mine to use as I see fit. If you have nothing for me but bitter words and treachery in your thoughts, then I have no use for you. Now or ever again.’

Only two of his sons remain amongst the living. Elrik Thorn, a talented man who bears the burden of his father’s name and the reputation of his House as he resides as a mage of the Aeon Citadel. His awakening to magick as a boy was both a horrifying and gratifying experience as Edrik saw in his fourthborn son the potential to bring great honour and prestige to the House of Thorn as one of the most naturally gifted water weavers in the kingdom. It is this potential that greatly excites the baron as he eagerly awaits the culmination of Elrik’s progress.

The other is Eron Thorn, a callous man possessing great athletic prowess and sharp wit, who is imprisoned in the Spire of Covenraen for attempting to steal from the Vault of the Valoraynes. What would possess him to even try such a bold move? This is a question many have asked, including the Silver Legion commanders responsible for keeping him locked away. Their inquiries are met only with blunt observations, remarks about their lineage and incessant requests for female companionship and all are spoken wryly with a mocking smile. The king awaits his father’s attendance in his halls to answer for the crimes of his son.

The great table of House Thorn once sat a loving mother, her five young sons and a proud father with a strong will who had yet to be fully consumed by his ambitions. Now it sits empty with each evening that passes’ as Edrik Thorn dines alone, scheming in his chambers and patiently awaiting the day the last of his sons will return home to him.