Hey! It looks like you're new here. You might want to check out the introduction.
Show rules for this event
The Storyteller and the Glassblower's Son
“And that is when the thieves set upon us.”
Half a dozen boys sat on rocks or stumps, firelight dancing in their wide eyes as they watched him take a sip from his bottle. He wiped his mouth with a sleeve and stared into the flickering embers as the bottle dangled from his fingertips. Several moments passed before the largest of the boys blurted, “What happened, Mister Hob?”
Hob blinked and gasped, as if he had been shaken from a deep reverie. The droning buzz of cicadas rose and fell around them as he took a deep breath. “Alas, young Ratimir, that is a story I cannot tell.”
A chorus of disappointed groans erupted from the fireside. Ratimir whined, “But we brought you the bottle. You said the stories were inside.”
“Yes, yes,” Hob said, then took another quick sip before stuffing a cork into the bottle’s neck. “The story is here. But it is not mine to tell.”
The boys looked as confused as they did suspicious. After a suitably dramatic time had passed, Hob gave a lopsided grin and leaned to the side. He reached down to unbuckle the scabbard from his belt. “But this? I think it tells the tale you want to hear.” He tossed the sword, still in its sheath, over the fire toward Ratimir.
The boy caught it and held it like a trophy as the others crowded around him, careful to avoid blocking the firelight. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting the nicks and scuffs and stains in the ancient leather.
“Is that blood?”
“Let’s see the sword!”
“Yeah, draw it out!”
Ratimir grasped the hilt and slowly pulled the blade from its sheath. It had a single, straight cutting edge along one side, and the back of the blade almost looked broken as it narrowed toward the tip. Though the steel reflected the fire with an almost mirror sheen, it had clearly seen more than its share of action. The cutting edge had a number of small chips, but also two large gouges that couldn’t be ground away without destroying the sword.
Grubby little fingers pointed at the damage as the boys invented daring tales of action and heroism. Hob leaned back and listened, twirling the cork between the fingers of his left hand as he took a long, slow sip from his bottle. Like the sword, the bottle certainly had its own history, but where a sword showed its damage in nicks and dings, a bottle remained pristine until it shattered. He would let the boys discover the story in the sword, while the bottle spoke to him.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Ratimir elbowed the other boys out of his way and leaned forward, tilting the long blade toward the fire. The metal was not plain white, but a rainbow of purple, blue, and pink, from the tip to halfway up the blade. He rubbed the sword with his thumb, but the colors held fast. “How does iron have such color? Is it magic?”
Hob raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. “Oh, that color happens to any sword that is burned, but I suppose that some magic may have been left behind…” He pulled the cork from his bottle and took a long swig, trying not to chuckle at the impatient cries from the boys around the fire.
He lowered the bottle with an exaggerated sigh, wiped his mouth again with his sleeve, and carefully replaced the cork. By the time he looked up, his audience was again silent. He cleared his throat and leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially. “I said before that we were guarding an important carriage, yes? What I did not tell you, is that this carriage belonged to a very powerful wizard.”
Most of the boys gasped and looked at one another in awe, but Ratimir pointed at Hob with the sword. “A wizard, like in your stories? But real?”
Hob recoiled with his own gasp, and put a hand to his chest. “When have I ever told you a tale that was anything but real?”
Ratimir grunted. “I am not a child. I do not believe that a king would have goat’s ears, or that Stan Bolovan outwitted a dragon by squeezing water out of a cheese, or that ogres live in castles of silver and gold.”
“Ah, see, you know all my stories, and you know them too well. But what I am telling you now is no fairy tale. You have never seen a golden castle, or a dragon, but you have seen a carriage or a thief, have you not?”
The boy nodded slowly.
“Then you are a clever enough young man to know which stories are true. The young man who becomes a knight. The wanderer who sails to find his fortune. The blacksmith’s apprentice who stole an old sword from the scrap heap and set out to find adventure. You are holding the very sword which cut a dozen men.
“But there were more than a dozen men. The old wizard knew that we were outmatched. So he called up his magic and burned the thieves. But wizard’s fire is like his favor; as like to turn on you as smile on you.”
“Ha!” a man shouted from beyond the light of the fire. “Wizard’s fire? I say you are a wizard’s liar!”
Ratimir turned to the man as he stepped into the circle, and whined, “Papa! We paid Mister Hob for a story. Please let him finish it.”
“Hmph.” He put his hands on his hips. “Shouldn’t you be at the inn, sharing court gossip and questionable news?”
Hob lifted his bottle, drained the contents, and replaced the cork. He held it out stiffly to the older man. “A gift for you, Dalibor. It will save you an hour’s labor and a coin’s worth of charcoal. I will bring you another tomorrow night, should fortune favor me.”
Dalibor took the bottle as the boys began to stand up, grumbling and shooting mean looks at the man who’d spoiled their fun.
“A charcoal fire…” Hob said, poking the coals with the toe of his boot.
The boys turned back around, smiles having returned to their faces in an instant.
Hob continued, “…may melt glass, and even soften iron for the blacksmith. But a wizard’s fire never stops burning.” He lifted up his shirt, exposing a terrible scar of melted flesh that covered half of his chest. “And now you boys know the tale of the sell-sword who became a storyteller.”
Only the fire dared to break the silence until Dalibor cleared his throat and took the sword from his son. “Now you boys see what adventure will earn you. Better to be a glassblower like me. Ratimir, our charcoal furnace won’t burn you like wizard’s fire, or whatever disreputable business this man fell into.”
The boys remained silent as Hob lowered his shirt.
Dalibor tossed the sword into the dirt at Hob’s feet. “These lands are peaceful and safe, as long as you don’t go looking for trouble.”
The storyteller picked up his sword and wiped the dirt off against his jacket. He raised his voice as the group wandered into the darkness. “Sometimes, trouble finds you. And if you’re not looking for it, it’ll sneak up on you.”
“And what of Princess Bogdana?”
The room erupted in cheers and crude sexual gestures. Hob grinned as he finished swallowing a mouthful and lowered his bottle. “As we all know,” he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “Bogdana is the most beautiful of the beautiful.”
Every man in the inn who was holding a glass raised it. Hob raised his bottle in response. After another sip, he nodded and said, “Now, I regret that this will break many hearts, but Bogdana has been betrothed, to Engilram of the Saxons.”
The room became very quiet except for the laughing of the glassblower Dalibor. “Ha! You fool, your news is as poor as your stories of heroism!”
One of the men near the door spoke up. “We were asking for news of her marriage to Premsyl.”
Hob squinted at the man, then shook his head. “No, she is engaged to Engilram. There would be no reason for her to marry King Bogomil’s nephew. Premsyl is nothing but a wet-behind-the-ears upstart.”
The innkeeper wiped his hands on his apron. “When was the last time you were in Polencin?”
“I was in the king’s court no more than three months ago, in fact.”
The innkeeper nodded. “Larkin came through here last week, and he heard the news in Polencin only a fortnight previous.”
Hob drummed his fingers against the bottle in his hands. After a moment of thought, he yanked out the stopper and pulled a heavy draught. “If… If Bogomil had arranged for Bogdana to marry a Saxon, but instead she has married within the kingdom…”
Dalibor set down his stein and held his head in his hands. “Premsyl is making a move on the throne.”
“It is war,” said someone in the room.
“But—” Dalibor slapped the table with both hands. “This land is peaceful!”
One of the men put his hand on Dalibor’s shoulder.
Hob held the bottle to his eye and looked down the neck. The firelight danced inside, refracting through the glassblower’s art and glinting off the swirling sack within. “Wars and rumors of wars, as the prophet said.”
The innkeeper began pouring himself a drink. “I wonder who Lord Borivoi will side with.”
“It does not matter,” the blacksmith said. “He will conscript us and we will march as he commands.”
Dalibor threw his mug across the hall. “And what of Ratimir? He will have hair on his face by autumn. Lord Borivoi will take him for the war, whoever he sides with.” He turned to the storyteller and shook his fist. “And you have filled his head with ideas of adventure and glory!”
Hob drew his sword and held it on the flat of his palms. “There is no glory in war. Not for a peasant. Glory is for knights and noblemen. For peasants, there is only death.”
“You bastard!” Dalibor shouted. “You have killed him! You’ve killed my son!”
Every head turned toward the door as it burst open. One of the town guard stuck his head inside and lifted the boiled leather helmet off of his eyes. “Torches, marching toward the town! The Lord’s men, for certain!”
While the crowd erupted into chaos, Hob sheathed his sword and slipped out the back door with his bottle of sack in one hand.
The crack of shattering glass echoed through the street. Hob took off his jacket and lay it over the windowsill before climbing into the shop. He stepped between shelves of glassware that reflected the soft glow of lantern light in the back room.
“BEGONE, THIEVES!”
A small figure charged out of the shadows, swinging a long iron pipe. Hob ducked and blocked the blow with his forearm. “Augh! Ratimir, it is me!”
The boy held the glassblowing pipe over his head, squinting into the darkness. “Mister Hob? Is that you?”
Hob hissed and held his arm to his chest. “Yes, boy. Co-come here, we have no time.”
“What are you doing in my father’s shop? Why did you break the window?”
“Listen!” Hob slid the pack off his shoulder with one arm. “King Bogomil is going to war, and Lord Borivoi has come in search of soldiers. Your father is worried, and you must leave here at once. Here is everything I have. Food, bedding, a few trinkets for trade.”
“W-what?” Ratimir stared at the storyteller in the darkness, still holding the blowpipe raised in the air.
“Take this,” Hob said as he shoved the pack into the boy’s chest. “Head west, to Italy. Or north to Saxony. They are not at war right now. Find your fortune. You know my stories; take their lessons to heart. Be kind to strangers, but be careful who you trust.”
Ratimir held the pack in one hand and the blowpipe in the other. “What will I do? What about my father?”
“Heh,” Ratimir grunted. “Your father is too old and fat to be a soldier. But you? You are just old enough to die for the king, or for his accursed nephew.” He sat down and leaned against a shelf, cradling his injured arm against his chest. “Trouble finds you. Maybe next time, you should look for trouble first.”
The long iron pipe fell to the floor, ringing against the smooth wood. Ratimir hefted the pack onto his shoulders. “Mister Hob?”
“One more thing, young Ratimir.” Hob unbuckled his belt and slid it out from under himself, then held the sword and belt out to the boy.
“Your sword?”
“Ratimir, boy, I was no older than you when I stole this from my master and went on my own adventure. That wasn’t so many years ago. Now, it is your time to go.”
Orange light bled into the street from the direction of the tavern. Ratimir turned and ran through the back of the shop, carrying his pack and sword.
The shop door opened, and two soldiers pushed Dalibor inside, sweeping their torches through the open room and illuminating the man lying against one of the shelves. Dalibor had looked angry when he came in, but his eyes burned with fire when he saw Hob in his shop.
“I’m sorry, father,” Hob said, looking the older man in the eyes. “Burglars came and I tried to stop them, but they broke my arm.” He held out his arm, twisted and unwhole.
Dalibor looked at the storyteller on his floor, then at the soldiers who were pulling him to his feet. The shop’s back door stood ajar. Dalibor turned to Hob, and said, “It is alright, my son. You are alive.”
Ratimir’s feet crunched along the path as the sun rose against his back. This was farther than he had ever been from home. The pack and the sword weighed against his body and soul.
A glint of light beckoned to him from the weeds along the road. He stopped to see a bottle discarded among the refuse, its wicker covering frayed and molding. Just like his sword, this bottle had a story to tell.
He picked up the bottle and pulled out the cork. There was no more wine inside, but it was not empty. Voices of the past echoed inside, of wizards and thieves and wars and usurpers. Ratimir twirled the cork between the fingers of his left hand as he began marching westward. “And that is when the soldiers set upon us…”
Half a dozen boys sat on rocks or stumps, firelight dancing in their wide eyes as they watched him take a sip from his bottle. He wiped his mouth with a sleeve and stared into the flickering embers as the bottle dangled from his fingertips. Several moments passed before the largest of the boys blurted, “What happened, Mister Hob?”
Hob blinked and gasped, as if he had been shaken from a deep reverie. The droning buzz of cicadas rose and fell around them as he took a deep breath. “Alas, young Ratimir, that is a story I cannot tell.”
A chorus of disappointed groans erupted from the fireside. Ratimir whined, “But we brought you the bottle. You said the stories were inside.”
“Yes, yes,” Hob said, then took another quick sip before stuffing a cork into the bottle’s neck. “The story is here. But it is not mine to tell.”
The boys looked as confused as they did suspicious. After a suitably dramatic time had passed, Hob gave a lopsided grin and leaned to the side. He reached down to unbuckle the scabbard from his belt. “But this? I think it tells the tale you want to hear.” He tossed the sword, still in its sheath, over the fire toward Ratimir.
The boy caught it and held it like a trophy as the others crowded around him, careful to avoid blocking the firelight. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting the nicks and scuffs and stains in the ancient leather.
“Is that blood?”
“Let’s see the sword!”
“Yeah, draw it out!”
Ratimir grasped the hilt and slowly pulled the blade from its sheath. It had a single, straight cutting edge along one side, and the back of the blade almost looked broken as it narrowed toward the tip. Though the steel reflected the fire with an almost mirror sheen, it had clearly seen more than its share of action. The cutting edge had a number of small chips, but also two large gouges that couldn’t be ground away without destroying the sword.
Grubby little fingers pointed at the damage as the boys invented daring tales of action and heroism. Hob leaned back and listened, twirling the cork between the fingers of his left hand as he took a long, slow sip from his bottle. Like the sword, the bottle certainly had its own history, but where a sword showed its damage in nicks and dings, a bottle remained pristine until it shattered. He would let the boys discover the story in the sword, while the bottle spoke to him.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Ratimir elbowed the other boys out of his way and leaned forward, tilting the long blade toward the fire. The metal was not plain white, but a rainbow of purple, blue, and pink, from the tip to halfway up the blade. He rubbed the sword with his thumb, but the colors held fast. “How does iron have such color? Is it magic?”
Hob raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. “Oh, that color happens to any sword that is burned, but I suppose that some magic may have been left behind…” He pulled the cork from his bottle and took a long swig, trying not to chuckle at the impatient cries from the boys around the fire.
He lowered the bottle with an exaggerated sigh, wiped his mouth again with his sleeve, and carefully replaced the cork. By the time he looked up, his audience was again silent. He cleared his throat and leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially. “I said before that we were guarding an important carriage, yes? What I did not tell you, is that this carriage belonged to a very powerful wizard.”
Most of the boys gasped and looked at one another in awe, but Ratimir pointed at Hob with the sword. “A wizard, like in your stories? But real?”
Hob recoiled with his own gasp, and put a hand to his chest. “When have I ever told you a tale that was anything but real?”
Ratimir grunted. “I am not a child. I do not believe that a king would have goat’s ears, or that Stan Bolovan outwitted a dragon by squeezing water out of a cheese, or that ogres live in castles of silver and gold.”
“Ah, see, you know all my stories, and you know them too well. But what I am telling you now is no fairy tale. You have never seen a golden castle, or a dragon, but you have seen a carriage or a thief, have you not?”
The boy nodded slowly.
“Then you are a clever enough young man to know which stories are true. The young man who becomes a knight. The wanderer who sails to find his fortune. The blacksmith’s apprentice who stole an old sword from the scrap heap and set out to find adventure. You are holding the very sword which cut a dozen men.
“But there were more than a dozen men. The old wizard knew that we were outmatched. So he called up his magic and burned the thieves. But wizard’s fire is like his favor; as like to turn on you as smile on you.”
“Ha!” a man shouted from beyond the light of the fire. “Wizard’s fire? I say you are a wizard’s liar!”
Ratimir turned to the man as he stepped into the circle, and whined, “Papa! We paid Mister Hob for a story. Please let him finish it.”
“Hmph.” He put his hands on his hips. “Shouldn’t you be at the inn, sharing court gossip and questionable news?”
Hob lifted his bottle, drained the contents, and replaced the cork. He held it out stiffly to the older man. “A gift for you, Dalibor. It will save you an hour’s labor and a coin’s worth of charcoal. I will bring you another tomorrow night, should fortune favor me.”
Dalibor took the bottle as the boys began to stand up, grumbling and shooting mean looks at the man who’d spoiled their fun.
“A charcoal fire…” Hob said, poking the coals with the toe of his boot.
The boys turned back around, smiles having returned to their faces in an instant.
Hob continued, “…may melt glass, and even soften iron for the blacksmith. But a wizard’s fire never stops burning.” He lifted up his shirt, exposing a terrible scar of melted flesh that covered half of his chest. “And now you boys know the tale of the sell-sword who became a storyteller.”
Only the fire dared to break the silence until Dalibor cleared his throat and took the sword from his son. “Now you boys see what adventure will earn you. Better to be a glassblower like me. Ratimir, our charcoal furnace won’t burn you like wizard’s fire, or whatever disreputable business this man fell into.”
The boys remained silent as Hob lowered his shirt.
Dalibor tossed the sword into the dirt at Hob’s feet. “These lands are peaceful and safe, as long as you don’t go looking for trouble.”
The storyteller picked up his sword and wiped the dirt off against his jacket. He raised his voice as the group wandered into the darkness. “Sometimes, trouble finds you. And if you’re not looking for it, it’ll sneak up on you.”
“And what of Princess Bogdana?”
The room erupted in cheers and crude sexual gestures. Hob grinned as he finished swallowing a mouthful and lowered his bottle. “As we all know,” he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “Bogdana is the most beautiful of the beautiful.”
Every man in the inn who was holding a glass raised it. Hob raised his bottle in response. After another sip, he nodded and said, “Now, I regret that this will break many hearts, but Bogdana has been betrothed, to Engilram of the Saxons.”
The room became very quiet except for the laughing of the glassblower Dalibor. “Ha! You fool, your news is as poor as your stories of heroism!”
One of the men near the door spoke up. “We were asking for news of her marriage to Premsyl.”
Hob squinted at the man, then shook his head. “No, she is engaged to Engilram. There would be no reason for her to marry King Bogomil’s nephew. Premsyl is nothing but a wet-behind-the-ears upstart.”
The innkeeper wiped his hands on his apron. “When was the last time you were in Polencin?”
“I was in the king’s court no more than three months ago, in fact.”
The innkeeper nodded. “Larkin came through here last week, and he heard the news in Polencin only a fortnight previous.”
Hob drummed his fingers against the bottle in his hands. After a moment of thought, he yanked out the stopper and pulled a heavy draught. “If… If Bogomil had arranged for Bogdana to marry a Saxon, but instead she has married within the kingdom…”
Dalibor set down his stein and held his head in his hands. “Premsyl is making a move on the throne.”
“It is war,” said someone in the room.
“But—” Dalibor slapped the table with both hands. “This land is peaceful!”
One of the men put his hand on Dalibor’s shoulder.
Hob held the bottle to his eye and looked down the neck. The firelight danced inside, refracting through the glassblower’s art and glinting off the swirling sack within. “Wars and rumors of wars, as the prophet said.”
The innkeeper began pouring himself a drink. “I wonder who Lord Borivoi will side with.”
“It does not matter,” the blacksmith said. “He will conscript us and we will march as he commands.”
Dalibor threw his mug across the hall. “And what of Ratimir? He will have hair on his face by autumn. Lord Borivoi will take him for the war, whoever he sides with.” He turned to the storyteller and shook his fist. “And you have filled his head with ideas of adventure and glory!”
Hob drew his sword and held it on the flat of his palms. “There is no glory in war. Not for a peasant. Glory is for knights and noblemen. For peasants, there is only death.”
“You bastard!” Dalibor shouted. “You have killed him! You’ve killed my son!”
Every head turned toward the door as it burst open. One of the town guard stuck his head inside and lifted the boiled leather helmet off of his eyes. “Torches, marching toward the town! The Lord’s men, for certain!”
While the crowd erupted into chaos, Hob sheathed his sword and slipped out the back door with his bottle of sack in one hand.
The crack of shattering glass echoed through the street. Hob took off his jacket and lay it over the windowsill before climbing into the shop. He stepped between shelves of glassware that reflected the soft glow of lantern light in the back room.
“BEGONE, THIEVES!”
A small figure charged out of the shadows, swinging a long iron pipe. Hob ducked and blocked the blow with his forearm. “Augh! Ratimir, it is me!”
The boy held the glassblowing pipe over his head, squinting into the darkness. “Mister Hob? Is that you?”
Hob hissed and held his arm to his chest. “Yes, boy. Co-come here, we have no time.”
“What are you doing in my father’s shop? Why did you break the window?”
“Listen!” Hob slid the pack off his shoulder with one arm. “King Bogomil is going to war, and Lord Borivoi has come in search of soldiers. Your father is worried, and you must leave here at once. Here is everything I have. Food, bedding, a few trinkets for trade.”
“W-what?” Ratimir stared at the storyteller in the darkness, still holding the blowpipe raised in the air.
“Take this,” Hob said as he shoved the pack into the boy’s chest. “Head west, to Italy. Or north to Saxony. They are not at war right now. Find your fortune. You know my stories; take their lessons to heart. Be kind to strangers, but be careful who you trust.”
Ratimir held the pack in one hand and the blowpipe in the other. “What will I do? What about my father?”
“Heh,” Ratimir grunted. “Your father is too old and fat to be a soldier. But you? You are just old enough to die for the king, or for his accursed nephew.” He sat down and leaned against a shelf, cradling his injured arm against his chest. “Trouble finds you. Maybe next time, you should look for trouble first.”
The long iron pipe fell to the floor, ringing against the smooth wood. Ratimir hefted the pack onto his shoulders. “Mister Hob?”
“One more thing, young Ratimir.” Hob unbuckled his belt and slid it out from under himself, then held the sword and belt out to the boy.
“Your sword?”
“Ratimir, boy, I was no older than you when I stole this from my master and went on my own adventure. That wasn’t so many years ago. Now, it is your time to go.”
Orange light bled into the street from the direction of the tavern. Ratimir turned and ran through the back of the shop, carrying his pack and sword.
The shop door opened, and two soldiers pushed Dalibor inside, sweeping their torches through the open room and illuminating the man lying against one of the shelves. Dalibor had looked angry when he came in, but his eyes burned with fire when he saw Hob in his shop.
“I’m sorry, father,” Hob said, looking the older man in the eyes. “Burglars came and I tried to stop them, but they broke my arm.” He held out his arm, twisted and unwhole.
Dalibor looked at the storyteller on his floor, then at the soldiers who were pulling him to his feet. The shop’s back door stood ajar. Dalibor turned to Hob, and said, “It is alright, my son. You are alive.”
Ratimir’s feet crunched along the path as the sun rose against his back. This was farther than he had ever been from home. The pack and the sword weighed against his body and soul.
A glint of light beckoned to him from the weeds along the road. He stopped to see a bottle discarded among the refuse, its wicker covering frayed and molding. Just like his sword, this bottle had a story to tell.
He picked up the bottle and pulled out the cork. There was no more wine inside, but it was not empty. Voices of the past echoed inside, of wizards and thieves and wars and usurpers. Ratimir twirled the cork between the fingers of his left hand as he began marching westward. “And that is when the soldiers set upon us…”
Let the evaluations commence, indeed!
This is an enjoyable fantasy story, except apparently it's kind of not fantasy?, and I had a few odd experiences with it as I struggled to adjust my expectations midstream. We're introduced to Hob, Ratimir and Dalibor, which sounded to my ears like generic fantasy names, until in the second scene we hear about "Engilram of the Saxons", and Saxon is definitely an actually-on-Earth thing. Then we hear about King Bogomil of Polencin, which grounds us firmly in fantasy again (or at least my googling failed to find any real-world analogues for either of those) — except later in the story we get the dialogue "Head west, to Italy. Or north to Saxony", and there's no way that ISN'T supposed to be set in Europe or some alternate-universe version of it.
(note: If Italy is west, then Saxony isn't north. It's northwest at best. I struggled for a while to figure out where this was supposed to be set, under the assumption that using Earth names meant it's supposed to be historical fiction — and while many of the parts line up, like being east of Italy and many of the names being of Eastern European origin, other parts like Polencin and Bogomil left me stranded. The best guess I've got is that "Lord Borivoi" is supposed to be Duke Borivoj, which sets this in Bohemia around the 9th century, except that's way north of Italy.
And, ironically, given the story you tell, while "Bogomil" is a perfectly cromulent regional name — being Slavic for "dear to God" — what Bogomil is most closely associated with is a gnostic movement called Bogomilism whose followers "refused to pay taxes, to work in serfdom, or to fight in conquering wars".)
That all feels nitpicky, so take the critique with a grain of salt. But frankly, over half of my time engaging with this story has been trying to figure out what the heck your setting is, and I'd much rather have been focusing on the story itself. :( It would be very easy to back your names away from real ones if you're trying to give it a fantasy-Europe feel, but if you're trying to make it historically accurate by using names of actual dukes, etc., it should be actually accurate. Right now you're splitting the difference and it's pretty disorienting to me.
But pulling back from that into a more general "how's the story" …
First of all, author, I really appreciate a lot of the heavy lifting this does through implication; as much as I just criticized the setting incoherence above, the fact that all of that worldbuilding is worked in subtly and quietly means that the story invites engagement from readers trying to tease out those little details, and the source of my disappointment is that I followed that invitation and got lost — as opposed to many stories where I don't even get that chance. I really want to see everything lined up with a later editing pass, because this sort of layering in of background detail is absolutely the right way to draw us into a rich world. If anything, I'd like to see more subtle detail brought out that way, because this is one of the rare stories that I feel doesn't tell us enough, rather than the usual mistake of overcorrecting toward exposition.
The second biggest example of that is Hob. We never get a physical description, other than the scar he shows us, which threw me at a critical plot point. He doesn't react to the boys as someone closer to their generation than to Dalibor's, nor does Dalibor ever treat him as a much younger man. Based on the initial framing, I had pictured him as an older man, retired from a full life of adventuring rather than just a few years of it. So when Hob takes Ratimir's place in the back room of the glassblowing shop, what should have been a really awesome moment was spoiled somewhat by the "Wait, what?" effect of everyone just rolling with Dalibor calling him son. I would establish his relative youth WAY earlier, perhaps along with some further framing of the effects of the injury that caused him to lay off adventuring so young. (The burn never seems to cause him pain or restrict his actions, and if we don't see him injured enough to affect his viability as a fighter, I'll assume he has to have "aged out" of the profession.)
Aside from that, though, I loved the ending twist. The story as a whole was good, really. It felt well-paced and the characters were vibrant for the space we got. The only one I never got a good read on was Dalibor; twice he heckles Hob for lying, is immediately shown up with evidence, and then just pivots into rolling with what Hob says without acknowledging their disagreement. He needs some more consistency that isn't "guy who hates the protagonist for unexplained reasons". I'd love to see a little more backstory worked in that explained why he's so hostile in the first place.
All in all, this was an enjoyable start to my reading. If anything drags it down my slate it'll be the aforementioned roughness of the current draft, which should be easy to fix with editing. Thanks for sharing!
Tier: Strong
This is an enjoyable fantasy story, except apparently it's kind of not fantasy?, and I had a few odd experiences with it as I struggled to adjust my expectations midstream. We're introduced to Hob, Ratimir and Dalibor, which sounded to my ears like generic fantasy names, until in the second scene we hear about "Engilram of the Saxons", and Saxon is definitely an actually-on-Earth thing. Then we hear about King Bogomil of Polencin, which grounds us firmly in fantasy again (or at least my googling failed to find any real-world analogues for either of those) — except later in the story we get the dialogue "Head west, to Italy. Or north to Saxony", and there's no way that ISN'T supposed to be set in Europe or some alternate-universe version of it.
(note: If Italy is west, then Saxony isn't north. It's northwest at best. I struggled for a while to figure out where this was supposed to be set, under the assumption that using Earth names meant it's supposed to be historical fiction — and while many of the parts line up, like being east of Italy and many of the names being of Eastern European origin, other parts like Polencin and Bogomil left me stranded. The best guess I've got is that "Lord Borivoi" is supposed to be Duke Borivoj, which sets this in Bohemia around the 9th century, except that's way north of Italy.
And, ironically, given the story you tell, while "Bogomil" is a perfectly cromulent regional name — being Slavic for "dear to God" — what Bogomil is most closely associated with is a gnostic movement called Bogomilism whose followers "refused to pay taxes, to work in serfdom, or to fight in conquering wars".)
That all feels nitpicky, so take the critique with a grain of salt. But frankly, over half of my time engaging with this story has been trying to figure out what the heck your setting is, and I'd much rather have been focusing on the story itself. :( It would be very easy to back your names away from real ones if you're trying to give it a fantasy-Europe feel, but if you're trying to make it historically accurate by using names of actual dukes, etc., it should be actually accurate. Right now you're splitting the difference and it's pretty disorienting to me.
But pulling back from that into a more general "how's the story" …
First of all, author, I really appreciate a lot of the heavy lifting this does through implication; as much as I just criticized the setting incoherence above, the fact that all of that worldbuilding is worked in subtly and quietly means that the story invites engagement from readers trying to tease out those little details, and the source of my disappointment is that I followed that invitation and got lost — as opposed to many stories where I don't even get that chance. I really want to see everything lined up with a later editing pass, because this sort of layering in of background detail is absolutely the right way to draw us into a rich world. If anything, I'd like to see more subtle detail brought out that way, because this is one of the rare stories that I feel doesn't tell us enough, rather than the usual mistake of overcorrecting toward exposition.
The second biggest example of that is Hob. We never get a physical description, other than the scar he shows us, which threw me at a critical plot point. He doesn't react to the boys as someone closer to their generation than to Dalibor's, nor does Dalibor ever treat him as a much younger man. Based on the initial framing, I had pictured him as an older man, retired from a full life of adventuring rather than just a few years of it. So when Hob takes Ratimir's place in the back room of the glassblowing shop, what should have been a really awesome moment was spoiled somewhat by the "Wait, what?" effect of everyone just rolling with Dalibor calling him son. I would establish his relative youth WAY earlier, perhaps along with some further framing of the effects of the injury that caused him to lay off adventuring so young. (The burn never seems to cause him pain or restrict his actions, and if we don't see him injured enough to affect his viability as a fighter, I'll assume he has to have "aged out" of the profession.)
Aside from that, though, I loved the ending twist. The story as a whole was good, really. It felt well-paced and the characters were vibrant for the space we got. The only one I never got a good read on was Dalibor; twice he heckles Hob for lying, is immediately shown up with evidence, and then just pivots into rolling with what Hob says without acknowledging their disagreement. He needs some more consistency that isn't "guy who hates the protagonist for unexplained reasons". I'd love to see a little more backstory worked in that explained why he's so hostile in the first place.
All in all, this was an enjoyable start to my reading. If anything drags it down my slate it'll be the aforementioned roughness of the current draft, which should be easy to fix with editing. Thanks for sharing!
Tier: Strong
I'll echo:
>>horizon's point about needing a better physical description of Hob for the ending to click, and I'll also suggest that, instead of giving us just the line "the boys invented daring tales of action and heroism", show us Ratimir specifically taking the lead on this. I'd like to see him being something more than the other village boys to again give more weight to the ending. Good stuff here, though.
Mike
>>horizon's point about needing a better physical description of Hob for the ending to click, and I'll also suggest that, instead of giving us just the line "the boys invented daring tales of action and heroism", show us Ratimir specifically taking the lead on this. I'd like to see him being something more than the other village boys to again give more weight to the ending. Good stuff here, though.
Mike
This came together nicely. I'm not troubled by the setting's consistency, or possible lack thereof. This announced itself as generic medieval land early on, and it's not a setting story, so that's all you really need.
The plot itself is simple but effective. We're led from thinking Hob is a self-serving egoist to seeing he does have some conception of honour. And it's complete -- it touches all the bases it needs to, which puts ahead of many plots I've seen so far.
However ... This is very much a character-driven story. Most of the drama turns on what the characters value and believe in, and the choices they make. As things stand, they seem rather threadbare. Ratimir and Dalibor especially -- they're father and son, and this is a crucial point, but we see almost nothing of their relationship. As things stand, their motivations are understandable but generic. Hob, too -- was he always honourable, or was he a liar who changed his mind at the end? If the latter, we should see what caused him to make that decision. By making them feel more like real people, your ending will have more power.
Beyond that, all I can suggest is polish to make things clearer. How old is Hob? Is his arm actually broken (he doesn't reach to being bashed with a pipe, but later it seems to have done some damage).
The plot itself is simple but effective. We're led from thinking Hob is a self-serving egoist to seeing he does have some conception of honour. And it's complete -- it touches all the bases it needs to, which puts ahead of many plots I've seen so far.
However ... This is very much a character-driven story. Most of the drama turns on what the characters value and believe in, and the choices they make. As things stand, they seem rather threadbare. Ratimir and Dalibor especially -- they're father and son, and this is a crucial point, but we see almost nothing of their relationship. As things stand, their motivations are understandable but generic. Hob, too -- was he always honourable, or was he a liar who changed his mind at the end? If the latter, we should see what caused him to make that decision. By making them feel more like real people, your ending will have more power.
Beyond that, all I can suggest is polish to make things clearer. How old is Hob? Is his arm actually broken (he doesn't reach to being bashed with a pipe, but later it seems to have done some damage).
It’s a nice little story, but a bit shallow to me. The “twist” is very classic.
Bogdana means “God’s gift” also in Slavic. I think the story might take place in former Yugo- (=South) Slavia. That would explain the position of Italy in the West and Saxony (presumably Austria) North.
I have little to say apart from this. It’s a nice piece, but it doesn’t leave a lasting taste in mouth.
Bogdana means “God’s gift” also in Slavic. I think the story might take place in former Yugo- (=South) Slavia. That would explain the position of Italy in the West and Saxony (presumably Austria) North.
I have little to say apart from this. It’s a nice piece, but it doesn’t leave a lasting taste in mouth.
>>horizon
>>Baal Bunny
>>Scramblers and Shadows
>>Monokeras
Thank you all for your comments. Very helpful.
I did set this in a vaguely-defined place in a vaguely-defined time, somewhere in the slavic lands sometime in the medieval ages. Italy is vaguely to the west, and Saxony is vaguely to the north-ish.
Fun story. I had no idea what I was going to write. All day at work on Friday, I was trying to think of a hook for a story. Nothing. Saturday afternoon, I thought I should write about the message being the booze in the bottle. Then I had the idea for a storyteller who trades stories for booze. But I couldn't get past the second paragraph. Sunday afternoon, I deleted the story. It just wasn't going anywhere.
Thought I'd go to bed early. The wife asked how my story was going. Told her I deleted it. She asked what it was about. Not much. She said, "why don't you have it end this way?"
Actually a pretty good idea.
So I got up and hammered out the story in about two hours.
Turns out, I completely misunderstood what she meant. But it was a decent attempt, I think.
>>Baal Bunny
>>Scramblers and Shadows
>>Monokeras
Thank you all for your comments. Very helpful.
I did set this in a vaguely-defined place in a vaguely-defined time, somewhere in the slavic lands sometime in the medieval ages. Italy is vaguely to the west, and Saxony is vaguely to the north-ish.
Fun story. I had no idea what I was going to write. All day at work on Friday, I was trying to think of a hook for a story. Nothing. Saturday afternoon, I thought I should write about the message being the booze in the bottle. Then I had the idea for a storyteller who trades stories for booze. But I couldn't get past the second paragraph. Sunday afternoon, I deleted the story. It just wasn't going anywhere.
Thought I'd go to bed early. The wife asked how my story was going. Told her I deleted it. She asked what it was about. Not much. She said, "why don't you have it end this way?"
Actually a pretty good idea.
So I got up and hammered out the story in about two hours.
Turns out, I completely misunderstood what she meant. But it was a decent attempt, I think.
>>Hap
Now you got me really curious as to what she meant :/
Turns out, I completely misunderstood what she meant.
Now you got me really curious as to what she meant :/
>>MLPmatthewl419
I think she had intended for the last scene to feature Ratimir, all grown up, having earned his own stories to tell, finding a bottle on the side of the road that inspired him to remember Hob and begin spinning a tale much like the one you read.
I think she had intended for the last scene to feature Ratimir, all grown up, having earned his own stories to tell, finding a bottle on the side of the road that inspired him to remember Hob and begin spinning a tale much like the one you read.