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Journey to the Waru Wolf of Arukadiland
LADY VICTORIA DARTMOOR’S JOURNAL
3 May.– Tonight, mine ears dine upon the finest sound in idyllic Arukadiland: the crying of the Waru Wolf. A mysterious beast of starlight and shadow, much discussed by the merchants my father dealt with. It prowls Arukadiland, howling so beautifully that the heart is struck by its divine beauty. Only its pelt outclasses its call.
I must discover it! No man may confront the beast and live, but I am no man. Neither typhoon nor tidal wave shall stay this lady about her duty!
I lodge tonight with Sir Mackleby of the eastern mines. Darkest Africa lies just over the horizon. I cannot wait to open that battle-hardened heart!
14 May.– Finally, I am granted an audience with Lord Mackleby. He spent the last few days organizing slave activities across the eastern mines, having scarce visited the manor; it appears the indigenous population have given him grief. I cannot blame them – a cornered hyena shall show courage when manhandled by men – but this delay is simply frustrating.
Lord Mackleby insisted I desist. The Waru Wolf is but a myth; it is only the delicacy of my sex which compels him to forgive me my sanity. My sanity! I daresay I am saner than he, who refuses to believe what his ears hear but his eyes see not!
His company offends me. He is a mere auditor, a collector of leaves. A tedious companion. One who rarely ventures beyond his home should venture no opinions beyond his ken.
25 May.– My journey across Darkest Africa reaches another impasse. The locomotives of the Corrugated Company simply do not venture far enough through the jungles. Intolerable!
Though I have enjoyed the view of the jungles and valleys of magnificent Arukadiland from the carriage windows, the journey has increased my hunger for victory. I have seen the Galoombo Giant of Belphegia, the Lake Leviathan of Daemonis, and the Fire Fish of Malba: merely a camelopard, a seal, and a fraudulent tribesman respectively. This time, the truth must be far more inspired!
6 June.– I traverse the river of Ooloodunyo – how I wish these absurd names would cease – on a rusty steamboat. The crew are saltier than I am accustomed to, but one is indebted to such noble souls, regardless of their lowly birth. Many refused to have a woman aboard their vessel. Laughable superstitions. Why, my presence was blessed providence: My knowledge of traditional herbal medicine, gleaned from the war-torn lands of Belphegia, helped me treat several injuries. My presence was granted more graciousness after this display of skill!
17 June.– Even the river no longer aids me. Despite the unsanitary conditions, I lodge in a backwater village with the natives. Most regard me with suspicion, especially the womenfolk, despite my dress being considerably more modest than theirs – at least, what little remains, given the frankly abysmal physical conditions. All warn me against seeking out the Waru Wolf, but I hear its heart-rending call every night. O, pray I am not disappointed in love again! Pray there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio!
28 June.– The chief of the village, a personal friend of the river folk who assisted me, led me to the den of the beast. I awaited its presence with bated breath.
In war-torn Darkest Africa, slaves and mines and disease rend the population asunder. How noble it would be to find here natural grace. My Lord in Heaven surely meant for this land to show us His wonders, His creations, not the ugliness of Sin.
Feeble as I am in war and strife, this much I can at least accomplish.
30 June.– With heavy heart, I conclude my travails. In the night, dreadful slavers attacked. Amid chaos, I stumbled into the chief’s den, and find disillusionment. A fake wolfskin, a wind instrument of curious design: I suspected its duplicitous use immediately, and so hidden, used its noble sound to frighten away the slavers. Not before they stole away with many fine savages of my acquaintance!
The villagers banished me, no longer trusting my kind, show kindness though I did. Another dream dashed. There is neither Wolf nor beauty. My bravery counts for nought.
Once more, I refuse to surrender. Legends tell of a Phoenix in Phanatoma. I pray biblical wonders yet remain upon God’s Earth, though I set out to humble Man, who shall not be humbled, and relive my childish innocence for an Eden long since destroyed.
3 May.– Tonight, mine ears dine upon the finest sound in idyllic Arukadiland: the crying of the Waru Wolf. A mysterious beast of starlight and shadow, much discussed by the merchants my father dealt with. It prowls Arukadiland, howling so beautifully that the heart is struck by its divine beauty. Only its pelt outclasses its call.
I must discover it! No man may confront the beast and live, but I am no man. Neither typhoon nor tidal wave shall stay this lady about her duty!
I lodge tonight with Sir Mackleby of the eastern mines. Darkest Africa lies just over the horizon. I cannot wait to open that battle-hardened heart!
14 May.– Finally, I am granted an audience with Lord Mackleby. He spent the last few days organizing slave activities across the eastern mines, having scarce visited the manor; it appears the indigenous population have given him grief. I cannot blame them – a cornered hyena shall show courage when manhandled by men – but this delay is simply frustrating.
Lord Mackleby insisted I desist. The Waru Wolf is but a myth; it is only the delicacy of my sex which compels him to forgive me my sanity. My sanity! I daresay I am saner than he, who refuses to believe what his ears hear but his eyes see not!
His company offends me. He is a mere auditor, a collector of leaves. A tedious companion. One who rarely ventures beyond his home should venture no opinions beyond his ken.
25 May.– My journey across Darkest Africa reaches another impasse. The locomotives of the Corrugated Company simply do not venture far enough through the jungles. Intolerable!
Though I have enjoyed the view of the jungles and valleys of magnificent Arukadiland from the carriage windows, the journey has increased my hunger for victory. I have seen the Galoombo Giant of Belphegia, the Lake Leviathan of Daemonis, and the Fire Fish of Malba: merely a camelopard, a seal, and a fraudulent tribesman respectively. This time, the truth must be far more inspired!
6 June.– I traverse the river of Ooloodunyo – how I wish these absurd names would cease – on a rusty steamboat. The crew are saltier than I am accustomed to, but one is indebted to such noble souls, regardless of their lowly birth. Many refused to have a woman aboard their vessel. Laughable superstitions. Why, my presence was blessed providence: My knowledge of traditional herbal medicine, gleaned from the war-torn lands of Belphegia, helped me treat several injuries. My presence was granted more graciousness after this display of skill!
17 June.– Even the river no longer aids me. Despite the unsanitary conditions, I lodge in a backwater village with the natives. Most regard me with suspicion, especially the womenfolk, despite my dress being considerably more modest than theirs – at least, what little remains, given the frankly abysmal physical conditions. All warn me against seeking out the Waru Wolf, but I hear its heart-rending call every night. O, pray I am not disappointed in love again! Pray there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio!
28 June.– The chief of the village, a personal friend of the river folk who assisted me, led me to the den of the beast. I awaited its presence with bated breath.
In war-torn Darkest Africa, slaves and mines and disease rend the population asunder. How noble it would be to find here natural grace. My Lord in Heaven surely meant for this land to show us His wonders, His creations, not the ugliness of Sin.
Feeble as I am in war and strife, this much I can at least accomplish.
30 June.– With heavy heart, I conclude my travails. In the night, dreadful slavers attacked. Amid chaos, I stumbled into the chief’s den, and find disillusionment. A fake wolfskin, a wind instrument of curious design: I suspected its duplicitous use immediately, and so hidden, used its noble sound to frighten away the slavers. Not before they stole away with many fine savages of my acquaintance!
The villagers banished me, no longer trusting my kind, show kindness though I did. Another dream dashed. There is neither Wolf nor beauty. My bravery counts for nought.
Once more, I refuse to surrender. Legends tell of a Phoenix in Phanatoma. I pray biblical wonders yet remain upon God’s Earth, though I set out to humble Man, who shall not be humbled, and relive my childish innocence for an Eden long since destroyed.
Pics
There's irony here, but I'm lost as to what the message even is. Uncomfortable subjects are introduced, but not used for anything. All I'm getting out of this is that the narrator is a quixotic fool?
It feels like a joke told in the wrong order. It's not clear what her motivation is until the very last line. Yet early on it's alreadyforeshadowed revealed that these myths are all fakes. I'm not really attached to her, so the irony of bringing up slavery feels distant as well. Logically I know she's not such a good person, but instead of shock or disgust or whatever, I feel nothing.
It feels like a joke told in the wrong order. It's not clear what her motivation is until the very last line. Yet early on it's already
>>Haze
I'm not sure why there has to be a particular message? I'm also not sure there's much irony?
This is a decent adventure into the unknown wilderness story told here in a very tight word limit, and some excellent voice work. The author has nailed the prissy yet independent noblewoman voice. The motivation is the journey, the chasing of supernatural and fantastical rumors. Not sure why that would need to be explained.
There is some interesting moral grey territory. Want to root for the character because she's being looked down on for her sex, but don't want to root for her because she doesn't mind slavery. But this aspect of the fic is a little underdeveloped. It's tied with some religious talk, seeking God's beauty, ignores the ugliness of sin that is slavery. But still, underdeveloped.
Some good writing here, and good use of the word limit, but the moralizing does feel unfocused.
I'm not sure why there has to be a particular message? I'm also not sure there's much irony?
This is a decent adventure into the unknown wilderness story told here in a very tight word limit, and some excellent voice work. The author has nailed the prissy yet independent noblewoman voice. The motivation is the journey, the chasing of supernatural and fantastical rumors. Not sure why that would need to be explained.
There is some interesting moral grey territory. Want to root for the character because she's being looked down on for her sex, but don't want to root for her because she doesn't mind slavery. But this aspect of the fic is a little underdeveloped. It's tied with some religious talk, seeking God's beauty, ignores the ugliness of sin that is slavery. But still, underdeveloped.
Some good writing here, and good use of the word limit, but the moralizing does feel unfocused.
Alternate Title: The Crazy African Queen
Re-reading these entries for my reviews has given me the chance to appreciate stories I was not so fond of at first. It also gives me the chance to rethink my assessment of a story I really liked upon first read.
The is more a case of the latter. When I first read The Waru Wolf of Arukadiland (what a name) I placed it near the top of my slate. It has a lot of things I like in a mystery/literary entry, and most of the remain perfectly intact still.
I like "river of madness" type stories, and this is basically one of them. The protagonist, whose name I had to check because it's only mentioned once, is kind of a crazy bitch. Not in an endearing or figurative way, but more in the sense that she probably belongs in a mental hospital, or an asylum as would've the go-to option at the time.
It took me some detail-picking to come to the conclusion that this takes place in the mid-19th century, or thereabouts. Stuffy British Commonwealth stuff. Victoria is kind of an interesting character, though, because despite being insane in the membrane she's not a malicious person (at least no more so than a perfectly sane person), and unlike many ladies of her time went out of her way for a taste of adventure. She's not married, as far as I know, though I don't know if she's supposed to be young or old.
But sure, let's have a slightly Shakespearean British woman try to find a mystical wolf in the middle of the African jungle.
This is one of the very few entries where I find myself reading it in a certain voice, guessing what Victoria must sound like, that takes a lot of effort on the author's part, to write in such a way that is really immersive.
Probably why this and a certain other fic that pulls a similar trick later are two of my favorites.
Now, enjoyable as it is, this is a pretty predictable story. You go in expecting her to not find what she's looking for, and you'd be right about that. The diary format, though perfectly robust, seems too formally laid out (but this could be a byproduct of the character's general formality), and doesn't do much to raise tension or a sense of mystery.
There are a few other things I can nitpick (Is Mackleby a Sir or a Lord? Are those titles mutually exclusive?) but I can't find anything even close to deal-breaking, subjectively speaking.
A damn fine read, kind sir or madam.
Re-reading these entries for my reviews has given me the chance to appreciate stories I was not so fond of at first. It also gives me the chance to rethink my assessment of a story I really liked upon first read.
The is more a case of the latter. When I first read The Waru Wolf of Arukadiland (what a name) I placed it near the top of my slate. It has a lot of things I like in a mystery/literary entry, and most of the remain perfectly intact still.
I like "river of madness" type stories, and this is basically one of them. The protagonist, whose name I had to check because it's only mentioned once, is kind of a crazy bitch. Not in an endearing or figurative way, but more in the sense that she probably belongs in a mental hospital, or an asylum as would've the go-to option at the time.
It took me some detail-picking to come to the conclusion that this takes place in the mid-19th century, or thereabouts. Stuffy British Commonwealth stuff. Victoria is kind of an interesting character, though, because despite being insane in the membrane she's not a malicious person (at least no more so than a perfectly sane person), and unlike many ladies of her time went out of her way for a taste of adventure. She's not married, as far as I know, though I don't know if she's supposed to be young or old.
But sure, let's have a slightly Shakespearean British woman try to find a mystical wolf in the middle of the African jungle.
This is one of the very few entries where I find myself reading it in a certain voice, guessing what Victoria must sound like, that takes a lot of effort on the author's part, to write in such a way that is really immersive.
Probably why this and a certain other fic that pulls a similar trick later are two of my favorites.
Now, enjoyable as it is, this is a pretty predictable story. You go in expecting her to not find what she's looking for, and you'd be right about that. The diary format, though perfectly robust, seems too formally laid out (but this could be a byproduct of the character's general formality), and doesn't do much to raise tension or a sense of mystery.
There are a few other things I can nitpick (Is Mackleby a Sir or a Lord? Are those titles mutually exclusive?) but I can't find anything even close to deal-breaking, subjectively speaking.
A damn fine read, kind sir or madam.
Is it a blend of Out of Africa and Seven Gothic Tales, both by Karen Blixen?
Well, I agree the style and vocabulary is spot on, but the tale suffers from the short format. It’s much too condensed and laconic to be really evocative, and that might be why it sounded ironic to some. I wish there were longer description of both landscape and people. As such, it more evokes to me a sort of tabletop game where the protagonist would jump from square to square.
Well, I agree the style and vocabulary is spot on, but the tale suffers from the short format. It’s much too condensed and laconic to be really evocative, and that might be why it sounded ironic to some. I wish there were longer description of both landscape and people. As such, it more evokes to me a sort of tabletop game where the protagonist would jump from square to square.
This entry made more sense than many of the others, but I admit it took a bit to get into it. I think it could use a stronger opener.
So here we have an explorer in the golden age of exploration. Pith helmets and Doctor Livingston, I presume. Never get out of the boat.
Her acceptance of slavery didn't bother me, it being a period piece and all. She did mention "war and slavery" and corporate exploitation being Sin with a capital S.
She had a consistent and distinct voice, but the choice of a diary format sort of robbed the tension from the story. If she had died, we wouldn't know about it. This means you have to get your tension from some other source; maybe her civilized religious notions versus slavery or her naivete versus the cruelties of tribal warfare. But none of those were more than background flavor.
The conflict here was between her wanting to find mythical creatures, and... not finding them. Her belief in the wondrous and the reality of a broken world she accepts without question. Her faith was in the idea that the world harbors mysterious wonders, and she took risks to discover them. In the end, her faith was shaken but not broken.
I think this was a good story, but it could use a stronger opening. The theme needed to be hammered home with a bit more focus, but I liked it, once I got into it.
So here we have an explorer in the golden age of exploration. Pith helmets and Doctor Livingston, I presume. Never get out of the boat.
Her acceptance of slavery didn't bother me, it being a period piece and all. She did mention "war and slavery" and corporate exploitation being Sin with a capital S.
She had a consistent and distinct voice, but the choice of a diary format sort of robbed the tension from the story. If she had died, we wouldn't know about it. This means you have to get your tension from some other source; maybe her civilized religious notions versus slavery or her naivete versus the cruelties of tribal warfare. But none of those were more than background flavor.
The conflict here was between her wanting to find mythical creatures, and... not finding them. Her belief in the wondrous and the reality of a broken world she accepts without question. Her faith was in the idea that the world harbors mysterious wonders, and she took risks to discover them. In the end, her faith was shaken but not broken.
I think this was a good story, but it could use a stronger opening. The theme needed to be hammered home with a bit more focus, but I liked it, once I got into it.