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The Crystal Palace
Björn was the mightiest of all adventurers.
Björn was tall. So tall that when he looked down at you, you felt like a bug creeping on the ground. He could trample on you inadvertently every second you stayed close. That’s why no one did.
Björn was big and brawny. So brawny that the lightest of his handshakes would have crushed everyone else’s hand. That’s why he never clasped the hands of anyone. His own hands were reserved for his sturdiest friends: his swords.
Björn was fierce and feral. He had glassy, yellow-green eyes, ensconced under furry eyebrows, that seemed to burn with an inner blaze. His massive orange hair was matted and tousled, and so was his impenetrable beard. He resembled a lion trapped in a human body. Or a bear. Legend had it that he was indeed the wicked offspring of an unholy rape: his mother, then barely in her teens, had gone lost in the woods and fallen prey to the infamous bear spirit which feeds on the helpless travelers. That was the origin of his name.
But only featherbrains believed in legends. Who his true father was, no one knew. His mother had been struck mad by the incident, and she had died bearing him to light, carrying away her secret with her. Maybe it was no bear but a lecherous god, unable to resist the appeal of a young, wispy beauty astray in a shady wold?
When Björn spake, it was like rolling thunder: glasses shook, branches fell, even the earth shuddered. And when he walked, windows shattered, trees crashed, earth cracked. Everyone but the bravest, or the most foolish, men fled. Women fainted. Children hid away, huddling and covering their ears.
Yet, Björn was no evil fellow. He was even helpful, always ready to lend a hand to distressed people or rescue villages beleaguered by infamous monsters. One could even have said that Björn was a nice fellow. Some went so far as to venture that he could have been king, if Nature hadn’t made him but the mockery of a human. To be fair, Björn had no real weaknesses, but a single one: he was greedy.
Even his giant body couldn’t match the extent of his greed.
How many foes had Björn slain? How many dragons lay now lifeless, their scaly body pierced by the point of his deadly sword? How many dens and pits had he raided and looted? No one could keep the tally. Nor had anyone ever contemplated the riches he was hoarding in his lair — for no one knew exactly where he dwelt. Only one thing was certain: had he owned all the gold and gemstones the gods had endowed the world with, he would have craved for more.
So it came to no surprise to the wise that one day, Björn declared he would set off for the Crystal Palace.
The Crystal Palace was the one monument in the empire whose origin was the most shrouded in antiquity. When Ruc’h, the most powerful wizard that ever came to be, began to grow old, he decided it was time to retreat in a quiet, lonely place, far from the rumbustiousness of the rabble. So he conjured up a cohort of demons, enslaved them, and forced them to build a castle of glass and crystal, set in the remotest glade of the deepest forest. And thus was the Crystal Palace put up.
But the demons, infuriated to have been inthralled, secretly turned on him and studded the castle with invisible traps and weird curvatures even he, the wittiest of all magicians, could not comprehend. Then they concealed their tricks using mirrors and carefully crafted walls that deceived the sight. And the very day the masterwork was finished, when Ruc’h moved in with his spell books and treasures, he was ensnared and doomed to wander aimlessly in the glassy labyrinth the demons had devised for him, until he passed of exhaustion.
Reportedly, jinns then settled for a while in the deserted building, but eventually abandoned it – though seers pretend the most mischievous of them still linger in its premises. Thus did the palace stand forlorn and lifeless, like a invaluable gem set in the heart of the darkest forest, while ivy slowly grew its vines on the shiny walls and thorny bushes encircled it as immobile guardians watching over riches all but uncountable. Eventually, even its location was forgotten.
And so it came to pass that the first day of summer, Björn set out with his mighty sword and his longest bow and disappeared forever from human sight, for no one was to ever see him again. What little is known of his story comes from a handful of stained, yellowed and dog-eared scrolls recovered by an archeological expedition in the midst of the ruins of the hoary city of Dâar. How these parchments arrived in that place is anyone's guess, for as far as memory recalls, Dâar has always been surrounded by the driest of all deserts. Yet, all the experts that have been entrusted with them have delivered the same verdict: they were genuine. And they determined that the strange brown ink used to form the letters of the final lines was indeed human blood, probably the blood of the writer himself.
And here is what the folios narrate. The first ones have been rather well preserved:
Today, I’m happy. When I set out, I was a young man, I had strength and vigor and spunk. Year after year I roved and meandered through the empire, chasing rumors and following even the least tangible leads, looking for the most precious, yet the more carefully concealed treasure. But today my quest ended. As I sit here, lost in the innards of the wildest forest, I behold the sun setting behind a mound. And upon this mound sits the jewel of the jewels, and the crimson rays of the dying star are deflected and magnified by it, cast and recast by its invisible walls in a rainbow of infinite hues and shapes, so that the eye of the beholder is both enthralled and fooled.
Today, I reached the entrance. It was no easy task. I had to slash my way through the thick underbrush made of thorny bushes and shrubs that cut deep gashes and ate away at my leather armor. It took me all day to get through, but here I am, finally standing before the mighty gates. Gates that have not been opened for ages. They are all chiseled, adorned with strange letters I cannot decipher, with kinky curlicues and beautiful filigree in-between. But it is late, and I dare not enter when darkness is about to claim dominion over the world. Let me sleep here, and do as any king does: enter their palaces with the rising sun.
Finally, I did not step in, but decided I first had to walk around the building in order to assess its extent. By the gods of the underworld, I wasn’t expecting what I found. I thought one or two hours would be enough for me to circle around the premises, but I was wrong. It took the entire day. How big this place is, I dare not imagine. When I look up, all I see are sheer walls that seem to stretch up to the heavens. Yet I know this place is finite, but it might take weeks to explore. Fortunately, I have food and water enough to sustain me for a year, at least.
Today, I am in. With the first rays of the sun I opened the gates. It was ridiculously easy, as if they were weightless. What kind of magic is at work here, I cannot tell. The hall that lay beyond is magnificent. A majestic room with rows of colonnades all along reaching so high I found myself small in comparison. The sun rays are caught and reflected by the various surfaces, forming colorful designs of the utmost beauty, always at variance as one progresses or as the sun moves in the sky. It is splendid. I could sit there, look at it for hours and yet never see twice the same design. But it is not what I am here to claim. So I walked onward to the far wall and climbed its majestic stairs and thence to explore the second level, avoiding all other stairs leading up and down. I intend to proceed methodically, charting every room and corridor so as not to get lost. Did I explore all the rooms of that level, I have no way to know. Secret passages may exist, and some rooms might be reachable only from other levels. But here I stand, back to the landing of the main stairs, with nothing much to relate. The rooms were all empty and silent. Also, the light is different here. No longer iridescent as in the entrance hall, it transformed into a white, milky substance which suffuses every inch of space, as if the walls were built of frosty glass. Yet, when my hand strokes their surface, I feel only polished, smooth finish. And now the night is about to fall, and everything around me slowly fades away in darkness and silence. A silence so absolute I can hear the beating of my heart.
No. Darkness is not complete. Now I can see that the walls glow with a delicate, almost imperceptible light. Where does it come from, I have no way to tell. Sometimes I can glimpse strange black designs form behind the walls, but their shape is blurred, and they shift and skitter in all directions, as if living creatures were scurrying along invisible ducts inside the glass. But it’s not possible. I tried to break the wall with my sword, but it didn’t yield. How thick it is, I cannot guess, but there is certainly no nooks or burrows inside it. Besides, I don’t think those shapes are any sort of threat, just shadows cast and magnified by whatever huge flames cause that light to exist.
I would swear I’ve been touched. I was asleep when something icy grazed me. I jumped to my feet and looked around, but saw nothing barring the ever-changing shadows in the walls. I sat with my back against the wall, too scared to go back to sleep. I thought that the place was silent, but now I can hear a faint wailing, like a muffled dirge echoing from an unknown distance. It is probably only the wind fiddling on some remote broken window, but it gives me goosebumps.
I am stuck. Somehow I shall have fallen back asleep. When I woke up, the sun has risen. I wanted to go back to the entrance hall and check for other stairs but discovered that an invisible glass panel had somehow been put up during the night, blocking the entrance of the stairway leading downwards. Foolishly, I tried to break the panel with the hilt of my sword. And indeed it broke, but in doing so it shattered also half of the staircase beyond it. In a pandemonium of tinny din, it sundered and fell down to unknown depths. If I kneel over the edge of the landing and look down, I can’t see anything save that pervading milky glow that engulfs all things into a hazy, bottomless pit. The part of the staircase that still stands is too far away to reach, even for me, even leaping. It would be sheer folly to attempt a jump.
And now what am I to do? I have no choice but go forward and be less rash.
Found a passageway to the third level! Can’t even imagine how I missed it yesterday.
I saw it! I saw it! I was exploring the third level, which is as empty as the second, when I entered a large room with a huge floating glass orb in its middle, surrounded by a glass spiral staircase. I’m not sure how it works but if you look inside it, depending on the angle, you can see through the walls into other rooms, possibly even far distant. I saw the entrance hall and countless empty rooms but – oh gods of the dawn – I also saw a room full of gold pieces and gems and old grimoires. And atop it, set in the ceiling was a giant ruby which shone like living fire. Judging from the slant of my eyes, it must be only a couple of levels above me. I have to find it. Have to find it!
The third level is deserted. Void rooms and bare corridors. Found no way up. Have to eat and rest and try again tomorrow.
The muffled dirge has resumed with the night. Seems louder now. Could it be sung from above rather than below? It definitely carries words with it, though it is too faint to be understandable. Walls glow their usual whitish light as shadows dance inside the walls.
I’ve been wounded. Something hit me while I was sleeping. My thigh has been cut and bleeds, though I can see no damage to the thick leather cuisse. Fortunately it is only superficial, nothing I can’t take care of. But some dark magic must be at work here.
Am up, am up into forth. Passages must shift during the night, that’s the only explanation.
There ends the first part of the testimony. What rest has been collected is only fragmentary.
…was wrong. Unknown lenses focus sunlight into deadly rays that shift and sweep the corridors, cutting through flesh and setting things afire. Have been hit by one […] off guard, hopefully deflected by the metal pieces of my shield. Hurts, but can still go ahead.
[…]no passage up. […] night […] voices and laughs over the dirge. Blobs of light in the walls. […] converge towards the room am in […] living things? […] attacked again […] in mid-air thought I hit something huge. Must be guardians! Glass guardians! Invisible at night. Swing […] cursed laughter. […] crash the wall. […] must be near.
Sunlight at last. Must rest. Heaps of shards everywhere, walls […] pool of blood. Cuts everywhere on my arms and legs. […]sleep[…]
Rays! Sun rays sliced through […] as I was asleep. I scrambled up, leaning against the walls. Must find a passage. Worn out. There it is, there it is! […] What? […] raining from the ceiling. […] crumbling down. […] no substance. My hand passed through it […] trick of the light […] eyes deceived. Everything around me crashing. […] just a matter of seconds […]
CRYSTAL PALACE
A crystal palace is a popular expression that means “con scheme” or “skullduggery”. It turned out this financial operation was a crystal palace set up by the Italian government. (R. Grosvenor, Travel to Rome, p. 34). It was still widely in use at the turn of the century, but seems to have become slightly outdated since (maybe too “cliché”).
Origin
The idiom can be traced back to medieval times. Its ultimate origins are obscure, though the image is self-explanatory. Greg Walter (On the Origins of Medieval Turns of Phrase, p. 56 et seq.) relates it to an obscure legend narrating the building of a remote and hidden palace made of glass, in which riches uncounted would have been abandoned and left up to grabs for anyone daring to enter. The treasure, however, would never have existed and the palace was a crafty deceit meant to attract, trap and kill the greediest adventurers.
There is no trace of such a legend or tale in any serious compendium book of medieval folklore, which makes Walter’s hypothesis unsubstantiated. No other scholar has ever quoted it, and it is cited here only for completion’s sake.
Björn was tall. So tall that when he looked down at you, you felt like a bug creeping on the ground. He could trample on you inadvertently every second you stayed close. That’s why no one did.
Björn was big and brawny. So brawny that the lightest of his handshakes would have crushed everyone else’s hand. That’s why he never clasped the hands of anyone. His own hands were reserved for his sturdiest friends: his swords.
Björn was fierce and feral. He had glassy, yellow-green eyes, ensconced under furry eyebrows, that seemed to burn with an inner blaze. His massive orange hair was matted and tousled, and so was his impenetrable beard. He resembled a lion trapped in a human body. Or a bear. Legend had it that he was indeed the wicked offspring of an unholy rape: his mother, then barely in her teens, had gone lost in the woods and fallen prey to the infamous bear spirit which feeds on the helpless travelers. That was the origin of his name.
But only featherbrains believed in legends. Who his true father was, no one knew. His mother had been struck mad by the incident, and she had died bearing him to light, carrying away her secret with her. Maybe it was no bear but a lecherous god, unable to resist the appeal of a young, wispy beauty astray in a shady wold?
When Björn spake, it was like rolling thunder: glasses shook, branches fell, even the earth shuddered. And when he walked, windows shattered, trees crashed, earth cracked. Everyone but the bravest, or the most foolish, men fled. Women fainted. Children hid away, huddling and covering their ears.
Yet, Björn was no evil fellow. He was even helpful, always ready to lend a hand to distressed people or rescue villages beleaguered by infamous monsters. One could even have said that Björn was a nice fellow. Some went so far as to venture that he could have been king, if Nature hadn’t made him but the mockery of a human. To be fair, Björn had no real weaknesses, but a single one: he was greedy.
Even his giant body couldn’t match the extent of his greed.
How many foes had Björn slain? How many dragons lay now lifeless, their scaly body pierced by the point of his deadly sword? How many dens and pits had he raided and looted? No one could keep the tally. Nor had anyone ever contemplated the riches he was hoarding in his lair — for no one knew exactly where he dwelt. Only one thing was certain: had he owned all the gold and gemstones the gods had endowed the world with, he would have craved for more.
So it came to no surprise to the wise that one day, Björn declared he would set off for the Crystal Palace.
The Crystal Palace was the one monument in the empire whose origin was the most shrouded in antiquity. When Ruc’h, the most powerful wizard that ever came to be, began to grow old, he decided it was time to retreat in a quiet, lonely place, far from the rumbustiousness of the rabble. So he conjured up a cohort of demons, enslaved them, and forced them to build a castle of glass and crystal, set in the remotest glade of the deepest forest. And thus was the Crystal Palace put up.
But the demons, infuriated to have been inthralled, secretly turned on him and studded the castle with invisible traps and weird curvatures even he, the wittiest of all magicians, could not comprehend. Then they concealed their tricks using mirrors and carefully crafted walls that deceived the sight. And the very day the masterwork was finished, when Ruc’h moved in with his spell books and treasures, he was ensnared and doomed to wander aimlessly in the glassy labyrinth the demons had devised for him, until he passed of exhaustion.
Reportedly, jinns then settled for a while in the deserted building, but eventually abandoned it – though seers pretend the most mischievous of them still linger in its premises. Thus did the palace stand forlorn and lifeless, like a invaluable gem set in the heart of the darkest forest, while ivy slowly grew its vines on the shiny walls and thorny bushes encircled it as immobile guardians watching over riches all but uncountable. Eventually, even its location was forgotten.
And so it came to pass that the first day of summer, Björn set out with his mighty sword and his longest bow and disappeared forever from human sight, for no one was to ever see him again. What little is known of his story comes from a handful of stained, yellowed and dog-eared scrolls recovered by an archeological expedition in the midst of the ruins of the hoary city of Dâar. How these parchments arrived in that place is anyone's guess, for as far as memory recalls, Dâar has always been surrounded by the driest of all deserts. Yet, all the experts that have been entrusted with them have delivered the same verdict: they were genuine. And they determined that the strange brown ink used to form the letters of the final lines was indeed human blood, probably the blood of the writer himself.
And here is what the folios narrate. The first ones have been rather well preserved:
Today, I’m happy. When I set out, I was a young man, I had strength and vigor and spunk. Year after year I roved and meandered through the empire, chasing rumors and following even the least tangible leads, looking for the most precious, yet the more carefully concealed treasure. But today my quest ended. As I sit here, lost in the innards of the wildest forest, I behold the sun setting behind a mound. And upon this mound sits the jewel of the jewels, and the crimson rays of the dying star are deflected and magnified by it, cast and recast by its invisible walls in a rainbow of infinite hues and shapes, so that the eye of the beholder is both enthralled and fooled.
Today, I reached the entrance. It was no easy task. I had to slash my way through the thick underbrush made of thorny bushes and shrubs that cut deep gashes and ate away at my leather armor. It took me all day to get through, but here I am, finally standing before the mighty gates. Gates that have not been opened for ages. They are all chiseled, adorned with strange letters I cannot decipher, with kinky curlicues and beautiful filigree in-between. But it is late, and I dare not enter when darkness is about to claim dominion over the world. Let me sleep here, and do as any king does: enter their palaces with the rising sun.
Finally, I did not step in, but decided I first had to walk around the building in order to assess its extent. By the gods of the underworld, I wasn’t expecting what I found. I thought one or two hours would be enough for me to circle around the premises, but I was wrong. It took the entire day. How big this place is, I dare not imagine. When I look up, all I see are sheer walls that seem to stretch up to the heavens. Yet I know this place is finite, but it might take weeks to explore. Fortunately, I have food and water enough to sustain me for a year, at least.
Today, I am in. With the first rays of the sun I opened the gates. It was ridiculously easy, as if they were weightless. What kind of magic is at work here, I cannot tell. The hall that lay beyond is magnificent. A majestic room with rows of colonnades all along reaching so high I found myself small in comparison. The sun rays are caught and reflected by the various surfaces, forming colorful designs of the utmost beauty, always at variance as one progresses or as the sun moves in the sky. It is splendid. I could sit there, look at it for hours and yet never see twice the same design. But it is not what I am here to claim. So I walked onward to the far wall and climbed its majestic stairs and thence to explore the second level, avoiding all other stairs leading up and down. I intend to proceed methodically, charting every room and corridor so as not to get lost. Did I explore all the rooms of that level, I have no way to know. Secret passages may exist, and some rooms might be reachable only from other levels. But here I stand, back to the landing of the main stairs, with nothing much to relate. The rooms were all empty and silent. Also, the light is different here. No longer iridescent as in the entrance hall, it transformed into a white, milky substance which suffuses every inch of space, as if the walls were built of frosty glass. Yet, when my hand strokes their surface, I feel only polished, smooth finish. And now the night is about to fall, and everything around me slowly fades away in darkness and silence. A silence so absolute I can hear the beating of my heart.
No. Darkness is not complete. Now I can see that the walls glow with a delicate, almost imperceptible light. Where does it come from, I have no way to tell. Sometimes I can glimpse strange black designs form behind the walls, but their shape is blurred, and they shift and skitter in all directions, as if living creatures were scurrying along invisible ducts inside the glass. But it’s not possible. I tried to break the wall with my sword, but it didn’t yield. How thick it is, I cannot guess, but there is certainly no nooks or burrows inside it. Besides, I don’t think those shapes are any sort of threat, just shadows cast and magnified by whatever huge flames cause that light to exist.
I would swear I’ve been touched. I was asleep when something icy grazed me. I jumped to my feet and looked around, but saw nothing barring the ever-changing shadows in the walls. I sat with my back against the wall, too scared to go back to sleep. I thought that the place was silent, but now I can hear a faint wailing, like a muffled dirge echoing from an unknown distance. It is probably only the wind fiddling on some remote broken window, but it gives me goosebumps.
I am stuck. Somehow I shall have fallen back asleep. When I woke up, the sun has risen. I wanted to go back to the entrance hall and check for other stairs but discovered that an invisible glass panel had somehow been put up during the night, blocking the entrance of the stairway leading downwards. Foolishly, I tried to break the panel with the hilt of my sword. And indeed it broke, but in doing so it shattered also half of the staircase beyond it. In a pandemonium of tinny din, it sundered and fell down to unknown depths. If I kneel over the edge of the landing and look down, I can’t see anything save that pervading milky glow that engulfs all things into a hazy, bottomless pit. The part of the staircase that still stands is too far away to reach, even for me, even leaping. It would be sheer folly to attempt a jump.
And now what am I to do? I have no choice but go forward and be less rash.
Found a passageway to the third level! Can’t even imagine how I missed it yesterday.
I saw it! I saw it! I was exploring the third level, which is as empty as the second, when I entered a large room with a huge floating glass orb in its middle, surrounded by a glass spiral staircase. I’m not sure how it works but if you look inside it, depending on the angle, you can see through the walls into other rooms, possibly even far distant. I saw the entrance hall and countless empty rooms but – oh gods of the dawn – I also saw a room full of gold pieces and gems and old grimoires. And atop it, set in the ceiling was a giant ruby which shone like living fire. Judging from the slant of my eyes, it must be only a couple of levels above me. I have to find it. Have to find it!
The third level is deserted. Void rooms and bare corridors. Found no way up. Have to eat and rest and try again tomorrow.
The muffled dirge has resumed with the night. Seems louder now. Could it be sung from above rather than below? It definitely carries words with it, though it is too faint to be understandable. Walls glow their usual whitish light as shadows dance inside the walls.
I’ve been wounded. Something hit me while I was sleeping. My thigh has been cut and bleeds, though I can see no damage to the thick leather cuisse. Fortunately it is only superficial, nothing I can’t take care of. But some dark magic must be at work here.
Am up, am up into forth. Passages must shift during the night, that’s the only explanation.
There ends the first part of the testimony. What rest has been collected is only fragmentary.
…was wrong. Unknown lenses focus sunlight into deadly rays that shift and sweep the corridors, cutting through flesh and setting things afire. Have been hit by one […] off guard, hopefully deflected by the metal pieces of my shield. Hurts, but can still go ahead.
[…]no passage up. […] night […] voices and laughs over the dirge. Blobs of light in the walls. […] converge towards the room am in […] living things? […] attacked again […] in mid-air thought I hit something huge. Must be guardians! Glass guardians! Invisible at night. Swing […] cursed laughter. […] crash the wall. […] must be near.
Sunlight at last. Must rest. Heaps of shards everywhere, walls […] pool of blood. Cuts everywhere on my arms and legs. […]sleep[…]
Rays! Sun rays sliced through […] as I was asleep. I scrambled up, leaning against the walls. Must find a passage. Worn out. There it is, there it is! […] What? […] raining from the ceiling. […] crumbling down. […] no substance. My hand passed through it […] trick of the light […] eyes deceived. Everything around me crashing. […] just a matter of seconds […]
CRYSTAL PALACE
A crystal palace is a popular expression that means “con scheme” or “skullduggery”. It turned out this financial operation was a crystal palace set up by the Italian government. (R. Grosvenor, Travel to Rome, p. 34). It was still widely in use at the turn of the century, but seems to have become slightly outdated since (maybe too “cliché”).
Origin
The idiom can be traced back to medieval times. Its ultimate origins are obscure, though the image is self-explanatory. Greg Walter (On the Origins of Medieval Turns of Phrase, p. 56 et seq.) relates it to an obscure legend narrating the building of a remote and hidden palace made of glass, in which riches uncounted would have been abandoned and left up to grabs for anyone daring to enter. The treasure, however, would never have existed and the palace was a crafty deceit meant to attract, trap and kill the greediest adventurers.
There is no trace of such a legend or tale in any serious compendium book of medieval folklore, which makes Walter’s hypothesis unsubstantiated. No other scholar has ever quoted it, and it is cited here only for completion’s sake.
Pics
I like:
The character and background details, but, well, I'm not seeing much in the actual foreground here. Introducing a "modern day" frame to Bjorn's story kind of pulls me away from him, but then I never get any sense of a story in the modern day material to take Bjorn's place.
I'd recommend bringing in the modern stuff right from the beginning. Maybe a modern day researcher at the university who sent the expedition to the ancient city of Dâar is writing about Bjorn because the university's latest expedition has discovered the Crystal Palace and the writer doesn't think going inside is a good idea. Go "full Lovecraft" with it, in other words. 'Cause you can't go wrong doing that! :)
Mike
The character and background details, but, well, I'm not seeing much in the actual foreground here. Introducing a "modern day" frame to Bjorn's story kind of pulls me away from him, but then I never get any sense of a story in the modern day material to take Bjorn's place.
I'd recommend bringing in the modern stuff right from the beginning. Maybe a modern day researcher at the university who sent the expedition to the ancient city of Dâar is writing about Bjorn because the university's latest expedition has discovered the Crystal Palace and the writer doesn't think going inside is a good idea. Go "full Lovecraft" with it, in other words. 'Cause you can't go wrong doing that! :)
Mike
I'm not really sure what to make of this one. There are kinda three parts to this story; the beginning, where Björn is set up, the center, where Björn has his downfall, and the end, which... I have no idea what the end is doing.
Honestly, while I like each piece individually, I'm not sure they tie together in any way I find satisfying. The opening is intriguing, with how it builds up the character, and the bits and pieces of worldbuilding thrown in; the desert city, the scrolls written in blood, demons/djinns, scrying, etc; I liked all of that.
The middle piece is an interesting adventure, although the bit I'm most interested in is heavily obfuscated. I can't really enjoy it, because it only feels like the beginning and ending of the tale, with the middle bits (literally) cut out.
The ending... yeah, no idea. a 'real world' frame seems to cut away the fantasy world that came before, and the idea that the Crystal Palace somehow has intruded into our world is interesting, but such a weak inference that I probably just read too much into it.
Tonally, I think you have a bit of a clash here. Words like 'spake' are archaic, whereas words like 'rumbustiousness' are tinged with ridiculousness. The tone of Björn's journal has a similar thing going on, where he'll be brief and lax one minute, then descriptive and meticulous the next. Also, while the 'written in blood' thing adds a nice touch of mystery, he doesn't seem to be hard-pressed at the opening. Not to mention the scrolls from later on being more decayed doesn't seem to make sense to me, either; honestly, the scrolls he wrote first would be older, right?
Anyways, I liked the ideas on display here; a larger-than-life man invading a demon-guarded palace to steal treasure? Good stuff! I just feel like it doesn't ever really come together for me in a meaningful way.
Oh, and one typo that really thew me: forth -> fourth. One's a number, the other's an adverb. I read that line three or four times before I understood it.
On the other hand, the 'eye of the beholder' line was very nicely done. Pairing the old adage against the crystal palace and the coming tragedy felt extremely right.
I'm pretty mixed on this one. It's clever, but not cohesive; judged as a whole, I find it lacking, but each individual element works well. Either way, thanks for writing!
Honestly, while I like each piece individually, I'm not sure they tie together in any way I find satisfying. The opening is intriguing, with how it builds up the character, and the bits and pieces of worldbuilding thrown in; the desert city, the scrolls written in blood, demons/djinns, scrying, etc; I liked all of that.
The middle piece is an interesting adventure, although the bit I'm most interested in is heavily obfuscated. I can't really enjoy it, because it only feels like the beginning and ending of the tale, with the middle bits (literally) cut out.
The ending... yeah, no idea. a 'real world' frame seems to cut away the fantasy world that came before, and the idea that the Crystal Palace somehow has intruded into our world is interesting, but such a weak inference that I probably just read too much into it.
Tonally, I think you have a bit of a clash here. Words like 'spake' are archaic, whereas words like 'rumbustiousness' are tinged with ridiculousness. The tone of Björn's journal has a similar thing going on, where he'll be brief and lax one minute, then descriptive and meticulous the next. Also, while the 'written in blood' thing adds a nice touch of mystery, he doesn't seem to be hard-pressed at the opening. Not to mention the scrolls from later on being more decayed doesn't seem to make sense to me, either; honestly, the scrolls he wrote first would be older, right?
Anyways, I liked the ideas on display here; a larger-than-life man invading a demon-guarded palace to steal treasure? Good stuff! I just feel like it doesn't ever really come together for me in a meaningful way.
Oh, and one typo that really thew me: forth -> fourth. One's a number, the other's an adverb. I read that line three or four times before I understood it.
On the other hand, the 'eye of the beholder' line was very nicely done. Pairing the old adage against the crystal palace and the coming tragedy felt extremely right.
I'm pretty mixed on this one. It's clever, but not cohesive; judged as a whole, I find it lacking, but each individual element works well. Either way, thanks for writing!
I don't know how I feel about this one. A peculiar entry among many peculiar entries.
I'm not sold on the framing of the story here, what with the plain and tell-y opening, the letters, and the textbook ending. Does it tell the story? Sure. Does it make it better than a simple first- or third- person account of Bjorn's adventure? I don't know. And that's kind of a problem. What gets added here? What limit of conventional storytelling did you overcome? I don't see one.
Side notes about the opening: the narrator comes off very detached here, and there is a lot less spunk to the writing style than what's on dispaly in the letters. It sets up the character of Bjorn perfectly well but not in a way that makes me care about him particularly.
Side note about the letters: why exactly are they fragmentary at the end? Were they smudged? Torn up? Covered in blood? A little explanation would have been nice--and it would have avoided the hand waving.
Side note about the ending: I still am not sure why this is here.
All in all, I can at least say that the story was easy to follow, including its connection to the prompt. I'm just curious of the intention behind it all, because it's unfortunately falling flat for me. I would be interested to read a retrospective if you're keen, Author.
But that's enough out of me. Thanks for writing and best of luck!
I'm not sold on the framing of the story here, what with the plain and tell-y opening, the letters, and the textbook ending. Does it tell the story? Sure. Does it make it better than a simple first- or third- person account of Bjorn's adventure? I don't know. And that's kind of a problem. What gets added here? What limit of conventional storytelling did you overcome? I don't see one.
Side notes about the opening: the narrator comes off very detached here, and there is a lot less spunk to the writing style than what's on dispaly in the letters. It sets up the character of Bjorn perfectly well but not in a way that makes me care about him particularly.
Side note about the letters: why exactly are they fragmentary at the end? Were they smudged? Torn up? Covered in blood? A little explanation would have been nice--and it would have avoided the hand waving.
Side note about the ending: I still am not sure why this is here.
All in all, I can at least say that the story was easy to follow, including its connection to the prompt. I'm just curious of the intention behind it all, because it's unfortunately falling flat for me. I would be interested to read a retrospective if you're keen, Author.
But that's enough out of me. Thanks for writing and best of luck!
This story really suffers from too long a lead-in. There's very little of it that's vital information, and when you spend a full quarter of your word count giving me exposition to catch me up, something's gone wrong. A little would be fine. It does create a kind of folk tale feeling, but a little goes a long way, and you end up repeating a lot of the same information multiple times. And that's partly because you never do much with the frame. Some framing devices are best kept simple and out of the way, but your beginning doesn't match that kind of story; the ending suggests a scholarly study of these events, which might be a better fit. The intro is the part that stands out as not meshing with the rest.
Then we get to the documents. For my money, you could have just started the story there and worked in the preamble stuff little by little as it was needed. The other thing is that this journal-style format is a bit incongruous with the folk-tale beginning. It's weird to transition between the two. If the scrolls kept up the similar type of feel, at least it wouldn't have a linguistic disconnect, just the oddity that you don't see folk tales told through letter/journal styles. And maybe you'd win some points for originality in that case. Hard to say. It would subvert expectations, but not in a way that enhances the story, I think. Folk tales are passed down through oral tradition, and an epistolary treatment doesn't lend itself to that very well.
The formatting throws me off, too. It took me a few entries to realize each paragraph is a new one. I'd thought the first 3 or 4 of them were all one day until I started thinking about why so many of them start with "today." You should find a clearer way of demarcating that. It's also unnecessary to put all that in italics. When they take up the majority of your story, or even a significant chunk, that usually means you need to find a different way of setting them apart. Separate scenes would work, especially if they had the kind of labels I'd suggested saying which day they were. The fact that some days' entries run for multiple paragraphs only further confuses the issue.
I'm assuming that closing passage is made up? I didn't bother researching it to see.
This just felt kind of light to me. Based on the description of Bjorn and how the palace was made, it was pretty obvious how the rest of the story would go, and it did just that. There's a simple moral here, but not much conflict. Bjorn never comes to realize his flaw, he doesn't learn anything, and while there are dangers for him to traverse, we never really see him fighting any of it. So pretty much all of the action happens off camera, as well as the story's moral.
The last line struck me as odd, too, given that you'd earlier said it was written in blood. It calls into question exactly what he was doing when he wrote it. It sounds like something is imminent, that he'd better be prepared for, so why is he spending his attention on writing down an account of it? Given what he's gone through, he can't reasonably expect anyone to find his account, which does lend a cool mysterious air to how the scrolls found their way out.
I don't really have much to say here. It's serviceable as a folk tale style, but it's more the setup for one that skips from the background to the moral, it's heavy on the exposition, and the journal style was an odd decision.
Then we get to the documents. For my money, you could have just started the story there and worked in the preamble stuff little by little as it was needed. The other thing is that this journal-style format is a bit incongruous with the folk-tale beginning. It's weird to transition between the two. If the scrolls kept up the similar type of feel, at least it wouldn't have a linguistic disconnect, just the oddity that you don't see folk tales told through letter/journal styles. And maybe you'd win some points for originality in that case. Hard to say. It would subvert expectations, but not in a way that enhances the story, I think. Folk tales are passed down through oral tradition, and an epistolary treatment doesn't lend itself to that very well.
The formatting throws me off, too. It took me a few entries to realize each paragraph is a new one. I'd thought the first 3 or 4 of them were all one day until I started thinking about why so many of them start with "today." You should find a clearer way of demarcating that. It's also unnecessary to put all that in italics. When they take up the majority of your story, or even a significant chunk, that usually means you need to find a different way of setting them apart. Separate scenes would work, especially if they had the kind of labels I'd suggested saying which day they were. The fact that some days' entries run for multiple paragraphs only further confuses the issue.
I'm assuming that closing passage is made up? I didn't bother researching it to see.
This just felt kind of light to me. Based on the description of Bjorn and how the palace was made, it was pretty obvious how the rest of the story would go, and it did just that. There's a simple moral here, but not much conflict. Bjorn never comes to realize his flaw, he doesn't learn anything, and while there are dangers for him to traverse, we never really see him fighting any of it. So pretty much all of the action happens off camera, as well as the story's moral.
The last line struck me as odd, too, given that you'd earlier said it was written in blood. It calls into question exactly what he was doing when he wrote it. It sounds like something is imminent, that he'd better be prepared for, so why is he spending his attention on writing down an account of it? Given what he's gone through, he can't reasonably expect anyone to find his account, which does lend a cool mysterious air to how the scrolls found their way out.
I don't really have much to say here. It's serviceable as a folk tale style, but it's more the setup for one that skips from the background to the moral, it's heavy on the exposition, and the journal style was an odd decision.
