Dissecting Literature

I decided to write a WIP and document my progress from the inception till the finishing moments of the first draft. Since I'm a proud pantser, this is as much a discovery for me than it is for you, and I thought I'll let you inside my mind to see how I shape a story. What I knew so far was that this WIP would be a fantasy based on norse mythology, set in a post-apocalyptic (or to be more precise and fancy, post-ragnarok) world. Last week I introduced my main character called Asgeir, althought at that point neither you, nor me knew much about the boy.

So, what was today's progress?

Well, first and foremost I re-read the first segment and I found crippling mistakes in both style and grammar. Did I rush to fix them? Of course not, that is not the pantser way. I've seen a lot of writers struggle with finishing their first draft, and I think constantly repairing and fixing your writing is a serious contributor to getting stuck. SInce the aim of a first draft (especially if you're doing pantser-style, but plotters too) is to get down a story from start to finish, I'm not bothered by mistakes for now. I've decided to keep on writing, and when I typed the last full stop of the last sentence, I'll digest the WIP from the beginning and fix those pesky word repetitions and typos.

Art by Einar Martinsen

The new segment shows Asgeir walking into the Nook with a really fancy spear on his shoulders, as well as the ruckus he creates by doing just that. My aim for this scene was to show two things, the spirit of the age (which is gloomy at best and suicidal at worst) following ragnarök, and the consequences of showing up with a unique feat of strength.

And immediately, I had to make some choices. Originally the Edda states the the sea swallows the world well before the new god arrives and the remaining aesir gather, and by that point only a single pair of humans survive who then proceed to repopulate the world, but that's not what I want to show in my story. I want a really harsh world, but with a spark of life so my characters could hope for a turn for the better. I've decided to part with the exact myth, change some details to better fit the WIP. After all, this is not a retelling of the relevant Edda verses, this is a fantasy story inspired by ancient norse mythology.

To show a bit of dark, I based the Nook on the first settlement in Path of Exile, a mishmash gathering of hovels and huts made from junk and the jaded survivors that call it home. The name I think is quite fitting, it immediately gives of an aura of desperation, a last resort of sorts, an unpleasant place one would rather not venture to.

As for the second thing, the consequences I used some characters to show this. I think one of my weak points as a writer is that you can immediately tell who's an important character and who isn't, because the less relevant people are less deep. I always felt after re-reading my earlier works that the side-actors felt unrealistic, vague and cartboardish, so this time I went in trying to not decide immediately who will become important in the future and who won't. Doing that, even I was surprised how Fenris turned out, and I'm quite pleased with the end result.

That's it for this week. I hope you like it so far and you found some interesting tidbits in my commentary, or even learn a thing or two. See you next time, travelers!

Cheers,

There was no hiding now—the jotun saw him. Or rather sensed that he didn’t belong there, between the lifeless cadavers of once mighty warriors and heroes. He was way too alive for that. Asgeir lept back just before the colossal fist smashed down where he previously stood, shredding a wooden shield to pieces and flinging pieces of bone to all directions. Nobody knew what drove the children of Ymir into such a frenzy, but people told about them in every hideaway. Life slipped from them the moment the Gjal sounded, and so did the tolerance for any living thing. They smashed apart villages, uprooted glades and massacred anything that crossed them.

Asgeir rolled to the side, avoiding the massive foot crushing him like a bug and looked around for a weapon. There was nothing that could save him from the jotun, but by Odin, he wasn’t going down without shedding blood.

He caught something glistening under a mound of rotting flesh and heavy leather cuirasses. Asgeir didn’t hesitate, he just rushed towards it and grasped the handle with both hands. He heard the jotun thudding behind him, crossing the distance with a few steps and casting a deathly shadow over him. The weapon wasn’t giving. The chilling presence of the giant bit him all throughout his body, but he couldn’t run away. There was no use. He’d only die a coward, and he refused even now, when no god was alive to judge him.

The jotun raised his hand to swipe Asgeir to the side, most probably shattering every bone in his body, but that moment something got unstuck in the pile of flesh and the weapon swung upwards, meeting the giant’s palm head-on. It was a spear, sturdy and thick with a rune-carved head, which somehow survived the massacre. Time slowed to a halt, the dry muscles strained around the jotun’s arm, and in that moment, Asgeir was ready to die. Valhalla was no more, Odin’s halls lay empty, so only uncertain darkness awaited him, but he didn’t care. Life was miserable as it was, he could settle for an emptiness.

Yet, death never came. The runes inscribed into the spearhead glowed in dark, ancient colors and the jotun’s hand split. The small, barely fist-sized blade cut the giant’s hand clean off, more akin to a headman’s ax, spilling crimson blood across half an arrow-shoot. The creature roared in agony, while Asgeir just stood there, grasping the spear, not daring to even blink. This was surely a dream. A last feverish phantasm as his skull split, just like the jotun before.

He had no time to decide wether he believed his eyes, because the giant leaned forward and smashed down, trying to crumble him between his dried out fingers. Asgeir hopped back, twirled the spear around and jammed it clean into the colossal arm. Bones creeked and tendons popped under the blade, and when Asgeir pulled the weapon back part of the jotun’s forearm came with it, spinning free from the joint and smashed onto the ground between two warriors’ remains.

Blood rushed into Asgeir’s mind. The runes almost burned on the tip, and the heat covered his arms and legs, crying to give into the bloodlust. The wounded giant coiled up like a worm and threw his leg forward, trying to sway the troublesome human away. Asgeir jumped upwards to dodge the attack, then kicked himself forward, closer to the colossal torso. The omen of dread that clouded his mind until now dissipated, the force driving him towards escape let go and nothing but an instinct remained. He was no berserker, yet in that moment, he understood them better then all his life.

The jotun swung the snag that remained of his right arm at Asgeir, and he could barely block it with the weapon’s shaft. The force of the blow sent him flying clean across the field, and eventually onto a shieldmaiden’s corpse. The air escaped his lungs, but the crimson haze didn’t clear. A familiar metallic taste rushed onto his tongue, his chest stung like fire and when he tried to rise, his limbs forsake him.

The runes on the spear brimmed again. A cold, salty wind swept over Asgeir and his vision blurred, obscuring the giant slowly rising to it’s feet. It was barely more than a corpse; maybe it never was more. A mountain of frosted meat and tendons, bristle bones and a cold killer instinct that drove him to squash Asgeir even crippled and near its end.

Asgeir clenched his teeth in anger and forced himself to rise, then spun the spear around and planted his feet for a last charge. He heard drums from somewhere, strong and agitated beating like a warchant. When the jotun howled at him, he cried out too and lunged forward. Time crawled like a melting glacier, every heartbeat took an eternity, and every move heralded a victor. Either the raging monstrosity with unearthly strength, snapping the warrior’s spine like a twig, or Asgeir, mystic spear in hand, aiming for the jotun’s empty eyes.

The warrior won. The weapon thrust into the giant’s skull, pierced through the layers of bone and emerged through the back of its head with a wet plop. The colossal body curled, its abdomen fell against the ground while the spear got stuck in the mud and held the lifeless head looking ever forward. Asgeir wheezed like a horse, his shoulders trembled and unwilling tears ran down his face. He couldn’t control the panic that came over him as the battlerage left, so he gave in. He fell down his knees and covered his head with both arms, shaking on the miry ground until he was too tired for that.

He faced a jotun. A jötnar denizen of Jotunheim, an ice giant akin to the god Loki and he won. There was no man since the starts faded that could befell a giant, yet he did just that with a spear he just requisitioned amidst junk and rubbish.

Asgeir slowly opened his eyes and looked at the weapon still sticking out from the gian’ts eyesocket. A normal spear would have snapped already from the weight, but this not only withstood and stayed firm, it radiated some wild beauty. An ancient perfection, something from the oldest tales told by the völvas during their sacrifices.

“What… are you?” Asgeir wishpered barely daring to speak. It was clear the spear was far more powerful than he was, and it made him uneasy. People told about relics, adorned armament of the Einherjar that fell to Midgard in the battle, but he never seen one carried around. Warriors would give anything for those relics and some gatherers like him made a fortune from them. Not that fortunes mattered these days, but this thing—this had real power. This wasn’t a simple Einherjar weapon.

Asgeir grabbed the shaft and fighting his disgust, he yanked it free from the skull. The runes still glowed, shifting from blood red to nightshade, but the light shrunk weaker with every pulse. Almost if the weapon knew the battle was over and it had no duty anymore. The giant’s head knocked against the ground and a fang broke from its horrid jaw. Asgeir’s eyes narrowed as an idea came over him, then set the spear onto the ground and grabbed the skinning knife hanging from his belt. There wasn’t a chance he would sell that weapon for anything, but he still needed to eat that day. He knew how much would Hrothir give for the remains of an ice giant?

* * * *

The Nook grew somewhat since Asgeir departed three days ago. Refugees came pouring in from every direction, mostly from the south where the waters rose the fastest and they settled in to count the days left. It was a pathetic sight for what was supposed to be the harshest survivors mankind had to offer, but nowadays getting here was a feat in itself.

A lean, dark-haired man winced at him from atop the guard tower, but seeing he was just a human, he nodded. Asgeir walked past the stake fence, resting the spear on his shoulder and hanging his spoils form the end of it in a brown sack, catching many an eye. He was seemingly the only one walking straight with some confidence among the hunched husks and darkened glimpses, and that stirred into the murky depression. He couldn’t walk three steps inside the walls before a woman rose up from a shadowy corner and walked up to him.

“Oy. You a peddler, right? What you got there?” she asked. She spoke flawless norvegian, yet her colours were much more reminiscent of the celt warriors they battled with on the western raids. Or so they told.

“Nothing. Hunt was unsuccessful,” Asgeir replied but it didn’t startle the woman.

“You know, lyin’ is fruitless when you show off the truth. That’s a spear, right?”

Asgeir took a deep breath and looked into her eyes as cruel as he could. “It is. Not for sale, though. It’s personal.”

“Yeah, right,” the woman smirked. “What would you do with a weapon, peddler? You ain’t a warrior.”

The conversation caught the attention of more people and they slowly cornered Asgeir. He felt like prey, and he didn’t like that at one bit.

“How much?” a staunch men said simply. He looked quite sickly, with a shrunken face and a spreading black malady on his fingers. He must have spent a long time in the snowstorm heralding the end times, and the frostbite chewed his flesh and bone. He couldn’t hold the spear properly even if Asgeir was willing to part with it.

“Not for sale,” he replied more agitated.

“Come on, peddler,” the woman pushed on. They threw the word around like a jest, a mockery to humiliate him for living on instead of charging head-first into a wall of jötnar like many did. He was “just” a peddler in their eyes, someone to cowardly to die a warrior.

“Alright, so be it. I’ll just pluck it from your corpse,” the staunch man said raising a rusted axe onto his shoulder.

“Hey!” the celt woman shouted and grabbed the man’s shoulder. “Did the frost scoop out your wit, you moron? You want to kill a man, here?”

“So what?” the man replied confused. “You wanted to take it too, Fenris.”

“Yeah, with coin. Or whatever he asks. Kill a man and you’ll bring the giants on us.”

“That is just saxon horseshit,” the man grunted. Fenris struck out like a fox, clever and precise, grabbing the man’s neck and twisting it backwards until he lost his balance.

“Say that again, you sack of piss and I’ll rip out your throat right here. I’m no saxon, Geirolf, and I do not speak nonsense. Understood?”

The man squeezed a weak ‘yes’ through the grasp, so Fenris let him fall on his arse, then turned back to Asgeir, who just stood there silent, bearing the interlude.

“Now, peddler. You sure you won’t sell me that? I could pay well.”

“I told you twice already,” he replied. “It’s personal. I need to defend myself as well.”

“I could defend you with it. How’s that? You give me that and we’ll share food until you find something else.”

It was obvious they were getting nowhere, so Asgeir threw the sack onto the ground, unfolding half a dozen frosted fangs and a hearth larger then Geirolf’s head. He didn’t know which part was worth anything, so he went after his instincts and old tales.

Fenris and Geirolf both took a step back, while a third bystander, a young blonde kid nearly jumped away from the sight.

“Is—is that…” the celt woman gasped.

“It is. Jotun fangs and its heart. Those I’d gladly sell for a week’s rations. You think I need protecting?” Asgeir asked looking at Fenris. The woman’s lips curled into a grin, but her eyes still stuck to the remains.

“How… How did you kill that?”

“Wait. Don’t tell me this peddler coward fell a giant!” Geirolf shouted, and the words ran across the Nook like a warhorn. Every begging cripple, every malnourished child and wounded warrior sprung up and swarmed at them so tight even Fenris got agitated.

“Hey! Behave, you mongrels!” she cried, but it bothered no one. A grey warrior lumping around with a crutch tried to touch Asgeir’s spear, only deterred by another woman grasping his hand and pushing him back.

“Did you really? You killed a giant?” a juvenile boy asked. A slim, crooked man knelt down next to the fangs and slowly picked one up then dropped it immediately. A veteran-looking man shoved away another, shouting about something and not before long almost a hundred tired souls tussled around Asgeir and his spoils.

“Someone killed a giant. There’s still hope!” the grey man said shedding tears. “Odin might still be with us.”

“Enough!” Fenris cried out so ferociously the buzz died out in an instant. “Shut your claps before you get more hurt than you’re now. You…” she said tilting her head towards Asgeir. “Come with me. Without a word.”

Asgeir just sighed and packed up the giant remains, then walked after the celt followed by the renewed cacophony of eleven dozen people spinning the tale of a yet unkown giantslayer. He didn’t intend to put himself as a hero, nor did he want to show off, but he was left with little choice.

Fenris struck through the mass and lead him towards a hiding, half carved into the rockface that served as the backwall to the whole Nook, half built from stakes and split shields. It was surprisingly large considering how fast people had to build hovels for themselves, but it seemed Fenris didn’t cut corners. The inside was separated into two rooms with a board wall, one that was suppsodely where the woman slept, while the larger was packed with different hunting trophies and half-prepared meat.

“You’re a hunter?” Asgeir asked, but Fenris didn’t answer. Instead she lit a large way candle on a wall-mounted shelf and closed the door shut. She even covered the windows with some pelts, so the candle was the only source of light in the whole hovel.

“So, peddler,” she said sitting down by the rough table. “How did you come across those horrible trophies?”

“I told you.”

“No, you didn’t. You just htrew them on the ground and let those dumbasses believe you killed a fucking jotun.”

“Why do you think I didn’t?” Asgeir said, sitting down opposite Fenris. The celt just grunted and stood up again, making the whole scene a bit awkward.

“Because that’s impossible. You know, I’ve met one. Fought it, even, and by sheer luck I could escape with my hide,” she said while tampering among the junk piled on a counter until she found two drinking horns. “So don’t speak nonsense to me, boy.”

Asgeir tried not to remark, just shrugged. “If you say so. You can believe whatever you want.”

“I’m not much for believing, peddler,” Fenris said while sat down and threw a horn towards Asgeir. It was just water in it, but he would have been much more surprised if she’d waste ale on him—if she had any. Not many did. “I want to know things. At first I thought you just happened upon the most intact weapon on this side of the sea, but after that little stunt… Now I don’t wanna buy it. I want you to tell me about that giant.”

Asgeir took a big gulp from the horn to bide his time a little. There was no point keeping anything from her, since laying low was no longer a possibility. He’d suspected he couldn’t keep something this unearthly a secret, but a bit more peace would have been nice.

“If you insist,” he said eventually. “I was scavenging a day’s walk from here, around the Coal Woods.”

Fenris suspiciously narrowed her eyes. “That’s where the Serpent’s blood dripped onto the earth. Are you mad, boy?”

“Perhaps. But I found no curse, no poison, just a battlefield. It was so vast I could tread half a day and still walk inwards. I wandered around there for two days at least, until I was covered by a fog.”

Fenris looked lost in thought, at least the way she wiggled her drink said as much. “A giants’ spell. Something that even fooled Thor once. So you were ambushed.”

“You believe me now?” Asgeir said with a smirk. “But you’re right. A frost giant emerged from the fog and almost killed me if not for this spear,” he said glancing over his shoulder at the weapon’s cloth-covered tip.

“How could a spear stop a jotun? I saw even varg fail to penetrate their skin.” Fenris asked leaning back. This woman grew more interesting with every word, and somehow that reassured Asgeir. It was good to know he wasn’t the only one experiencing the impossible.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I wasn’t thinking much, I just grabbed something and held it towards the jotun as it tried to flatten me. But it didn’t, instead the spearhead cut its palm in half and tore the other arm off by its elbow.”

“What?” Fenris said even more confused. “Alright, you’ve stalled enough. Show me that spear.”

Asgeir was still reluctant to reveal anymore of something he himself couldn’t fully grasp, but for some reason he didn’t oblige. The runes carved into the tip were peaceful now, almost like they were sleeping inside the metal, but it still hummed with the strange, archaic power.

“I can’t let you take it, but you can observe as you like,” Asgeir said as he held the weapon towards the celt. Fenris tried the blade’s edge with her finger, then caressed every rune carefully until she stopped.

“Don’t… Don’t tell me… This can’t be—,” she muttered, almost grasping on the spearhead.

“What? You know this weapon?”

Fenris looked up in utter dismay. Her eyes stared forward with a sickly pale shimmer and she even flashed her teeth at Asgeir, while the woman’s hand twitched and her fingers curled.

“How can you not know? How can you not recognize the symbols?” she asked. Asgeir pulled the spear back and stood up, unsure if the woman would jump at her or collapse.

“Tell me. What is this?”

1. The savagery

Okay, I think we can all agree wolves are scary as shit. The earliest appearances in fiction were almost entirely horror stories and the iconic werewolf adversary in any spooky medium still gives us the creeps. In my understanding, this is because their savage and predatory nature. They have an instinct to hunt, to claim territory and devour anything that sets foot inside. Although modern zoology tends to show these noble beasts in a much friendlier light, older horror fiction kept to the juicy bits. They were portrayed as soulless beasts with no regrets, no thought and no emotions, only an unquenchable thirst for blood. You can spot these werewolves nowadays in titles such as The Witcher, Skyrim, Harry Potter or a number of indie horror novels and I love it.

The whole concept of an uncontrollable monster living under the skin of a regular old human being is really fascinating. There are several ways the character’s human side can relate to their occasional disemboweling of innocent creatures. If they shun it, like for example Remus Lupin in the Harry Potter series, it breeds conflict within the character itself, giving way to a whole armada of possible reactions. A werewolf can be suicidal, introverted, melancholic because of the heavy burden—or the exact opposite. Sometimes loosing control and thus being unaccountable for ones deeds means freedom, a refreshing escape from mundanity and that could behave like the most severe drugs (like in the case of Aela from Skyrim’s Companions’ Guild).

2. The power

Oh, yes, muscles larger than a greek god and claws shredding titanium, who wouldn’t want that feeling of invincibility? In some cases, the characters stricken with lycanthropy (especially when they’re largely in control of it) view it as a tool, a power one should utilize to achieve their ends. If you think about the Underworld movies, the second generation of lycans used their powers to defend against the vampires’ crusade and free themselves from servitude. My favourite installation of this trope is the case of Vincent Meis, a minor character in The Witcher 1 Chapter III. This guard captain in Vizima is a lycanthrope who acts as a kind of vigilante superhero. When it’s time for his transformation, he uses the feral beast’s agility and tracking skills to hunt down the city’s most wanted criminals, saving the lives of ordinary folk.

If you ask me how could one further this aspect, I’d say account for weaknesses as well. As with every power, it can make a character overly confident or even bold, and when a stray silver bullet comes their way and shatters their ego, it can really hurt. And hurt means character development, something every author tries to integrate into their stories. Let your werewolves run wild and shred people to pieces, then shoot them chock full with silver and see them grow as a person ~

3. The pack

Sailing onto more recent topics, we all now there’s no such thing as a lone wolf. No matter how much Geralt insinst on being one, wolves are pack animals, and so are werewolves—in some cases. You needn’t look further than Twilight to figure out the appeal of a pack, a gathering of like-minded people who will fight and die for each other. If you’re unsure why a society is important, we’ve already talked about it here, but to sum it up: from the times for our ancestors, being alone meant being destined to die, so our human psyche favors groups to lonesomeness. Werewolf packs are like the Lamborghini of groups, because they have more common traits then any other. First, they all experienced something nobody else has (turning into a wolf or wolf-man). Second, since most titles still establishes lycanthropy as socially unacceptable, they have a common secret. Something they should keep among themselves, something they can refer to and that differentiates them from common folk, pushing them even closer together. The third, and here’s the kicker—they can’t choose else. Many of these stories include that werewolves have a pack instinct, an inner calling that makes them crave each other’s company and thus they know they’ll stick together no matter what. This last aspect is ripe for abuse and I’ve read (reviews of) horrible paranormal romances that did just that. Please, for the love of Romulus, don’t use this instinctual belonging as a reason to keep a verbally, mentally and physically abused character coming back to the pact, because that’s not relatable, that’s just sad.

4. (Now we’re getting weird) The mates

Okay, now we arrive at Imprinting and similar things. The idea of having a pre-destined, fated mate is an exciting topic (at first): the alpha werewolf having an omega nobody as his fated mate, the one he HAS to choose no matter what. This simple position breeds (no pun intended) conflict, and that is the driving force of stories. BUT! You can so easily mock this up. Nowadays market is flooded with these alpha werewolf stories, partially because of the alpha’s character (another throwback about why that’s alluring is around here), partially because the fated mates trope. How can this be bad? Like with so many other tropes, by sticking to the tried and tired formula and not changing a thing. The best in show prize of a male falling in love with a grey, insignificant nobody snuck its way through every possible genre, from YA school romances, crime stories, historical fiction, and now paranormal romances. Mix it up! You can’t really change the alpha (although you can play with genders a bit), but the mate doesn’t have to be nearly incompetent. What if he/she is a total badass, just not in a way that befits an alpha’s mate? What if they are already taken and the conflict tears apart the pack? What if it’s not love that bonds them but an everlasting rivalry? This could be a really good enemies to lovers trope if executed well.

I’ll be honest, I’m not one for paranormal romances, so take everything I say with a grain of salt. At the end of the day, there is no correct way of writing a story, these are just the two cents of a story junkie. Howl away, friend! May Hircine take you.

Hey there, travelers!

First of all, I should apologize for the thinning number of posts here. I assure you this is not a trend, we'll catch up with ourselves, but there's a couple of things going on right now. First, school started again, so I'm back to uni learning about diseases and horrible things. Second, we sent SotS to a professional editor (Hurray!), and while we have a draft 1.5 of the sequel (I'll keep its name a mystery for now), we have yet to recieve beta feedback on that, so we're kind of in the eye of the storm considering writing.

BUT! What can be better to do in such a stituation than start another WIP? Nothing, that can. Absolutely nothing. The story of this WIP is rather interesting, so I thought I'd make it a series within a series, because it's sooo pantser it's almost a charicature.

"A Pantser Writes a Book" is that exact series. It's about my Wednesdays (my day-off mid week) where I'll write as much as I can stomach about an entirely new WIP and comment on exactly how the ideas came to mind. What I hope is for this to be as chaotic and interesting as possible, so fellow pantsers can relate, while plotters get a glimpse into how our mind works. Ready? Let's go then!

One day (to be precise, the day before yesterday) I was walking home, reading news on my phone and somehow my mind kept throwing Nanowar (of Steel)'s Valhalleluja at me like a really persistent youtube ad. If you haven't heard it, here's a link, just so you know the context. The crutch lines were "Hear our prayer philantropic Odin / Viking-friendly, slayer of the giants." That set me onto a really norse-mythology centered train of thought that after a few steps formed into a story idea.

What if a mortal uses Odin's spear, Gungnir to slay giants? That was the core idea, to which a lot of questions instantly arose.

First, why would Odin let go of his spear? Well, how about if he's not alive because Ragnarök happened? What if it's a nordic inspired post-apocalyptic world where the land is slowly sinking under the sea like it's said in the Edda, everything is filled with the remains of battle between the gods, the warriors of Valhalla and the jötnar invaders?

Let's say our MC is a young norse warrior who tries to make a living during the apocalypse scavenging usable weapons and selling them for food in the few shelters where humanity holed up. And by sheer chance, he happens upon the place where Fenrir devoured Odin, and finds his spear.

That sounded so good I already had the first scene in my head, so when I arrived home, I sat down and started writing. I wrote around 900 words in an hour, then another 600 or so today, ending up with 1,5k for an intro sequence. More than that, my impulse control lacked so badly I ended up creating a spaceholder cover for it, and I even put it up to Wattpad.

If you're interested in the end result, here's a link to it: https://www.wattpad.com/story/241168064-after-the-gods

Before you cry "crucify him", this is not a promo for my Wattpad account (that would be really shitty). This is just commentary about the process and I find it much more practical to show you the end result this way (also, I feel way more safe with Wattpad's copyright stuff so I can freely throw this at you without having to go the extra mile).

So, don't hesitate to tell me what you think about the story, about this whole idea, about my writing style, whatever comes to your mind. I'll try to keep the series semi-spoilery, so I'll only comment things you can read in that week's segment. Go read it if you'd like, then come back and read my overly energetic chipmunk styled notes.

See you next week, travelers!

Cheers,

I. Porphyria

We already covered this disease which is the probable origin of the vampire mythos //link//, but we didn’t mention that it can also cause werewolf-like symptoms. People with porphyria can have excessive hair growth, develop sores, scars, and discolored skin. Porphyria also leads to progressive deterioration of the nose, ears, eyelids, and fingers, as well as tightening skin around the lips and gums. Their face can become really wolfish.

II. Hypertrichosis

It’s the least severe condition, noly causing abnormal hair growth all over the body. There are several different forms of hypertrichosis, one is congenital when hair growth is present at birth and caused by genetic mutations. It can be further divided considering what hair-type and how much of the body is affected. Congenital terminal hypertrichosis is characterized by the presence of fully pigmented terminal hair (meaning thick, dark, “normal” hair) that covers the entire body. This condition is usually accompanied by gingival hyperplasia, or in other words gum enlargement, which gives the patient an even more wolfish look.  People with this condition were frequent attractions at circuses as „freaks” because of their unusual appearance.

Hypertrichosis can also be acquired which appears after birth and can be associated with cancer, as a side effects of drugs or even the product of a hormonal unbalance due to eating disorders. This is reversible unlike the congenital type but the treatment depends on the exact origin of the symptoms.

III. Rabies

Rabies is a viral infection that is carried by dogs, wolves, and other animals, including bats. Humans can contract the disease after being bitten by an infected animal. Rabies affects the central nervous system by brain inflammation and can cause a wide range of symptoms. It can be extreme agitation, painful contraction of the throat muscles, hallucinations, biting other people, and excessive fear of water. Later it progresses into violent movements, uncontrolled excitement, an inability to move parts of the body, confusion, and loss of consciousness. Death usually occurs within five days of being bitten.

Rabies was commonplace during medieval Europe and many peasants carried iron crosses called the "keys" of St.Hubert (the patron saint of rabies victims) to protect themselves against it. Now animal control and vaccination programs have decreased the risk of rabies from dogs in several regions of the world.

Since the site of a fellow human running at you with bloodied eyes and chomping into your arm is quite the trauma, I think it’s obvious where did the myth that new werewolves can be created through biting a human originate.

IV. Lycanthropy

I saved the best for the last. Lycanthropy is a mental disorder, when the affected person thinks that they can transform into, has transformed into, or is an animal. It can be any kind of animal, there was a case when the patient thought they can transform into a bee, and another about frogs, but wolves, foxes, cats, and tigers are among the more common ones.

It has been linked by modern medical doctors to (be prepared, many science words are coming) schizophrenia, organic brain syndrome with psychosis, psychotic depressive reaction, dissociative-type hysterical neurosis, manic depressive psychosis, and epilepsy. One important factor may be differences or changes in parts of the brain known to be involved in representing body shape. A neuroimaging study of two people diagnosed with clinical lycanthropy showed that these areas display unusual activation, suggesting that when people report their bodies are changing shape, they may be genuinely perceiving those feelings.

Hallucinogenic plants and fungus-infected grains have been at the root of many outbreaks of lycanthropy over the centuries. Belladonna (deadly nightshade) was frequently used in ritualistic practice to induce a mind-altered state in which delusions of bodily metamorphosis were commonplace. However, it was the fungus known as ergot that had the most effect or more precisely ergot infected bread. Ergot contains constituents similar to the powerful hallucinogenic drug LSD and it has in the past led people to believe that they had turned into wild beasts. A 2009 study reported that, after the consumption of the drug MDMA (Ecstasy), a man displayed symptoms of paranoid psychosis by claiming that his relatives had changed into various animals.

The Qrahr

Kherim turned around a corner and walked by the shady traders populating every inch of the roadside. They were an interesting bunch, somewhere between a charlatan merchant and a beggar. Some of them mongered bijoux, fake jewelry, or miracle ointments, others sold more dangerous things from behind tight-knit jackets, eyes flashing back and forth. The lord stopped, squatted down in front of a man and gently picked up a small vial of translucent liquid.

“What did we agree on, Jashmid?” he asked, but the man just wrapped his arms around himself. He was thin, only thickened by the dirt to make him look vaguely human. He could be twenty or two hundred years old, Kherim would have believed both.

“That I won’t cause any trouble. But that doesn’t mean I can only sell my knowledge and my goods to you!” he lashed back, but the qrahr let it fly this time.

“So you know what happened. It’ll spare us some time, which is good. But you’re going to waste this time apologizing for yourself, which is not good. I’m not here to drag you to prison, nor to judge you. I’m here for answers, Jashmid.”

Kherim gave up the squat and sat down on the ground in front of the man with his legs crossed.

“If time is so important to you... Tell me what you want.”

“Who ordered the choking air?”

Kherim doubted he’d get an honest answer, but he had to try. He knew Jashmid too long and too well, from the day he stepped in front of him at the war camp near Qajar and waved that milky white, mist-filled bottle in front of him.

“What do I get for renting out one of my customers? You know I’m sensitive to that.”

The man was hesitant, his smart and lucrative brain cogs clicked back and forth, weighing in on the risk and profit. Kherim didn’t have time for him to decide which one would be worth it. He needed answers, quickly.

“Delicateness is a luxury for you, Mixer. Can you imagine what Charta would do to you if he knew you poisoned Saleel? Do you even know who he was?”

Jashmid shook his head. “I know Charta. Naturally. But not this Saleel, only that he was some important man.”

“Quite important,” Kherim nodded at the poisoner. “Important to the city, and important to my brother. Whoever set you up knew his business, or got unlucky in picking targets. Four years ago, someone who was equally important died in a simple robbery.” Kherim leaned back and pointed towards the city’s border, causing several heads to turn towards them in the process. “If you walk enough outside the east gate, you can find the skeleton of that killer. The falcons still wear their claws on his skull.”

Little by little, the lord leaned closer and closer to Jashmid’s horrified face, while his own reflected disgust and pity. “To tell you the truth, I don’t like that sound, it’s like they are scratching on my own skull,” he whispered as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear it. When there was only an inch-wide gap between them, Kherim poked the poisoner’s forehead with his finger, causing him to snap back. “It’d be a shame for your head.”

“Well…” Jashmid began very slowly. “That sounds like a fair offer. However, the customer only messaged me through a servant. He called himself the Marid.”

There was a short pause, short enough not to let the general interfere.

“Listen, I don’t want to stick my nose in demons’ business. Maybe you shouldn’t either, qrahr.”

“The Marid?” Kherim said, raising an eyebrow. “Kahlaran hasn’t had a djinn since my grandfather’s time, Jashmid. It’s not a demon, it’s a street rat with a showy name. Although he knows what he’s doing.” Kherim scratched his beard. “What did this servant look like? Did he have a name?”

Jashmid shook his head. “He was like every other boy at the docks. He didn’t introduce himself, but he brought a lot of money so I didn’t ask questions.”

“Since when don’t you ask questions?” the qrahr asked leaning back, then let the conversation drop. He knew well enough how to recognize a lost lead.

“Tell me something about this Marid. Is this the first time he’s bought from you?”

“Not before, not since,” the poisoner answered shaking his head. “He paid fifty golden suns for that bottle. I mean, for the contents, the boy brought the bottle with him.”

“And you didn’t get suspicious then?” Kherim looked disapproving and repressed an emerging sigh into an angry snort. Loafers and ne’er-do-wells sighed at everything.

“Have you heard of him before? Did he do business with anyone else on the street?” the lord asked, tilting his head towards the other quacks, poisoners, beggars, and pickpockets. Some turned aside with disgust, but some looked back at him with a killing intent. Jashmid looked around as if he thought hard about something before he gave up and leaned closer to Kherim.

“I don’t know exactly who, but I’ve heard things about him. They say I’m lucky he knew I wouldn’t ask anything if he paid well, and I’ll do what he wants. But others... He made them do despicable things, mostly through extortion. The people here believe he’s a demon because he always knows how to cause the most harm. He knows everyone’s secrets.”

“Secrets...” Kherim said, humming to himself while he pulled a leg up to rise. “A pile of golden suns lets you learn a lot of secrets. He’s not a demon, but he’s dangerous. Next time he sends a boy from the docks to you, you’ll remember his face. Scratch a mark into his forehead if you must, but I want to know who’s delivering his mail.”

The lord reached into his pocket and pulled out two shimmering gold coins and threw it in Jashmid’s lap.

“Choose your customers better from now on, Jashmid. It would truly be a shame for your head,” he said as he walked away. From the corner of his eye, he saw the mixer sink the coins in his bag with relief.

I. Origins

We can discover traces of mermaid folklore in Europe, the Middle East, Asia, and Africa too, but today’s pop culture was influenced by Greek mythology and Homer’s Odyssey. Sirens in that story were half-human half-bird creatures with a song that drives sailors mad, only in the medieval era they became half-fish people. Historical accounts of mermaids exist as far back as the voyage of Christopher Columbus, during his exploration of the Caribbean. These were probably just sightings of manatees or similar aquatic mammals, like dugongs and even seals, but the possibility for something more is always there.

There is also a symptom called sirenomelia, that could fuel the mermaid tales – so now we are facing a creature that has multiple origins.

Sirenomelia is easily recognizable as the unification (or more precisely a failed separation) of the lower limbs. As with cyclopia, the main root of the problem is that human embryos start out their lives as a tube-like formation of tissue that later separates into the two body-halves regulated by genes and substances called morphogenes. When this separation is disrupted somehow for the lower limbs, the end result looks alike to a mermaid’s fin. This condition has four classes depending on how early the disruption happened, Class I meaning there is only one set of bones, while in Class IV every separate bone is present, but soft tissue sticks them together.

The cause of this extremely rare congenital disorder was a really hot topic in medicine in the 20th century. The earliest theory suggests it is a matter of blood insufficiency, as this disorder often pairs with the malformation of the lower part of the aorta (the largest blood vessel in our body), and the blood supply isn’t enough to nurture two legs, thus forcing the body to compromise. Other theories suggest the cause is similar to other birth defects – genetic mutation, teratogenic agents (chemicals that cause birth defects, I know, it’s a bit redundant as explanation goes), or physical trauma to the embryo in early stages. Whichever is responsible, this seldom sighted defect could be present from the earliest part of human history, creating the trauma that turned into a myth.

II. Mermaid sightings

Nowadays most mythical creatures are considered fairytales. Nobody believes in fairies, cyclopses, and centaurs anymore, but it’s not the case with sirens. From time to time people are claiming that they saw something in the water, and with the technology becoming more and more advanced so does the fake videos presented as proof of creatures similar to sirens. Most of these videos sadly turned out to be hoax. I even found a documentary that seemed real, but all the “scientists” were south-African actors… I think it’s the easiest if I show you a video with footage from several sightings.

Those who believe in conspiracy theories claim that the governments want to keep their existence a secret – and even if this is the truth, I think they should keep it a secret. Whether they are intelligent, or human-shaped animals (which is more likely), at the rate we poison the oceans with chemicals, oil, and trash, they are either an endangered species or close to extinction. The last thing these deep-sea creatures need is people disturbing them further.

~: Resurrection :~

At first, only darkness and silence surrounded me. I felt locked in a tiny and terribly narrow place, which rhythmically grew and shrunk, all accompanied by an unknown yet strangely natural drumming. Dub-dub. Dub-dub. It came from somewhere in the middle, from a cage that rose and sank, letting the air flow in. I was in a cave, although I could not smell fungi, seaweed, or the mist of an underground stream-anything that would made it natural.

As much as I tried to keep my cool, the burdensome acumen of anger, despair, and fear overwhelmed me. I didn’t understand where I was, what I became or what should I do.

The drumming hastened with my panic, like a tiny bird trapped here with me. I screamed but fell silent right after that. My voice was unknown but I knew it was my own, and even that felt less strange than the hands I raised to my face unwillingly. They were graceful hands, exactly two, with five fingers each. I put them back next to me and tried to calm myself. With time I learned to control the flow of air, even stop it for a while, but it turned unpleasant, so I gave up trying and just let this weird prison do what it would on its own. I closed my eyes for the first time, but it felt natural. I hated how well it worked, how perfectly it suited me even when it was just a sluggish mound of muscles and bones.

You’ll remain there, locked in a prison of flesh for eternity. That’s your due to what you’ve done.

Maybe I’d have been better off if they’d just destroyed me. They had the power to do it, but they didn’t. I wasn’t sure which judgment was worse.

After a time, I stopped counting the heartbeats or my breath. My voice was gone, my mouth felt dry and the tongue inside it stuck to my palate. My stomach rumbled at first, then ached with a dull sensation, bur eventually even that faded. It differed greatly from what I was used to, but it was just as unbearable.

After storm knows how many days, I got bored. They gave me no instructions; I didn’t know if I was sentenced into this cave forever or I should leave. I thought someone would come to tell me, but it didn’t happen. It was just me and my increasingly unpleasant existence. Eternity was a long time, even longer lying still underground.

I tried to sit then stand up, bearing the waves of stabbing pain in my limbs with my teeth clenched. Touching the cold earth was a novelty, as was the ground-bound position, but the body knew exactly how it worked and didn’t fall. I put one leg in front of the other, walking step by step towards the only possible direction. The air became warmer; twilight replaced the darkness, and as I emerged the sun blinded me for a moment.

I was standing in a hole carved into a rock wall, with a staircase leading down. It wasn’t the only such crevice, but one of the largest. Beyond that, only sand and stone surrounded me. The wind blew through my hair—another oddity—and the black fabric that covered most of my body.

I walked down the stairs and into the desert. The heated stones burned my feet, but I kept walking forward without a flinch until fatigue overcame me. The strange weakness in my limbs spread across my body, causing me to stumble and collapse onto the sand without the strength to get up. A rock bruised my knee, revealing a leaking, red fluid–blood. I never had blood before.

I stood up again and continued my journey straight forward, not knowing where I was headed, stumbling after every few steps. I realized that moving this heavy, delicate mess required only my sheer will; the worse it got, the more will it needed, but I could always whip it forward.

After my umpteenth collapse, strong hands grabbed my burnt skin and lifted me from the sand. Someone held a canteen to my mouth, and I drank, for the first time in my life, just gulping from the lukewarm water.

“Enough, careful with that,” a firm voice said. “How on earth did you get here? No matter, we’ll take you to Kahlaran.”

I. The mythology

Let’s start with a bit of culture, to keep it classy. The concept of a cyclops originates in Greek and later Roman mythology, although there origin and features vary with the source material. In Hesiod’s Theogony (The birth of the gods), there are three named giants with one eye in the middle of their forehead, called Arges, Brontes, and Steropes. They are the sons of Uranus (must. resist. the. joke.), and brothers to the Titans and the Hundred-Handed Giants. These three were responsible for creating Zeus his famous weapon, the thunderbolt (so they basically invented thunder itself), as well as Poseidon’s trident and the helm of Hades.

Another famous source is Homer’s Odyssey, where the titular hero encounters a race of one-eyed giant shepherds (while also other things happen, like one particular cyclops, Polyphemus eats half the crew of Odysseus). Homer’s cyclopses are very different from Hesiod’s. They live among the humans (and eat them) for one and also behave way less civilized. They aren’t the humble craftsmen described in the Theogony, even their origin is completely different. Polyphemus claims to be the son of Poseidon, which is proved to be true when the angry sea god curses Odysseus to wander the seas for killing the giant.

As for pop culture, cyclopses are a common occurrence in old-school fantasy titles, like Dungeons&Dragons or Heroes of Might and Magic. In Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson and the Olympians series, Percy has a half brother named Tyson who’s revealed to be a cyclops fathered by Poseidon.

So, where can such a creature originate from?

The answer – nightmares. Living nightmares.

II. The medical condition

If you translate the name ‘cyclopia’, it comes out as “circle eyedness”, which is really unspecific. In medicine, cyclopia is a serious manifestation of holoprosencephaly, the genetic malformation of the brain.

Cycloptic babies have really distorted facial features. As you can guess, they have a singular, large eyeball, although it almost never functions. Their nose is missing, their zygomatic arch (or cheekbones) are invisible and the formation of their jawbones stops.

As I said, this is mainly a brain malformation, the facial structure changes are due to their connection to the brain. The prosencephalon is biologically the oldest part of the whole brain, and it serves as the base of smell, but since this is the part where the optic nerve connects to the “seeing” part of the brain, it has a large effect on the formation of eyeballs. During embryonal development, this brain part is singular, like a tube unlike the clearly divided lobes found in adults or even healthy babies before birth. Certain toxins, like the aptly named cyclopamine, or genetic defects disrupt the process that divides the early prosencephalon into two halves, which in turn prohibits the forming of two separate eyes and causes failure in nasal formation.

An interesting (and no less disturbing) thing is that cyclopamine is a product of the herb corn lily, which some farm animals are likely to digest. Yepp, cyclopia is not a human-specific problem, it is more common in horses, cows, sometimes chickens and other livestock. That’s some Lovecraft shit for you. For everyone’s sake, I’m not going to include any pictures in this post, but if you’re willing to endure the sight, the Wikipedia page for cyclopia and a Google image search can find some really eldritch images.

III. Is it the origin?

As always, the answer is a solid… maybe. Prosencephaly is incompatible with life, so sadly these patients do not survive for long. Usually, it causes miscarriage, or very early infant death, minutes after birth, so adult cyclopses couldn’t possibly exist. However they can be born, and the horrific sight could shock a nursemaid so hard their mind tries to find plausible explanations for the phenomenon – and thus a myth is born.

Well, that’s it. I hope those brave souls who read this post found it interesting and I didn’t scar you for life. Nature is sometimes more horrible than tales, but there’s always a message in every strife: that we shouldn’t discard anything as impossible.

I’ll return next week, maybe with something lighter, maybe something just as dark, depending on how this post is received. Until then, take care, travelers.

Cheers,

I. How it works (or fails to work)

First, let me entice you with a bit of biochemistry. As you might know, our blood ensures the constant oxygen supply for our entire body, each cell and tissue, so they can work and produce energy in an efficient manner. This supply is made possible by a certain molecule within our red blood cells called hemoglobin. This complex molecule can bind oxygen and carbon-dioxide and carry it along the circulation. How does this connect to vampires?

Well, normally hemoglobin is made up of two parts, a proteinic globin segment and an iron containing hem segment. This hem is the end product of a really, really long and intricate biochemical reaction. During this reaction, a certain step is the creation of porphyrin which can eventually become hem and form hemoglobin. However, if any enzyme that mediates this process is defective or nonexistent, the process gets stuck and creates the conditions we call collectively as porphyrias.

II. What it does

Now, let’s look over what this medical condition causes.

Two things happen rooted in the same problem. First, the defect acts retrogradely and the precursor (e.g. porphyrin) cumulates. Because a half-baked hem isn’t really a healthy thing to circulate around, it subsides in small capillaries like that of the skin. Normally porphyrin doesn’t do any harm, but it’s highly reactive and photo-sensitive. When exposed to sunlight (more precisely UV-light) it reacts with oxygen and oxygen containing molecules, creating really destructive Reactive Oxygen Species – molecules like H2O2 –, or even atomic oxygen, that can damage cell walls, inner structures and other subcellular things. This leads to a rash on the skin, causing it to acquire a red color, bulges and pustules.

The block also acts anterogradely, causing the end product to dwindle. This means less hemoglobin and as a result, anaemia, a lack of red blood cells. This manifests as a sickly pale skin colour, general weakness and requires blood transfusions to treat.

So to summarize, porphyria makes you allergic to sunlight, burning your skin if you dare walk the day. It also makes you sickly pale and to counteract your disease, you need a constant supply of someone else’s blood. The only thing missing from the vampire checklist is the cool stuff. Sadly, this condition doesn’t grant you night powers or superhuman strength, nor can you see in the dark or turn into a bat. This is a serious condition that requires very specific treatment, and although it should never be taken as a joke (like with any health conditions), I think it’s interesting enough to think about.

III. Is it really vampirism?

Is it the origin of vampire myths? Well, maybe. As I said, it doesn’t cover every aspect, and we only know these patients need constant transfusions since not long ago. But as I also stated, mythologies can vividly change some boring parts to better match a certain narrative, and vampire myths are abundant, sometimes leaving out thought-to-be-essential things like craving blood or being dead. Most early tales focus on vampires as creatures of hell, consorts of devilish powers and antagonists to the flock of god, so a man or woman walking into sunlight and getting immediate sunburns and even pustules could have looked like something that would fit that narrative.

And if not, it’s still an interesting enough coincidence.

//Fun fact, this condition can also turn you into a werewolf, because the sunburns stimulate excess hair growth.//

I'll be back next week with another topic. Until then, stay strong and don't let anyone bite you, just in case. Only if you're into that sort of thing.

Cheers,

Thesantei

Most pleasant of the cursed tribes are the family of diplomats calling themselves the Thesantei. They act courteously and speak with great caution because they forever dance in the battle of wits and words. Their smiles and kind invitations serve none but themselves, bettering their position while they bleed kingdoms dry without cutting a wound. Not that they are incapable on the battlefield. They lunge and pierce like an artist painting with steel, commanding birds of prey and slithering drakelings to severe a life thread by thread. Their Curse is the most clandestine, capable of snatching and twirling the very thoughts of people, reading the most hidden perversions, and planting seeds of doubt.

Nerinai

People fear even the name of the Nerinai, the vampire physicians addicted to the pain and misery of others. They march in capes red as blood to threaten all who dare look upon them. They are suffering given form to most, humans and vampires alike. They are masters of flesh, bone, and blood, their Curse can mold living matter to heal, harm, or mock life itself. Using their knowledge they create Wretches, mutant abominations serving them without a spark of conscience. That is the root of their menacing fame; the ability to create life, and the cruel intent to morph it into something hideous.

Ataris

One family is like a shadow, a whisper you barely heard on the wind. Some aren’t even sure they exist. Some hope they don’t. They are the Ataris, a clan of vampires dedicated to unraveling the Curse itself and its tendrils into reality – magic. These mages learn nothing and care for nothing but the secret, occult powers they received during the Collapse, mastering it beyond any other. Their Curse calls onto the element of umbra, the smoke-like darkness that coils around every shadowed corner, manifesting it as liquid flame or straining tentacles. They are powerful, yet they don’t care for victory. They only learn fo the sake of learning, and never sate their infinite thirst for knowledge.

Sciria

Every soldier dreads the black blades wielded by the vampire legions because they radiate cold bloodlust and contempt. Those are the weapons forged by the Sciria, the family of blacksmiths that found their calling in the ore veins running under the Shadowshield Mountains. Their Curse allows them to smelt the black iron untouchable by any other soul, as it burns and corrupts every living thing around itself. For the Sciria, it is more than a metal. It is a god, a religion, an amalgamation of all their cries. Through the flames of their forge, it seeped into their blood and now all they touch manifests as their iron god’s avatar.

Tarquin

Even the Towers had builders; the Tarquin. The stone-blooded. The vampire masons. They are like the stone they cut, rough, cold, and immovable. Their Curse tears the border between creature and creation, giving them a sliver of divine power to damn statues with life and servitude until death. Their death. They welcome none, be it man or vampire, they work unseen and isolated and once they are done, only the stone speaks of them. But it speaks. It speaks of the Tarquin’s shame, the creation of the gargoyle horde that once threatened every Tower but remains to this day, scourging the outskirts of the accursed lands. So they build, higher and higher to forever bury this shame under the stone.

Hirinia

The Hirinia embody everything humans fear about the night. They prey in the darkness, silently scouting through the shadowed forest around their Tower and hunt everything that dares to make a sound. They are feral, bloodthirsty and savage, and they heed no warning or wisdom. Because they only hear the call of the wild. No Hirinia ever snuck in the night like a rat, because their Curse makes it their castle. They hear more, see more and sense more than a hound, their dark armor makes no sound and their shape is obscured in the fog of darkness that follows them. And when you hear the silent whistle of a crossbow bolt cutting through the air, it’s done. You are their trophy.

Venetesh

When the Towers go into war, the Venetesh are the first to answer. They are brutes, heartless butchers only kept alive by their everlasting rage and their desire to maim and carve up anyone they have an excuse for. They are the bloodhounds, the mercenaries, the expendable bulk of the vampire army. Their Curse is fury unbound, dark blood that rips them from death’s clutch, straining their muscles until they tear, flogging them forward until their bones break, creating monsters that sow terror on every field of battle. That is the call of the Venetesh.

I. On medieval European fantasy

You hear the phrase “write what you know” basically everywhere. I’m not exactly at peace with this statement. We’re writing a desert fantasy book as Europeans and I had many depressing nights when I wanted to throw away our WIP because according to this statement, we as white Europeans do not have the right to write a desert fantasy. But this is for another time. Nonetheless, many of us grew up with medieval Europe in our minds. All the fairy tales, the knights and kings, and the old fantasy books have medieval settings. It is familiar, well known, and safe. No one will claim you can’t write it because you can’t associate with it. Also, the godfather of all fantasy–Tolkien–wrote a medieval Europe inspired world, and it became the foundation of the genre. After reading many fantasy books of this kind, I personally got bored of it, and I welcome the new trend of fantasy books with other kinds of cultures. (I read about a book called Black Sun by Rebecca Roanhorse, coming this fall which is based on the Aztec culture and South-America and I am super excited about it.) 

To get the medieval-Europe feeling, you need certain things, like heavy armors, swords, knights, and this includes that the state of women also should be as it was back then. That’s why they call it realistic. II. Women dominated cultures

But really, if we can create any society and any alternative history why patriarchy is considered “realistic”? The short answer, because it is, but before you rage-quit from reading this post, hear me out! You may have already read a lot about ancient societies from me on this blog, but I have to bore you with more.

There is no evidence that real matriarchy ever existed. There were societies suspected to be female dominant because archeologists found a goddess as their center of worship, and there are ethnicities nowadays that have some form of matriarchy, but neither of these is the female equivalent to patriarchal societies. Sometimes they have matrilineality (when they trace their lineage from their mother and grandmother and so on) but not much else, in other cases, matrons rule over a family, but men have the political power. For example in the Mosuo culture in China, the oldest women was considered the head of their family, but the status of nobility passed on from father to son. We know very little about how people lived before the bronze age (or even during that), and there’s a slight chance truly matriarchal societies existed way before –like the amazons in Greek mythology– but for the bulk of our history, there’s only the concept but no execution.

It is worth mentioning though, that there always have been groups of women that lived outside the boundaries of a patriarchal society. In ancient Rome there were the Vesta Virgins, an order of priestesses with unique social standing. They had many rights ordinary women didn’t - they could observe gladiator fights, and their opinions were valued highly among… well, everyone. In Greece the heteras were also held high because of their erudition, but let’s not dance around the question, they were prostitutes. 

III. Biology. The answer is always biology.

Okay, everyone learned history at school, but we are talking about fictional societies! Yes. Fictional societies, but human beings. If you are writing about elves, or aliens, or god-knows-what with different biology from humans, then all these things have nothing to do with you and the reality of your world. But humans have certain limitations. You can see from the examples above, that we can put women into two groups: 1. the mothers and daughters 2. the priestesses and whores. The first group is the rule the second group is the exception, and the main difference – and also the reason for one group to ignore some patriarchal stigmas while the other can’t – is childbirth.

Women were worshiped for their ability to create life, but it meant constant life-threatening danger for them. A woman can give birth only a certain number of times during her life, because, you know, nine months of pregnancy, then a very little baby, then a new baby, then menopause, and half of the children won’t live until adulthood. They are the very essence of society because no children -> no people -> no culture. On top of that women tend to die during labor. So a woman is both valuable and endangered. On one hand, they need to be protected (in men’s eyes), on the other hand, because of their value they could be used to trade and to gain political power. I know it sounds horrible, but if we put aside every moral, I think it is understandable. This is just human nature. It allowed the population to expand at a rapid rate (one man + lot of women = a lot of children, even if half of the children and women die in the process), and outgrow those societies that may have been matriarchal. 

I don’t say, that we can’t imagine a medieval (and before) society where women have rights. Actually, women had many rights among the Vikings, for example, but the most they could achieve was some kind of equality. And even then, male-centered societies outgrew these. This is why I think, that these patriarchal societies in fantasy are not necessarily good, but realistic even if it is an imagined society and history. Because if you write about humans, you have to paint them as such - and humans are like that.