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Author: Sean Stiennon

Zero Fantasy

Zero Fantasy

Ten thousand gallons of virtual ink have already been spent on the subject of cliché elves’n’dwarves’n’rogues’n’rangers fantasy.  But here’s a few droplets that I think are worth noting.

A photo of Yahtzee taken at his Swedish manorhouse
A photo of Yahtzee taken at his Swedish manorhouse

Ben “Yahtzee” Croshaw, for those not fully assimilated into the etherium of the web, is a popular reviewer of games and maker of funny videos.  He’s also the author of Mogworld, which I haven’t read.  Anyway, in his recent video review of the fantasy RPG Kingdoms of Amalur, he introduces a point which he expands on in the first few paragraphs of this essay.  Why does fantasy, theoretically the genre of limitless possibilities, so often fall back on the same stock elements (elves, dwarves, pseudo-Europe, fireballs, etc.)?

Now, here’s the thing: I think Yahtzee is largely arguing against a historical problem, at least when it comes to books.  Gaming may be different, with Dragon Age, Skyrim, and World of Warcraft riding high on a post-Tolkien wave of their own.  But when it comes to books, I’m honestly not seeing much of the cliché elf and dwarf pie being produced.

There are certainly shared universes, whether they be roleplaying settings like Pathfinder or Eberron, or the enormous line of Black Library titles for Warhammer and Warhammer 40K, but they don’t make any claims to originality of setting or trapping.  Many of those books tell great stories with memorable characters, but they do so with familiar elements and surroundings, and pretend to do more.  There’s something comforting about that, actually, and I rather enjoyed the only Pathfinder novel I read.

But in the wider world of fantasy, I’m just not seeing a glut of elves and dwarves or anything that’s recognizably derived from D&D.  I’m seeing Brandon Sanderson, Jim Butcher, Brent Weeks, and  Harry Conolly, James Enge and John C. Wright and Scott Lynch.  Well, okay, Enge has dragons and dwarves, but no one would mistake Morlock’s world for Forgotten Realms.

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Dream a Dream: The Chronicles of Everness by John C. Wright

Dream a Dream: The Chronicles of Everness by John C. Wright

everness1The Last Guardian of Everness
Tor (336 pages, Sept 2004, $25.95)
Mists of Everness
Tor (352 pages, Feb 2005, $25.95)
By John C. Wright

The Everness of the title is simply a house, a sprawling mansion built on the northern Maine coast.  Everness is a memory palace made real, a house whose features and layout are identical in both the waking and dream worlds, and one of the few gateways where dreams can cross over into manifest reality.  It is a conduit for all the normal dreams that come to humans in their sleep, but it is also a border to be defended.  The run-down seawall of the manifest world is a towering battlement in the Dreaming.

John C. Wright’s Chronicles of  Everness is an epic in two moderately sized volumes dealing with an assault upon our world (the waking world) and a horde of unspeakable evils from our nightmares.  Literally.  The world of the fantastic exists, but only in a vast dream-world composed of a vast population of gods, demons, monsters, fairies, selkies, angels, and supernatural princes.

It’s a difficult pair of books to encapsulate in any reasonable number of words, simply because of the sheer number of ideas, fantastic settings, plot threads, and scenarios Wright manages to stuff between his covers.  On the most basic level, they’re a tale of good versus evil, but that battle is fought in locations ranging from a suburban living room to the towers of an undersea Hell.  The books bite off a lot, and manage to chew through most of it with style.

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Nude Barbarian, Descending a Staircase

Nude Barbarian, Descending a Staircase

mariqueI’m planning a more lengthy post on the role of religion and spirituality in fantasy (expanding on some things I hinted at in my last post, which involved orc samurai), but the last couple weeks have been so crammed with lounging on beaches, jujitsu, and job hunting that I haven’t had the opportunity to give it the work it deserves.  So, instead, I present:

10 Ways Conan the Barbarian (2011 Edition) Could Have Been a Great Movie

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Elf Opera in Tang China

Elf Opera in Tang China

Matthew Surridge’s fascinating post on specificity in setting got the various gears, levers, in pistons in my head working.  I’m currently writing this in a cloud of steam gushing out both ears, and hopefully I’ll be able to finish before the gnomes who power the mechanisms of my consciousness go on strike.

The short version: Matthew, I agree completely.  There is a certain charm to what I think of as the typical D&D setting, in which castles are built out of clichés mortared together with anachronisms, and the world is a playground of exotic sights for the mismatched band of adventurers to wander among and slay monsters in.  It’s a lot of fun in a game–and sometimes fun in a D&D novel–but it lacks the kind of verisimilitude that makes a story really engrossing.chartes-cathedral

I tend to think that the richness of real-world Medieval civilization is masked by a series of misconceptions and broad generalizations, beginning with the tendency to see them as one long Dark Age spanning from the Fall of Rome to the Protestant Reformation.  But the so-called Dark Ages were home to the kingdoms of Charlemagne and Alfred, the flourishing of Irish and Italian monasticism, and the first sparks of the most vibrant intellectual life the world had yet seen.  Likewise, the High Middle Ages were an age of soaring cathedrals, vibrant art and music, and universities that studied everything from Roman law to medicine.

At the same time, the European Middle Ages were anything but homogenous.  The time period covers over a thousand years, which contain literally hundreds of distinct peoples and cultures.  The Vikings who besieged Paris later became the Normans who conquered England and ruled Sicily.  The balance between monarchs, emperor, and papacy was constantly shifting, sometimes responding to new threats or influences, as when the Mongols crashed against the armies of the Holy Roman Emperor.

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Tall, Long, Deep, and Wide: Weighing Your Books

Tall, Long, Deep, and Wide: Weighing Your Books

Max
Great things come in small, lagomorphic packages
I have a confession to make.

Barnes and Noble and I are old friends.  We go way back, went on some double dates back in the day, you know?  So I try to stop in pretty frequently to see how the old boy’s doing.  He’s such a welcoming host I usually don’t leave without a new book or two in hand, even though my To-Be-Read pile is starting to resemble a fortress made of paper bricks and dusty mortar.

My confession is that, when I’m deciding exactly which books are going to accompany me home, I look at all the usual factors: Blurb, cover art, quality of the first page or two, and any positive or negative vibes about book or author I’ve absorbed from the aether.  But I also weigh the book, and surreptitiously pull out a tape measure to check how many inches separate the covers.

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The Man They Call Sean

The Man They Call Sean

I’ve never had a nickname that stuck.  Well, that’s not completely true — I can think of at least one occasion when people have called me “Flinteye” and expected me to respond, but they were just reading off my baseball cap.  All in all, this is probably a good thing, since nicknames that stick tend to be less cool stuff like “Grinder” or “Shadowman” and more like “Chunk” or “Barfbag”.

A candid look at my gruesome features
A candid look at my gruesome features

So, as much as I’d like to introduce myself as Sean “Dark Smoke Puncher” Stiennon, just Sean will do nicely.  You might already have noticed my name attached to a review of Jasper Kent’s Twelve.

By day, I inhabit an apartment in sunny Madison, Wisconsin (as well as an office nearby) and produce the valuable carbon dioxide that keeps our planet green.  By night, I sleep.  I also read ridiculous books, play manly video games, practice ryuukyu kenpo karate, and otherwise live the high life.  I write fantasy and SF regularly, and if any cool people or gorgeous space princesses out there want to see some, send me a carrier pigeon!

My nerd profile is that of a dilettante.  I enjoy many things, from manga to games, but haven’t really ever plunged into one particular thing.  There are few authors I’ve read exhaustively, few franchises I’ve mined deep enough to go toe-to-toe with their true devotees.  That means my thoughts on any geeky subject tend to be a loose mix of ignorance, knowledge, and apathy.  I love Cowboy Bebop and Trigun, but have never seen Akira or Dragonball Z.  I got sick of Drizzt after three volumes, and only read four.

Anyway, I like to think my broad-but-shallow nerd experiences give me a habit of making interesting connections.  So, when I watch the first few episodes of classic head-bursting anime Fist of the North Star, it brings Superman to mind.

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A Review of Twelve by Jasper Kent

A Review of Twelve by Jasper Kent

twelveTwelve
By Jasper Kent
Pyr (447 pages, $17.00, September 2010)

Twelve is set in Russia in the year 1812. While America was fighting a trans-Atlantic war against the British, Napoleon led a Grand Armee of 450,000 soldiers across the Niemen river into Russia. The outnumbered and undertrained Tsarist armies fought a series of retreating actions, and the French successfully occupied Moscow just as winter was setting in.

The novel is narrated by Aleksei Ivanovich Danilov, a soldier already weary from a lifetime of war and marked by the loss of two fingers in a Turkish dungeon. At the time of the French invasion he is assigned to a unit of three other soldiers tasked with undermining the French war effort via espionage and commando raids.

The opening line of chapter 1 introduces their strategy: “Dmitry Fetyukovich said he knew some people.” Dmitry knows, in fact, a group of mercenaries from the Danube river valley who fought with the Russians in an earlier conflict with the Turks. These mercenaries share a common interest with Aleksei and his comrades: They love nothing better than killing Frenchmen, and their efficacy is legendary.

As the mercenaries approach Moscow from the south, Aleksei hears of a series of unusual “plagues” breaking out in small towns along their route, giving him a faint feeling of unease. At last, late at night, twelve men arrive in Moscow under the leadership of a man who introduces himself as Zmyeevich — in Russian, “Son of the Serpent.”

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