Excerpt: The Ascendant's Journal

17th of Feis, Andrel 893
One of the joys of writing stories set in a world other than one’s own, one that the writers of other settings do not often get to experience, is the sense of wonder one gets when one step into that other world and begins to take a look around. In the author’s realm of fantasy the rules of our own world need not necessarily apply; anything is possible; nothing can or should be taken for granted.
The author himself may not even know the workings of his world until he gets there. Indeed, the greatest of writers are not those who force themselves on their fabricated worlds as a tyrant, but the ones who allow themselves to be guided through it by its inhabitants, as a tourist. I find that with my own writing I often do not know what lies beyond the next hill until my characters have reached the top of it. For me, writing never ceases to be full of pleasant surprises at every turn.
Writing in this way conveys a certain advantage in terms of making the setting come alive. Without the writer bringing in any preconceived notions about the nature of his story or artificial manipulations of the characters and plot, they are free to develop naturally and to be true to themselves, and thus become more believable in the end. The characters of a tyrant writer do not act on their own accord, they are instead led by the nose into following his demands, and never get the chance to express their true selves to the audience. To do so requires the freedom granted by a writer who considers himself not the master of his world, but merely its creator who, after giving it the initial spark of life, stands aside to watch his creation grow on its own. If the writer is skilled enough, and if the initial seed of the world contains enough inspiration, then it will almost seem as though the stories begin to write themselves.

I am back in the woods again today, and the effect on me has been the same as it was the last time. The thoughts of how I have struggled since my parents’ deaths, and of my financial situation, are all banished from my mind as long as I am here. Perhaps I have been making mountains out of molehills all these past six years; perhaps this peace of mind was all I needed to be able to carry out my work, and in trying so hard I was inadvertently sabotaging myself through stress. In any case, these last two days have been the most pleasant I have had in a long while. I think I shall make these walks in the woods a daily occurrence.
Only one small event exists as a blemish on my otherwise blissful trip. I wrote yesterday that I might visit the fairies on today’s journey to my kingdom of the mind, and today I followed those words and sat down to write to the west of where I had done so yesterday. It seemed strange, now that I think about it, how long it took to reach their hidden realm: nearly two hours, despite my brisk pace. How far had I ranged as a child? In any case, I sat down once I had reached the location. I could recognize it by the small moss-covered boulder that sat nestled between two branches of a large oak tree. How it originally came to be there, I haven’t a clue, but it had been that way since I was a child. Back then I took it to be the fairy queen’s bed, hoisted there by her subjects so as to keep it from the wet ground when it rained. Not having any better explanation after twenty years, I half-jokingly accepted that that was the true reason… no, I fully accepted it, for I had already immersed myself within my fantasy realm, and those childhood imaginings began to come alive once again.
Having thus seen such a familiar site, it then came as somewhat of a shock to notice the absence of something else that my memory told me should have been there. I looked straight across the path from the tree bearing the fairy bed, where the queen’s colorful throne used to be, but there my eyes found only a small patch of wood sorrel. For a moment I grieved its loss, and it seemed the fairies, whom I imagined the leaves of the surrounding plants to be, hung their heads in sorrow as well. I suppose I should have expected such; the throne had been an old tree stump, covered on every surface by colorful fungi, and it must have completely rotted away in the time since I last visited that spot. But it hurt still the same to see that a beloved part of my childhood memory was lost forever, and it shocked me out of my fantasy world by bringing attention to the fact that in reality there never had been a throne there, and that it was all just make-believe.
However, I could not possibly remain in that state of grief for long. My imagination reasserted itself, and childishly and without knowing exactly what I was doing I swore aloud to avenge the queen her destroyed throne, and stormed off into the woods to search for the culprit. At that time everything seemed more real than it ever had before, not even during my youth, as if my mind were acting to counter the sudden dispelling of one of its fantastical illusions by enhancing the rest.
I went about raving like a lunatic, questioning everyone I met in each village I passed through, but of course my frantic search turned up nothing. I was about to give up, when I thought I heard a call, telling me that someone had found something. Now that I have returned to my senses I suppose it must have been a bird of some kind, but in the midst of my fantasy it was a human voice urging me to hurry, or the culprit might escape. I followed the sound, and even thought I might have seen a shadowy figure fleeing from me deeper into the woods. I took pursuit, and I must have turned around at some point, as I chased my imaginary foe back into the village. By this point I was so far lost in my own mind and that I almost did not need to use my imagination to see it as such. The buildings were no longer marked by vague outlines of rocks and fallen branches, but by solid walls of wood, such that I flinched when it appeared that I would run straight into the village, and I felt myself crash through the door on top of the criminal.
I rejoiced as the vandal was taken away by my friend the watchman, and started back to the spot where I had left my writing materials, but I had become exhausted by the chase and instead laid down beneath the old bone-tree to rest. I must have drifted off to sleep, for by the time I reopened my eyes it was already beginning to grow dark. I remembered what I had been doing before I fell asleep and laughed at my own foolishness. I hurried back to my things before it became too dark to see, and returned home.