S.L. Rutland's Blog
November 12, 2025
Next Review Coming soon!
My next review has been requested by my beautiful wife! ❤️ The first book of Kim Harrison's urban fantasy series, Dead Witch Walking is not usually on my radar. It's like watching a trainwreck but with vampires, witches and pixies. 😅
ISG
ISG
November 9, 2025
The Narcissistic Lens: Self-Insert Characters in Literary Fiction
In the broad landscape of literary fiction, few techniques reveal the close relationship between creator and creation more clearly than the self-insert. This literary device occurs when an author incorporates a version of themselves (whether through name, traits, experiences, or worldview) into the story. This acts as a mirror held up to their very own soul, allowing writers to explore personal truths within their own fictional worlds. However, this act of self-insertion often borders on narcissism. Where the line blurs between genuine self-examination and unchecked self-absorption.
This literary device is far from being a modern trend. Self-inserts have long been present in our stories, both as a bridge to universal themes but also as a potential trap of narcissistic behaviour. This article explores the narcissistic undercurrents of self-inserts, praising their potential while cautioning us all against their excesses, using examples that highlight the human tendency to reflect on oneself in storytelling.
Historical Echoes: The Ancient Allure of the Author’s Shadow
The urge to insert oneself in fiction occurred long before modern psychology’s diagnosis of narcissism as an exaggerated sense of self-importance. In Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy (1320), the poet portrays himself as the wandering protagonist, guided through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise by Virgil and Beatrice. This inspiring and daring narrative transforms a theological epic into a personal journey, a quest, exploring Dante’s flaws (his doubt, longing, and moral shortcomings) and also becoming the reader’s path to a divine understanding. In this example, the self-insertion is not simple vanity but a voyage of collective redemption, encouraging readers to see their own journeys within the author’s.
Centuries later, Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time (1913–1927) elevates this to a monumental level of introspection. The narrator, Marcel, mirrors Proust’s aristocratic background, struggles with health, and obsessions with memory and art. Proust’s insertion delves into realism, where the mundane unlocks profound epiphanies. However, even within these timeless classics, narcissism appears as the author’s life dominates the narrative, forcing the readers to dwell within their orbit.
As literary critic Harold Bloom observed, such works risk “the anxiety of influence,” where the creator’s ego eclipses the story’s broader horizons. These historical precedents reminds us all that self-inserts thrive when they transcend personal anecdote, evolving into archetypes that develop beyond the writer’s ego.
The Psychological Thread: From Catharsis to Self-Absorption
Self-insert arise from a universal desire to understand one’s existence through storytelling. Within psychology, it provides a cleansing of sort and enables the writer to process their own traumas, successes, and contradictions within their own controlled narrative space. However, when it shifts into narcissism, by delving into grandiosity, lack of empathy, and an exploitative view of others, the outcome can resemble ego disguised as dialogue. Writers may unconsciously idealise their insert, minimising flaws to create an infallible avatar, which alienates readers seeking relatable imperfections.
This tension stems from the brain’s tendency towards self-improvement as cognitive science indicates, humans often create flattering self-narratives. This appears often in fiction where self-inserted characters succeed effortlessly, surrounded by admirers, with their vulnerabilities serving as mere plot devices rather than real obstacles. The narcissistic trap lies not in including these elements but in how they are executed. Does the author use the self-insert to explore human weakness, or to revel in unchallenged superiority? Well-balanced self-inserts, by contrast, use humour and humility, turning the reflection outward to promote empathy rather than inward admiration.
Exemplars of Grace: Self-Inserts That Transcend Ego
When approached with self-awareness, self-inserts serve to highlight rather than detract. Agatha Christie’s Ariadne Oliver, the recurring mystery novelist in her Hercule Poirot stories, exemplifies this skilful approach. Oliver is a tense creator frustrated with her own fictional detective—mirroring Christie’s own known fatigue with Poirot—sometimes falling for her own red herrings and relying on “woman’s intuition” with a touch of irony. This insert humorously comments on the writing life, blending comedy with critique to humanise Christie without requiring reverence.
Kurt Vonnegut employs a similar strategy in works like* God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater* (1965), where the unlucky sci-fi writer Kilgore Trout serves as his recurring alter ego. Trout is depicted as a tragically comic failure—productive but unpublished, with his wild ideas dismissed—mirroring Vonnegut’s early challenges and emphasising themes of overlooked talent and societal neglect. Far from narcissistic, Trout’s character invites laughter at the author’s expense, transforming potential self-pity into pointed satire.
In modern story, Louise Erdrich’s The Sentence (2021), the author self-inserts as a discreet secondary figure portrayed as owner of Minneapolis’s Birchbark Books. Her presence highlighting the novel’s themes of grief, without overshadowing the main protagonist, Tookie. This shows how self-inserts, infused with vulnerability and humour, can enhance fiction by exemplifying elegant self-portrayal.
Shadows of Excess: When Insertion Breeds Indulgence
On the other hand, unchecked self-inserts can turn into narrative narcissism, where the author’s idealised stand-in disrupts the story’s unity. Lani Sarem’s Handbook for Mortals (2017) serves as a warning: protagonist Zade, a petite blonde magician who reflects Sarem’s own rise from small-town obscurity to Vegas stardom, quickly gains fame. Men fall over themselves, rivals grow green with envy, and hurdles vanish like smoke upon the stage, creating a blatantly obvious lack of self-awareness that balances ego. This lack of conflict makes Zade a vehicle for wish fulfilment, sacrificing plot and character development for undeserved praise.
These missteps often happen when people are tempted to ignore flaws, as seen in self-insert pitfalls: the desire to improve one’s image can lead to “Mary Sue” characters, perfect heroes whose triumphs lack meaning.
In literary fiction, this indulgence may turn readers away, as they seek the messiness and genuine authenticity that true narcissism, when challenged, cannot produce.
Reflections in the Narrative Mirror
Self-inserted characters embody literature’s narcissistic core, inviting reflection while requiring a disciplined look outward. The examples of Dante’s pilgrim and Christie’s novelist, shows us that storytelling is more about vulnerable exposure then untouchable sanctity.
When authors approach their self inserted characters with humility, embracing flaws, adding humour, and serving the story, they transcend ego and build connections that resonate across cultures and time. Nevertheless, the temptation of self-absorption persists, reminding writers to wrestle their reflection into submission.
Ultimately, the most enduring self-inserts humble the creator rather than glorify them, demonstrating that true literary narcissism resides not in insertion but in the inability to revise oneself on the page.
This literary device is far from being a modern trend. Self-inserts have long been present in our stories, both as a bridge to universal themes but also as a potential trap of narcissistic behaviour. This article explores the narcissistic undercurrents of self-inserts, praising their potential while cautioning us all against their excesses, using examples that highlight the human tendency to reflect on oneself in storytelling.
Historical Echoes: The Ancient Allure of the Author’s Shadow
The urge to insert oneself in fiction occurred long before modern psychology’s diagnosis of narcissism as an exaggerated sense of self-importance. In Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy (1320), the poet portrays himself as the wandering protagonist, guided through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise by Virgil and Beatrice. This inspiring and daring narrative transforms a theological epic into a personal journey, a quest, exploring Dante’s flaws (his doubt, longing, and moral shortcomings) and also becoming the reader’s path to a divine understanding. In this example, the self-insertion is not simple vanity but a voyage of collective redemption, encouraging readers to see their own journeys within the author’s.
Centuries later, Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time (1913–1927) elevates this to a monumental level of introspection. The narrator, Marcel, mirrors Proust’s aristocratic background, struggles with health, and obsessions with memory and art. Proust’s insertion delves into realism, where the mundane unlocks profound epiphanies. However, even within these timeless classics, narcissism appears as the author’s life dominates the narrative, forcing the readers to dwell within their orbit.
As literary critic Harold Bloom observed, such works risk “the anxiety of influence,” where the creator’s ego eclipses the story’s broader horizons. These historical precedents reminds us all that self-inserts thrive when they transcend personal anecdote, evolving into archetypes that develop beyond the writer’s ego.
The Psychological Thread: From Catharsis to Self-Absorption
Self-insert arise from a universal desire to understand one’s existence through storytelling. Within psychology, it provides a cleansing of sort and enables the writer to process their own traumas, successes, and contradictions within their own controlled narrative space. However, when it shifts into narcissism, by delving into grandiosity, lack of empathy, and an exploitative view of others, the outcome can resemble ego disguised as dialogue. Writers may unconsciously idealise their insert, minimising flaws to create an infallible avatar, which alienates readers seeking relatable imperfections.
This tension stems from the brain’s tendency towards self-improvement as cognitive science indicates, humans often create flattering self-narratives. This appears often in fiction where self-inserted characters succeed effortlessly, surrounded by admirers, with their vulnerabilities serving as mere plot devices rather than real obstacles. The narcissistic trap lies not in including these elements but in how they are executed. Does the author use the self-insert to explore human weakness, or to revel in unchallenged superiority? Well-balanced self-inserts, by contrast, use humour and humility, turning the reflection outward to promote empathy rather than inward admiration.
Exemplars of Grace: Self-Inserts That Transcend Ego
When approached with self-awareness, self-inserts serve to highlight rather than detract. Agatha Christie’s Ariadne Oliver, the recurring mystery novelist in her Hercule Poirot stories, exemplifies this skilful approach. Oliver is a tense creator frustrated with her own fictional detective—mirroring Christie’s own known fatigue with Poirot—sometimes falling for her own red herrings and relying on “woman’s intuition” with a touch of irony. This insert humorously comments on the writing life, blending comedy with critique to humanise Christie without requiring reverence.
Kurt Vonnegut employs a similar strategy in works like* God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater* (1965), where the unlucky sci-fi writer Kilgore Trout serves as his recurring alter ego. Trout is depicted as a tragically comic failure—productive but unpublished, with his wild ideas dismissed—mirroring Vonnegut’s early challenges and emphasising themes of overlooked talent and societal neglect. Far from narcissistic, Trout’s character invites laughter at the author’s expense, transforming potential self-pity into pointed satire.
In modern story, Louise Erdrich’s The Sentence (2021), the author self-inserts as a discreet secondary figure portrayed as owner of Minneapolis’s Birchbark Books. Her presence highlighting the novel’s themes of grief, without overshadowing the main protagonist, Tookie. This shows how self-inserts, infused with vulnerability and humour, can enhance fiction by exemplifying elegant self-portrayal.
Shadows of Excess: When Insertion Breeds Indulgence
On the other hand, unchecked self-inserts can turn into narrative narcissism, where the author’s idealised stand-in disrupts the story’s unity. Lani Sarem’s Handbook for Mortals (2017) serves as a warning: protagonist Zade, a petite blonde magician who reflects Sarem’s own rise from small-town obscurity to Vegas stardom, quickly gains fame. Men fall over themselves, rivals grow green with envy, and hurdles vanish like smoke upon the stage, creating a blatantly obvious lack of self-awareness that balances ego. This lack of conflict makes Zade a vehicle for wish fulfilment, sacrificing plot and character development for undeserved praise.
These missteps often happen when people are tempted to ignore flaws, as seen in self-insert pitfalls: the desire to improve one’s image can lead to “Mary Sue” characters, perfect heroes whose triumphs lack meaning.
In literary fiction, this indulgence may turn readers away, as they seek the messiness and genuine authenticity that true narcissism, when challenged, cannot produce.
Reflections in the Narrative Mirror
Self-inserted characters embody literature’s narcissistic core, inviting reflection while requiring a disciplined look outward. The examples of Dante’s pilgrim and Christie’s novelist, shows us that storytelling is more about vulnerable exposure then untouchable sanctity.
When authors approach their self inserted characters with humility, embracing flaws, adding humour, and serving the story, they transcend ego and build connections that resonate across cultures and time. Nevertheless, the temptation of self-absorption persists, reminding writers to wrestle their reflection into submission.
Ultimately, the most enduring self-inserts humble the creator rather than glorify them, demonstrating that true literary narcissism resides not in insertion but in the inability to revise oneself on the page.
November 6, 2025
Humanity
What Shakespeare said in irony, I speak with conviction. Humanity is extraordinary.
"What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculty, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god!"
"What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculty, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god!"
November 2, 2025
Reflection of Criticism - Writing, Reviewing and avoiding Internet Drama
Drama has struck my little corner of the online world, and I find myself reeling from the aftermath. The dispute reveals to many of us the shattered edge between communication and reflection.
Many of those I admire for their work have disappointed me, and others have proven themselves completely unable to accept any form of criticism at all, instead being most comfortable and vocal in blindly supporting those who dish out the very same, if not worse.
Even though it may crush our very souls, it is essential that we all, in one way or another, reflect on our own work and take criticism on board without protest. This does not mean blindly listening to and accepting everyone’s feedback, as most, if not all, is subjective, especially in writing. However, we should not succumb to arrogance, remaining humble, as we are most definitely not arbiters of what makes a ‘good’ story.
As a Fantasy, Sci-Fi author, a reviewer and a dabbler in the casual interview, I have tempered my criticisms of others’ works. Writers put everything into their stories, reviews, articles, and the list goes on, and I firmly believe that we must consider that fact when providing feedback.
I have to my shame been guilty of the sin in which I’m now writing.
I had completed my read through of the book “The Seeker’s Wrath” (The Essence Wars) by P.S. Davis, and it was a brutal narrative heavily focused on the antagonists, which I did not find comfortable. As a result, my initial review of the book was inappropriate, and what was worse, the Author had read the review and it had upset him. Twenty-four hours later, I sat down and rewrote the review because I knew his book and the efforts he had made to write it deserved not only a proper analysis and feedback but also an explanation for my initial scathing first attempt.
After I contacted P.S. Davis, I informed him of the changes and apologised to him. What is remarkable and a credit to Davis is that he had taken both reviews on board and informed me that my second review was the best he had ever received—a testament to the ability to reflect and understand the precious work you hold in your hands. What was even more humbling was that he sent me his sequel for me to review later on.
“As for literary criticism in general: I have long felt that any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel or a play or a poem is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae or a banana split.” - Kurt Vonnegut, Palm Sunday: An Autobiographical Collage.
If we are to assist in improving the skills of our fellow writers and uplift them, we must enhance our own skills in providing feedback. To do so, we must keep much of the raw emotional response to a minimum and remain critical. We have taken on the great responsibility of reviewing our fellow writers ‘ works, and as writers ourselves, we should be held to the highest of standards. If we give in to emotional feedback and response, we risk losing the professionalism we have worked so hard to establish.
Many of those I admire for their work have disappointed me, and others have proven themselves completely unable to accept any form of criticism at all, instead being most comfortable and vocal in blindly supporting those who dish out the very same, if not worse.
Even though it may crush our very souls, it is essential that we all, in one way or another, reflect on our own work and take criticism on board without protest. This does not mean blindly listening to and accepting everyone’s feedback, as most, if not all, is subjective, especially in writing. However, we should not succumb to arrogance, remaining humble, as we are most definitely not arbiters of what makes a ‘good’ story.
As a Fantasy, Sci-Fi author, a reviewer and a dabbler in the casual interview, I have tempered my criticisms of others’ works. Writers put everything into their stories, reviews, articles, and the list goes on, and I firmly believe that we must consider that fact when providing feedback.
I have to my shame been guilty of the sin in which I’m now writing.
I had completed my read through of the book “The Seeker’s Wrath” (The Essence Wars) by P.S. Davis, and it was a brutal narrative heavily focused on the antagonists, which I did not find comfortable. As a result, my initial review of the book was inappropriate, and what was worse, the Author had read the review and it had upset him. Twenty-four hours later, I sat down and rewrote the review because I knew his book and the efforts he had made to write it deserved not only a proper analysis and feedback but also an explanation for my initial scathing first attempt.
After I contacted P.S. Davis, I informed him of the changes and apologised to him. What is remarkable and a credit to Davis is that he had taken both reviews on board and informed me that my second review was the best he had ever received—a testament to the ability to reflect and understand the precious work you hold in your hands. What was even more humbling was that he sent me his sequel for me to review later on.
“As for literary criticism in general: I have long felt that any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel or a play or a poem is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae or a banana split.” - Kurt Vonnegut, Palm Sunday: An Autobiographical Collage.
If we are to assist in improving the skills of our fellow writers and uplift them, we must enhance our own skills in providing feedback. To do so, we must keep much of the raw emotional response to a minimum and remain critical. We have taken on the great responsibility of reviewing our fellow writers ‘ works, and as writers ourselves, we should be held to the highest of standards. If we give in to emotional feedback and response, we risk losing the professionalism we have worked so hard to establish.
October 14, 2025
Procrastinating... and my musings, I guess.
I have come to the conclusion that I am procrastinating.
I have found myself with too much to write. I have book 2 of the Caramere Saga well underway, Part 1 of the Voyages of UES Gagarin - Planetfall to begin, and my advanced certificate of creative writing to complete. Plus, I am throwing myself into reviewing lesser-known indie authors. Miss Lakewood, the girl with the purple strand, has been an inspiration in that regard, and as my books have no current reviews, I believe the only way to fix a problem is to do it yourself. So I am supporting my fellow authors, and I am told that the more you read, the better writer you become, so either way, it is a path to improvement.
Lastly, I find myself drawn to poetry as of late. Releasing several on my substack and social media platforms. 40 years had a comment that really stuck with me, the reader stating the poem was 'profound'.
I don't know if anyone will ever read any of this, but it is for posterity, I guess. I initially began writing for my children. To leave something behind for them and maybe inspire them to create their own works or continue telling stories within the world I had created.
I should get back to it if only for them.
I have found myself with too much to write. I have book 2 of the Caramere Saga well underway, Part 1 of the Voyages of UES Gagarin - Planetfall to begin, and my advanced certificate of creative writing to complete. Plus, I am throwing myself into reviewing lesser-known indie authors. Miss Lakewood, the girl with the purple strand, has been an inspiration in that regard, and as my books have no current reviews, I believe the only way to fix a problem is to do it yourself. So I am supporting my fellow authors, and I am told that the more you read, the better writer you become, so either way, it is a path to improvement.
Lastly, I find myself drawn to poetry as of late. Releasing several on my substack and social media platforms. 40 years had a comment that really stuck with me, the reader stating the poem was 'profound'.
I don't know if anyone will ever read any of this, but it is for posterity, I guess. I initially began writing for my children. To leave something behind for them and maybe inspire them to create their own works or continue telling stories within the world I had created.
I should get back to it if only for them.
The Caramere Saga, Book1: The War of Vengeance is now FREE!!!
⚔️Strap in, folks! ⚔️ From the 14th - 18th of October PDT, The Caramere Saga, Book 1: The War of Vengeance eBook will be free!
Make sure to get your free copy right now and kindly leave a review! 🙏
Amazon.com -
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FRYJV968
(Make sure you search for the book in your own country's Amazon marketplace so it becomes available to you!)
Make sure to get your free copy right now and kindly leave a review! 🙏
Amazon.com -
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FRYJV968
(Make sure you search for the book in your own country's Amazon marketplace so it becomes available to you!)
The Sending
It is upon the loss of those close to them that Caramerians recite - The Sending. All souls go to Marath, the god of the dead, for he ferries them toward the ethereal.
The Sending - excerpt from The Caramere Saga, Book 2.
In the dark and misty veil,
Where we all must one day tread,
Take her soul to the quiet place,
For all the longing dead.
If she cries for the life she lost,
Tell her I am here,
To remember her forever now,
So she will never fear.
For we all must one day take her path,
That leads to their grace,
For all the gods are awaiting now,
But know this just in case.
I pray for you, my dear, dear friend,
And hope your soul is ever well,
I’ll miss your laugh, your love, your heart, dear friend,
More than you’ll ever tell.
~SL Rutland
The Sending - excerpt from The Caramere Saga, Book 2.
In the dark and misty veil,
Where we all must one day tread,
Take her soul to the quiet place,
For all the longing dead.
If she cries for the life she lost,
Tell her I am here,
To remember her forever now,
So she will never fear.
For we all must one day take her path,
That leads to their grace,
For all the gods are awaiting now,
But know this just in case.
I pray for you, my dear, dear friend,
And hope your soul is ever well,
I’ll miss your laugh, your love, your heart, dear friend,
More than you’ll ever tell.
~SL Rutland
October 13, 2025
The Caramere Saga, Book 2: Prologue
This prologue is the beginning chapter of the Sequel to The Caramere Saga, Book 1: The War of Vengeance in which I am in the progress of writing. I hope you enjoy and I would love your feedback. If you would like to read the first book you can find The War of Vengeance available on Amazon.
(Note: Take heed dear readers as there are many spoilers below.)
~ SL Rutland
Mother Hana walked through the cold, wooded landscape along the quiet dirt road, gripping her white staff as she slowly made her way back to her cabin. She carried a small wooden basket filled with vegetables she had bought from the local market in town, and she was looking forward to adding them to the pork broth she had been cooking over the fire since early morning. She knew she was getting close as the rich, salty aroma from her cooking pot permeated the surrounding woods, and her stomach grumbled in anticipation.
Mother Hana, once an illustrious royal councillor of the High Kingdom of Caramere, had retired. She had to convince High King Uther and Arch Priest Reneth that her time had come. The events surrounding High Queen Valena’s death and the war that followed had taken a toll on the old woman, and she requested a small, out-of-the-way residence to live out the rest of her days in peace.
She was once known as High Queen Hanaron, the Pious. A Padar Queen herself, she was left alone with her distant descendants after her husband and son died of old age. Unable to watch more of her line perish around her, she soon abandoned her role as Queen Mother of Arathas Castle and sought peaceful reflection as a priestess of Tythor.
With her disappearance, Hanaron fell into legend, a mystery that persists to this day. No one knew where her story ended or what destiny had fallen upon her. However, it seemed fate had a sense of humour and found a way to bring her back to her home one last time, only for her to serve her great-great-grandson, who had no idea who she was. Although being with her family again soothed her old spirit, her anonymity was to her liking, and she didn’t need the fuss of it all.
To her dismay, even in this small town, her reputation as a priestess of Tythor was no secret and did not bestow upon her the privacy she desired. Her presence attracted residents of Frostwither who sought her out for any ailments they found themselves afflicted with. In her six months living on the outskirts of town, she had found herself taking the role of Frostwither’s unofficial healer.
It wasn’t all bad, though. Arthur, the local hunter, brought her fresh wild game and some choice cuts from the butcher, which allowed her to eat quite comfortably. Nevertheless, she would have preferred to be left alone. She had been on Aurelia for two hundred and seventy-two years. Although she remained healthy and fit due to the magic that ran through her blood and her skills in thaumaturgical spellcraft, which gave her the ability to heal herself, age had weathered her in ways that magic, even that given to her by the grace of the Ten, could not mend. Her time on this world was coming to an end.
As she approached her cabin, she peered around, ensuring no one had come to bother her. She only wished to prepare her meal and sit by the warmth of the fire in peace, and if time permitted, review her scrolls and excerpts from the Book of Order and Justice. She was still a Priestess of Tythor, and she would remain so until her death, even if she had retired from serving the council and tending to its temple within Arathas Castle. Her communion with her patron, Tythor, was a lifelong commitment.
Her cabin was crafted from Winteran pine, and the stone cobbled path to her front porch was lined with silver and purple lavender, her favourite flower. Smoke rose from the chimney, making her smile. She had found herself rushing back along the forest path, worried that the fire would whittle out before she returned, especially if some townsfolk had interrupted her quick outing. Fortunately, she had managed to avoid all who had fallen victim to wanton illness or injury.
She unlocked her door, and the smell of broth and the warmth from the fire greeted her. She rushed inside, not to let any cold air in. Then, she opened her basket and began gleefully cleaning and chopping the vegetables. She was halfway through when a knock came from the door. She froze for a moment and sighed to herself, turning toward the door, hoping it was just her imagination. If not, she thought, maybe they would go away if she simply ignored them. When the second knock echoed through her cabin, louder and more desperate than the first, she put her knife down in a huff.
“By all that is holy, can’t I have a moment’s peace in this confounded town?” she muttered as she unlatched the door and opened it to see who had interrupted her cooking.
A flushed man, struggling to catch his breath, stood holding a small boy, whom she estimated to be about three years old. She noted that the rather rotund man was Frostwither’s baker.
“Please, Mother, you must help us!” he cried, edging closer to come into the cabin and escape the cold.
“What is the matter with the boy, hmm?” she replied, looking over him but standing her ground, refusing to let the man pass.
“He was playing outside, and a Winteran viper must have bitten him! I saw the damn vile thing sliver away, and my boy just lay there, not waking up, no matter how much I shook him!” he explained, begging her to let him enter.
Mother Hana looked back at her half-cut potato and shook her head in defeat. “Oh, fine, bring him in out of the cold,” she replied, then directed the man to place the child on the small bench on the western side of the cabin while she collected her staff from beside the door.
Looking over the boy, she observed that he was unconscious, his breathing was laboured, and he had cold sweats. Two puncture wounds were discovered on his leg where the viper had struck, and a mixture of black poison and blood seeped from the two small wounds.
“Another hour and he would have been dead,” Hana observed, glancing up at the sobbing father. “What are you blabbering for? The boy will be fine. Clear the way!” She scolded him, shooing him from the bench as she cast her spell while placing her staff near the boy’s wound. “Traho Venenum!”
The staff began to glow with light, and the black venom appeared to be drawn from the boy through the wound and the pores of his skin. As the black liquid hovered above his body like mist, she took a glass flask from her robes, directed the poison into its opening, and sealed it.
Almost immediately, colour returned to the boy, and as the father hurried over, holding his son’s hand, his eyes flickered open.
“Daddy?” he whispered weakly.
“Yes son, it’s me, thank the gods! It’s a miracle!” he cried, grabbing hold and hugging him. “Thank you, mother, you are sent straight from Tythor himself!” he said, trying to grab hold of her to pull her close.
“None of that nonsense, thank you very much!” she replied, swiftly stepping back and out of the man’s reach.
“Oh, Priestess, you will receive a free loaf of bread every week for as long as I am the baker of Frostwither for saving my son!”
“Yes, yes, fine, the bread will do. Now leave me to my peace so I can get back to my dinner,” she replied, ushering them out of the cabin door in a rush.
“Make sure he rests for a couple of days and get Arthur to find that bloody viper!” she yelled after them.
He nodded, grinning and thanking her again as he went down the stairs and onto the cobbled path, kissing his son’s cheek as he did. Hana smiled and shook her head as she closed her door.
“Finally,” she muttered, about to return to the chopping when she sensed another presence in the room. “Hello?” she called out, turning around, and then she saw it. A tall, disfigured monstrosity stood at her bedroom doorway. It was standing upright, which seemed unnatural for its figure, and wore a ragged black cloak and what looked like the soiled remains of a noble’s attire. Its large claws curled, and its mouth slowly opened, revealing jagged, long teeth. It was a Barbari.
“Mother Hana…” it growled in a distorted, raspy voice.
“You can speak?” she asked as she held out her staff, pointing it at the monster.
“You all betrayed me!” it screeched in reply, causing her to shrink back, her attempt to cover her ears thwarted by her unwillingness to let go of her staff, her only protection. She was a healer, but she also had some offensive magics up her sleeve. She hadn’t ever thought she would have to use them as she began to say the words.
“Sanctus Lux!” she cried out as a holy, blinding light filled her cabin.
The screeching suddenly stopped, and as the light dimmed, she looked up, peering around the cabin. The monster was gone. She steadied herself, gathered her courage, and slowly approached her bedroom door, which was left ajar and creaky. Looking through the crack, she could see or hear nothing but the boiling of her pork broth and the afternoon birds calling to one another among the trees outside.
She hadn’t thought she would get rid of the monster so easily, and used her staff to push open the door cautiously. As the door groaned open, the monster yanked the staff from her and shattered it against the cabin wall. Mother Hana tried to flee, but it lunged at her and clawed her back as she turned to run, tearing through her robes and into her flesh.
She screamed as the surge of pain made her legs give way, and she fell to the ground. The force of the impact winded her, but she managed to turn herself to face the Barbari as it stood, leering at her, its wide mouth grinning in excitement and hunger.
“Naughty, naughty, Hana,” it remarked, shaking its head.
As it approached, her eyes widened. She had not realised from the tattered clothes who Barbari once was.
“Auric?” she whispered, horrified by her realisation.
“So you finally see,” Auric growled. “You finally recognised your old colleague.”
“But why come here, to me?” she asked, confused, thinking he would attempt to go after Uther or Varen.
“You all betrayed me!” he screeched, smashing through the chairs and table in the centre of the room, the furniture crashing against the wall.
Mother Hana shielded herself as she attempted to crawl backwards towards the door, while Auric lost control of himself, slashing and smashing whatever was nearby in his rage.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he moved his bony, elongated claw from side to side. “You’re not going anywhere, priestess!”
Auric rushed over, grasped hold of her, and dragged her out of the front of her cabin and down the stony path onto a grassy mound, allowing her to stand.
“What do you want, Auric?” she grunted, glaring at him with scorn. Her fear had subsided, replaced by tiredness of age and the annoyance of having to entertain this corpse. “I’m too old for this nonsense, I have no authority anymore, I’ve retired.”
“Oh, I want you, Hanaron, and all of those who were there that night.” He grinned, crouching like a predator about to pounce on its prey.
“Hanaron?” she replied, surprised he would know her true name.
“Yes, yes... The Pious legendary High Queen who vanished into legend. I was surprised when Magrath revealed who you truly were. But naturally, my destiny would lead me close to what I needed to fulfil my purpose.”
“By Tythor’s mercy, kill me or let me get back to my dinner; I tire of conversing with a dead, foolish man,” she retorted, standing up straight and ignoring the wound on her back as she scowled at him.
Auric roared as he clawed into her, savagely. He slashed across her chest and knocked her to the ground. Hana wailed as she looked up desperately, gripping her wound, staring at her attacker as he dripped her blood from his bloody claws into a small vial and placed it into his ragged pouch.
“Now you die, Mother Hana,” he said, returning his cold gaze to her and raising his clawed hand, ready to deliver the final blow. Before he could lower his hand to end her, a voice erupted from the forest.
“Get back, fiend!” the voice yelled as two arrows whistled towards Auric, striking him in the shoulder and chest. Auric reeled back, screeching as Arthur, the hunter, charged into view, drawing his sword and swinging his fiery torch about, standing between Hana and the monster.
Auric swung wildly, trying to land a blow on his attacker, but Arthur was swift, stepping back, ducking, and slicing into Auric’s leg before ramming the torch into his chest, igniting his tattered clothing. Auric screamed and flailed, fleeing as he was engulfed in flames, vanishing into the woods and quickly out of view.
Arthur paused, watching Auric for a moment in case he returned, then pulled his hood from his head, revealing a middle-aged man with long, wild brown hair, tanned, rugged skin, and an unshaven face. He looked down at Hana, who lay there, struggling to breathe as her wounds began to overcome her.
“Priestess!” Arthur cried, crouching down and looking over her.
“Arthur, better late than never… I was expecting you at least half an hour ago,” she replied, attempting to make light of the dire situation.
“My apologies, I was held up. I regret that I hadn’t arrived sooner,” he said as he began to pull some cotton bandages from his pouch. As he was about to attempt to stem the bleeding, she lifted her hand and waved his effort away.
“You and I both know that will not help,” she scolded him.
Arthur sighed. “I do. Then you know you are dying?” he asked.
“Of course I do. But before I meet my patron, you must do an old woman one last favour,” she replied.
“Anything.”
“Take this to Lady Merina Foxten in the city of Winteran,” she said, reaching into her robes and handing him a small scroll. “Tell her Hanaron has fallen and that she may be next. Tell her, the Black Star has returned and has taken the blood of the Pious Queen… She will know what to do.”
Arthur nodded. “Should I make you more comfortable?”
“No. Give me your damn dagger, boy.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. Wouldn’t you do the same?”
Arthur nodded. She had not known the man for long, but somehow, in their many conversations, she had come to realise they were alike in many ways. If she were in his position, she would not let him suffer. As she looked at him now, she could see he understood the same. He handed her his blade, and she turned it towards herself, angling it upward toward her neck. Her death would be swift. She gripped it firmly and nodded at Arthur.
“May Tythor greet you at the gates of his realm, Old Mother. Rest well, my friend,” he whispered as he placed his hand gently on hers, and they both pushed the blade into her neck.
(Note: Take heed dear readers as there are many spoilers below.)
~ SL Rutland
Mother Hana walked through the cold, wooded landscape along the quiet dirt road, gripping her white staff as she slowly made her way back to her cabin. She carried a small wooden basket filled with vegetables she had bought from the local market in town, and she was looking forward to adding them to the pork broth she had been cooking over the fire since early morning. She knew she was getting close as the rich, salty aroma from her cooking pot permeated the surrounding woods, and her stomach grumbled in anticipation.
Mother Hana, once an illustrious royal councillor of the High Kingdom of Caramere, had retired. She had to convince High King Uther and Arch Priest Reneth that her time had come. The events surrounding High Queen Valena’s death and the war that followed had taken a toll on the old woman, and she requested a small, out-of-the-way residence to live out the rest of her days in peace.
She was once known as High Queen Hanaron, the Pious. A Padar Queen herself, she was left alone with her distant descendants after her husband and son died of old age. Unable to watch more of her line perish around her, she soon abandoned her role as Queen Mother of Arathas Castle and sought peaceful reflection as a priestess of Tythor.
With her disappearance, Hanaron fell into legend, a mystery that persists to this day. No one knew where her story ended or what destiny had fallen upon her. However, it seemed fate had a sense of humour and found a way to bring her back to her home one last time, only for her to serve her great-great-grandson, who had no idea who she was. Although being with her family again soothed her old spirit, her anonymity was to her liking, and she didn’t need the fuss of it all.
To her dismay, even in this small town, her reputation as a priestess of Tythor was no secret and did not bestow upon her the privacy she desired. Her presence attracted residents of Frostwither who sought her out for any ailments they found themselves afflicted with. In her six months living on the outskirts of town, she had found herself taking the role of Frostwither’s unofficial healer.
It wasn’t all bad, though. Arthur, the local hunter, brought her fresh wild game and some choice cuts from the butcher, which allowed her to eat quite comfortably. Nevertheless, she would have preferred to be left alone. She had been on Aurelia for two hundred and seventy-two years. Although she remained healthy and fit due to the magic that ran through her blood and her skills in thaumaturgical spellcraft, which gave her the ability to heal herself, age had weathered her in ways that magic, even that given to her by the grace of the Ten, could not mend. Her time on this world was coming to an end.
As she approached her cabin, she peered around, ensuring no one had come to bother her. She only wished to prepare her meal and sit by the warmth of the fire in peace, and if time permitted, review her scrolls and excerpts from the Book of Order and Justice. She was still a Priestess of Tythor, and she would remain so until her death, even if she had retired from serving the council and tending to its temple within Arathas Castle. Her communion with her patron, Tythor, was a lifelong commitment.
Her cabin was crafted from Winteran pine, and the stone cobbled path to her front porch was lined with silver and purple lavender, her favourite flower. Smoke rose from the chimney, making her smile. She had found herself rushing back along the forest path, worried that the fire would whittle out before she returned, especially if some townsfolk had interrupted her quick outing. Fortunately, she had managed to avoid all who had fallen victim to wanton illness or injury.
She unlocked her door, and the smell of broth and the warmth from the fire greeted her. She rushed inside, not to let any cold air in. Then, she opened her basket and began gleefully cleaning and chopping the vegetables. She was halfway through when a knock came from the door. She froze for a moment and sighed to herself, turning toward the door, hoping it was just her imagination. If not, she thought, maybe they would go away if she simply ignored them. When the second knock echoed through her cabin, louder and more desperate than the first, she put her knife down in a huff.
“By all that is holy, can’t I have a moment’s peace in this confounded town?” she muttered as she unlatched the door and opened it to see who had interrupted her cooking.
A flushed man, struggling to catch his breath, stood holding a small boy, whom she estimated to be about three years old. She noted that the rather rotund man was Frostwither’s baker.
“Please, Mother, you must help us!” he cried, edging closer to come into the cabin and escape the cold.
“What is the matter with the boy, hmm?” she replied, looking over him but standing her ground, refusing to let the man pass.
“He was playing outside, and a Winteran viper must have bitten him! I saw the damn vile thing sliver away, and my boy just lay there, not waking up, no matter how much I shook him!” he explained, begging her to let him enter.
Mother Hana looked back at her half-cut potato and shook her head in defeat. “Oh, fine, bring him in out of the cold,” she replied, then directed the man to place the child on the small bench on the western side of the cabin while she collected her staff from beside the door.
Looking over the boy, she observed that he was unconscious, his breathing was laboured, and he had cold sweats. Two puncture wounds were discovered on his leg where the viper had struck, and a mixture of black poison and blood seeped from the two small wounds.
“Another hour and he would have been dead,” Hana observed, glancing up at the sobbing father. “What are you blabbering for? The boy will be fine. Clear the way!” She scolded him, shooing him from the bench as she cast her spell while placing her staff near the boy’s wound. “Traho Venenum!”
The staff began to glow with light, and the black venom appeared to be drawn from the boy through the wound and the pores of his skin. As the black liquid hovered above his body like mist, she took a glass flask from her robes, directed the poison into its opening, and sealed it.
Almost immediately, colour returned to the boy, and as the father hurried over, holding his son’s hand, his eyes flickered open.
“Daddy?” he whispered weakly.
“Yes son, it’s me, thank the gods! It’s a miracle!” he cried, grabbing hold and hugging him. “Thank you, mother, you are sent straight from Tythor himself!” he said, trying to grab hold of her to pull her close.
“None of that nonsense, thank you very much!” she replied, swiftly stepping back and out of the man’s reach.
“Oh, Priestess, you will receive a free loaf of bread every week for as long as I am the baker of Frostwither for saving my son!”
“Yes, yes, fine, the bread will do. Now leave me to my peace so I can get back to my dinner,” she replied, ushering them out of the cabin door in a rush.
“Make sure he rests for a couple of days and get Arthur to find that bloody viper!” she yelled after them.
He nodded, grinning and thanking her again as he went down the stairs and onto the cobbled path, kissing his son’s cheek as he did. Hana smiled and shook her head as she closed her door.
“Finally,” she muttered, about to return to the chopping when she sensed another presence in the room. “Hello?” she called out, turning around, and then she saw it. A tall, disfigured monstrosity stood at her bedroom doorway. It was standing upright, which seemed unnatural for its figure, and wore a ragged black cloak and what looked like the soiled remains of a noble’s attire. Its large claws curled, and its mouth slowly opened, revealing jagged, long teeth. It was a Barbari.
“Mother Hana…” it growled in a distorted, raspy voice.
“You can speak?” she asked as she held out her staff, pointing it at the monster.
“You all betrayed me!” it screeched in reply, causing her to shrink back, her attempt to cover her ears thwarted by her unwillingness to let go of her staff, her only protection. She was a healer, but she also had some offensive magics up her sleeve. She hadn’t ever thought she would have to use them as she began to say the words.
“Sanctus Lux!” she cried out as a holy, blinding light filled her cabin.
The screeching suddenly stopped, and as the light dimmed, she looked up, peering around the cabin. The monster was gone. She steadied herself, gathered her courage, and slowly approached her bedroom door, which was left ajar and creaky. Looking through the crack, she could see or hear nothing but the boiling of her pork broth and the afternoon birds calling to one another among the trees outside.
She hadn’t thought she would get rid of the monster so easily, and used her staff to push open the door cautiously. As the door groaned open, the monster yanked the staff from her and shattered it against the cabin wall. Mother Hana tried to flee, but it lunged at her and clawed her back as she turned to run, tearing through her robes and into her flesh.
She screamed as the surge of pain made her legs give way, and she fell to the ground. The force of the impact winded her, but she managed to turn herself to face the Barbari as it stood, leering at her, its wide mouth grinning in excitement and hunger.
“Naughty, naughty, Hana,” it remarked, shaking its head.
As it approached, her eyes widened. She had not realised from the tattered clothes who Barbari once was.
“Auric?” she whispered, horrified by her realisation.
“So you finally see,” Auric growled. “You finally recognised your old colleague.”
“But why come here, to me?” she asked, confused, thinking he would attempt to go after Uther or Varen.
“You all betrayed me!” he screeched, smashing through the chairs and table in the centre of the room, the furniture crashing against the wall.
Mother Hana shielded herself as she attempted to crawl backwards towards the door, while Auric lost control of himself, slashing and smashing whatever was nearby in his rage.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he moved his bony, elongated claw from side to side. “You’re not going anywhere, priestess!”
Auric rushed over, grasped hold of her, and dragged her out of the front of her cabin and down the stony path onto a grassy mound, allowing her to stand.
“What do you want, Auric?” she grunted, glaring at him with scorn. Her fear had subsided, replaced by tiredness of age and the annoyance of having to entertain this corpse. “I’m too old for this nonsense, I have no authority anymore, I’ve retired.”
“Oh, I want you, Hanaron, and all of those who were there that night.” He grinned, crouching like a predator about to pounce on its prey.
“Hanaron?” she replied, surprised he would know her true name.
“Yes, yes... The Pious legendary High Queen who vanished into legend. I was surprised when Magrath revealed who you truly were. But naturally, my destiny would lead me close to what I needed to fulfil my purpose.”
“By Tythor’s mercy, kill me or let me get back to my dinner; I tire of conversing with a dead, foolish man,” she retorted, standing up straight and ignoring the wound on her back as she scowled at him.
Auric roared as he clawed into her, savagely. He slashed across her chest and knocked her to the ground. Hana wailed as she looked up desperately, gripping her wound, staring at her attacker as he dripped her blood from his bloody claws into a small vial and placed it into his ragged pouch.
“Now you die, Mother Hana,” he said, returning his cold gaze to her and raising his clawed hand, ready to deliver the final blow. Before he could lower his hand to end her, a voice erupted from the forest.
“Get back, fiend!” the voice yelled as two arrows whistled towards Auric, striking him in the shoulder and chest. Auric reeled back, screeching as Arthur, the hunter, charged into view, drawing his sword and swinging his fiery torch about, standing between Hana and the monster.
Auric swung wildly, trying to land a blow on his attacker, but Arthur was swift, stepping back, ducking, and slicing into Auric’s leg before ramming the torch into his chest, igniting his tattered clothing. Auric screamed and flailed, fleeing as he was engulfed in flames, vanishing into the woods and quickly out of view.
Arthur paused, watching Auric for a moment in case he returned, then pulled his hood from his head, revealing a middle-aged man with long, wild brown hair, tanned, rugged skin, and an unshaven face. He looked down at Hana, who lay there, struggling to breathe as her wounds began to overcome her.
“Priestess!” Arthur cried, crouching down and looking over her.
“Arthur, better late than never… I was expecting you at least half an hour ago,” she replied, attempting to make light of the dire situation.
“My apologies, I was held up. I regret that I hadn’t arrived sooner,” he said as he began to pull some cotton bandages from his pouch. As he was about to attempt to stem the bleeding, she lifted her hand and waved his effort away.
“You and I both know that will not help,” she scolded him.
Arthur sighed. “I do. Then you know you are dying?” he asked.
“Of course I do. But before I meet my patron, you must do an old woman one last favour,” she replied.
“Anything.”
“Take this to Lady Merina Foxten in the city of Winteran,” she said, reaching into her robes and handing him a small scroll. “Tell her Hanaron has fallen and that she may be next. Tell her, the Black Star has returned and has taken the blood of the Pious Queen… She will know what to do.”
Arthur nodded. “Should I make you more comfortable?”
“No. Give me your damn dagger, boy.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. Wouldn’t you do the same?”
Arthur nodded. She had not known the man for long, but somehow, in their many conversations, she had come to realise they were alike in many ways. If she were in his position, she would not let him suffer. As she looked at him now, she could see he understood the same. He handed her his blade, and she turned it towards herself, angling it upward toward her neck. Her death would be swift. She gripped it firmly and nodded at Arthur.
“May Tythor greet you at the gates of his realm, Old Mother. Rest well, my friend,” he whispered as he placed his hand gently on hers, and they both pushed the blade into her neck.
40 Years.
I have written a poem, a reflection of my life so far. I hope you all like it.
Forty years upon this Earth,
In which now I reflect.
From a middle child of a broken home,
To a sailor whose country I swore to protect.
Even though my life had felt full,
With adventure, challenge and joy,
I had not grown to what I am now,
I was still only a boy.
For when I saw the woman I truly love,
Walking down the aisle,
When I held my little son in my hands,
Or first saw my daughter’s beautiful smile.
As the clock turned forty.
And my body began to ache,
I realised then, from boy to man,
That now more than ever, I had so much at stake.
For when you become a father, a husband,
I now know it’s true.
You make a solemn vow to yourself, to them,
That you will always come through.
~SL Rutland
Forty years upon this Earth,
In which now I reflect.
From a middle child of a broken home,
To a sailor whose country I swore to protect.
Even though my life had felt full,
With adventure, challenge and joy,
I had not grown to what I am now,
I was still only a boy.
For when I saw the woman I truly love,
Walking down the aisle,
When I held my little son in my hands,
Or first saw my daughter’s beautiful smile.
As the clock turned forty.
And my body began to ache,
I realised then, from boy to man,
That now more than ever, I had so much at stake.
For when you become a father, a husband,
I now know it’s true.
You make a solemn vow to yourself, to them,
That you will always come through.
~SL Rutland
Getting The Caramere Saga, Book 1: The War of Vengeance eBook for Free!
Hi everyone,
I'm looking for readers/reviewers to read my debut epic fantasy novel. As such, I'm not expecting you to pay so from the 14th - 18th of October (PDT), The Caramere Saga, Book 1: The War of Vengeance eBook will be free!
Make sure you get your copy and kindly leave a review! I would really appreciate it and I look forward to any feedback you have.
[https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FRYJV968]
~SL Rutland
I'm looking for readers/reviewers to read my debut epic fantasy novel. As such, I'm not expecting you to pay so from the 14th - 18th of October (PDT), The Caramere Saga, Book 1: The War of Vengeance eBook will be free!
Make sure you get your copy and kindly leave a review! I would really appreciate it and I look forward to any feedback you have.
[https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FRYJV968]
~SL Rutland
