(The garbage above this line is somebody else paying for my garbage below.)

Elsinore

I was one of many writers for an ongoing story about a castle by the sea, its denizens, and their adventures in the many countries beyond Elsinore's boundaries. It was a typical fantasy world, allowing scope for invented races, mythical creatures, and magic. However, our emphasis was on the people, not the fantastic elements of the story. The latter were for poetry, or for the sake of a good yarn, or for escapism, or whatever the heck we needed. But the characters--as living, breathing individuals with all their quirks and foibles-- were primary. That's why their names were written in the back of every volume. That's why the more compulsive writers bought special pens for each, and developed unique calligraphy for their favorite characters. The main rule which guided us was writ large in the Royal decree at the beginning of each volume: "Make thy characters according to thy own design, but manipulate no one else's character, only thine own." This ensured cooperation and kept writers from creating super-heroes. For instance, Sir Spatulan might be able to incinerate others with a mere gaze, but his author had to leave it up to the writer of the intended victim to decide the effect. ("At that moment, Lady Fryala happened to step behind a rosebush, oblivious to her close brush with oblivion.")

Elsinore could be profound: with its denizens we faced the price of war, the burden of immortality, the loss of children and friends, the many shades of grey that exist between good and evil and the fact that no land is free from its bigotries, its ills, its dirty secrets. There was slavery and exploitation almost to Elsinore's gates, which our enlightened heroes could never hope to change entirely. There was callousness, prejudice, and stupidity among Elsinore's inhabitants, just as anywhere. Coming to terms with gritty truths was always a part of the story. But on the other hand, Elsinore never took itself utterly seriously. One writer used to parody overly melodramatic scenes using ducks to act out the parts; there were often food fights in the great hall when the authors were stressed during exams week; a tea party was invaded by frogs; the third Royal Knight was infamous for terrorizing the castle by turning people into purple cows and then tipping them; the sinister mage Korvax occasionally baffled the world in pink bunnyslippers; Masterhealer Brecca, during a hectic day at work, transformed Kithyra's husband into a small hedgehog to get him out of her hair. In short, consistency could be chucked out the window for the sake of fun. Somehow it all held together.

This is the frontispiece for a volume the year after I graduated, painted by Carey Herz (BMC '94). It was the last volume in which she ever wrote, and the one in which her character, Masterhealer "That's OLD bitch, to you!" Brecca finally had a nice long chat with her old rival, death, and then passed away. Which makes it a double tragedy that this volume was stolen, after being left out in a living room over the summer. I made a flawed color xerox of the frontispiece while visiting during the previous term. This is scanned from the xerox; in the original, you could see images of many of the old characters from former years dancing in the flames. The spires of the castle, Xairephon the unicorn, and the horned woman named Demizdhor are about all I can make out on the copy.

Kithyra

I came in as a beggar named Kithyra, born of elf, faerie, human and dryad blood. But she wasn't some creature of fantasy, just a young kid forced to grow up early, first by her life on the road, and later when she was made Royal Knight of the Realm by a strange quirk of fate. She had a rocky thirteen years during my four. Sometimes she failed badly; sometimes she lost her temper or her nerve. But I'm proud of her. I look on her like I do certain other characters--more a daughter than anything else. I don't consider myself her creator or writer, just her chronicler. She taught me a lot about how to mediate between people, how to pull others together to accomplish a great deal just by a little nudge here, a smile there, and displaying implicit faith that those around her could do whatever needed doing.

There are a few Elsinore excerpts in sparrow's scratchings. They will suffice for now.

Kithyra during a nasty sequence when her daughter comes home rather changed (7 years older and rather bitter about it.)

  • Rough early sketch of Kithyra.

    Below is my last farewell to Elsinore, when Kithyra rode away at sunrise. This was originally 22x 19, full colored pencil. Going through a bad color xerox and a scanner ripped away most of the subtle tones, so you'll just have to trust me that it looked less crayon-ish and cartoonish to start with. I wanted to put a picture of the castle and city here, however crude. Remember that many people have written it, but no one of us dictated what Elsinore was, so this is only how it looks in my own mind.

    Don't click on the images above unless you want to wait...the full-sized pictures are about 300K each.