Fantasy – Page 4 – Tracey Dyck

Autobiography of a Fantasy Character – The Journey Begins

Tracey Dyck February 17, 2018 Autobiography of a Fantasy Character 35 Comments

Fantasy is my favorite thing to read and write, but every genre comes with its own suitcase of tropes. In this blog series, we poke some fun at our beloved stories and at ourselves as fantasy lovers.

If you haven’t yet read the first instalment, check it out:

Origin Story (in which Hero grows up in Quaint Village, Mentor is mysterious, Incentive dies, Villain’s backstory is disclosed, and Hero discovers his singular purpose: to save the world.)

Mentor and I set out the very next day for Distant Land. We packed light, for everyone knows that heroes aren’t supposed to look like burdened pack ponies. Taking too much food or supplies would ruin our appearance. Astride our gallant steeds, we bid Quaint Village farewell and rode out into the mountains.

My heart pounded like my stallion’s hoof beats. I’d never left the valley before. Never seen the world before. And Distant Land was many, many leagues away, with untold wonders and dangers in between. Suddenly I felt very small.

As we rode, the prophecy ran through my mind.

Darkness watches the chosen one

Many wrongs have been done

When the final note has been sung

And night is day and old is young

Seize the keys that Villain flung

What could it all mean?

Mentor and I rode in silence all day, upslope and downslope and up again, through winding passes and over steep crags. Our horses never tired. We stopped once to eat, but never to relieve ourselves or feed our mounts. Heroes are invincible to normal human needs, you see. That night, we took turns keeping watch and sleeping under the stars. The rocky ground did not disturb my slumber, and I awoke feeling rested.

Our second day of travel continued much as the first. So did the third, the fourth, and the fifth, the mountains growing shorter every day. We could have used all this monotonous riding for discussion–Mentor could have explained more about his past or about my crucial role in saving the world–but where’s the fun in that? Better to go into the big wide world with only the bare minimum of knowledge.

We did, however, spar together every night to keep up my training, and I even practiced using my powers. I learned how to start a campfire with a snap of my fingers, move a rockslide out of our path with a blast of light, and probe ahead with my mind to search for living beings.

But my abilities did not warn me of the dark soldiers following us. We had just reached a wide plain that stretched as far my eyes could see, when the enemies attacked from behind. A flurry of crossbow quarrels landed all around us. One struck my shoulder. I cried out and turned my horse to blast our attackers with a frenetic spray of energy. Several faceless soldiers died, but I missed four of them. They ran closer, crossbows taking aim again.

We didn’t gallop away to escape their shots. We stood our ground. Heroes aren’t supposed to run away from a fight, you know. So when the soldiers fired again, Mentor and I came within inches of death . . .

But Mentor raised his staff and shouted a mysterious word. “GHAOWOUSHAL!” Blinding white light shot from his staff like an exploding star, knocking the quarrels out of midair and searing the enemy soldiers where they stood.

Then we turned and ran.

My shoulder burned with pain. Every hoof beat seemed to drill the quarrel deeper. All I could compare the pain to was fire. Coals on my skin, heat in my veins, fire, pain, fire, pain. (Although I’d never been burned before, so this was all hypothetical.)

Mentor led the way over the grassy plain. We rode hard for several leagues before finally veering into a forest. By this time, I was nearly fainting with the fiery, burning, crackling, searing pain. My vision swam. My thoughts dispersed like fog burnt away by the sun. Mentor pushed his horse through the trees, and my stallion followed.

Just as black crept around the edges of my vision, I glimpsed a massive tree with faces peering out of windows carved in the trunk.

At last I fell unconscious.

* * *

I don’t know how long I slept, passing in and out of a feverish haze. Blurry faces hovered above me. Words in a flowing language passed between them. Cool hands touched my burning wound. Somewhere in the back of my muddled mind, I deduced that the quarrel had been poisoned. No ordinary crossbow bolt would make my whole body feel as weak as wet paper.

As I slept, my mind was plagued with more visions of terror and death. I saw cities burning and fields slicked with blood, and a haunting aria of strings seemed to play in the background. I tossed and turned, too weak to rouse myself to wakefulness.

In one vision, I saw Mentor with his staff raised again. He shouted that gibberish word, but this time I understood it. “Cease and desist, by the Light that Blinds Enemies and Burns their Wicked Hearts!” Apparently much could be said in a single word. But understanding its meaning did little to answer my questions or bring peace to my troubled mind. Instead it added to my confusion. Who was Mentor?

When at last the fever broke and the fire in my shoulder eased, I opened my eyes and found myself nestled in a soft bed. Sunlight streamed through a window to illuminate a cozy room carved out of wood. Moss grew on the floor and flowers dressed my bedside table. Was I inside the huge tree I had seen? Whoever chose to live so close to nature must be noble folk indeed.

But what arrested my gaze was a pair of brilliant blue eyes staring down at me. Ruby lips turned downward in a frown. Pointed ears peeked out from waves of golden hair tumbling down her shoulders.

Standing at my side was the most gorgeous girl I had ever seen. And she was an elf.

To be Continued . . .

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Autobiography of a Fantasy Character – Origin Story

Tracey Dyck January 28, 2018 Autobiography of a Fantasy Character 46 Comments

Fantasy is my favorite thing to read and write, in case you hadn’t yet caught on. But every genre comes with its own suitcase of tropes. I thought poking some fun at them (and at ourselves as fantasy lovers) would be entertaining, so welcome to the first post of a potential series: Autobiography of a Fantasy Character!

[image via Unsplash; graphic mine]

Once upon an unspecified time, I grew up in Quaint Village. It was a rustic, homespun sort of place where everyone was honest and hardworking and appropriately naïve about the greater world. The village lay nestled in a valley protected by mountains on every side, sheltered in every sense of the word.

When I was a very young boy, my parents died in a fire, so I lived with my uncle on his farm and spent my days herding sheep. Absolutely nothing else of note happened during my childhood.

Then I turned sixteen . . . and everything changed.

I began receiving visions, images of bloodshed and suffering that plagued both my sleep and my waking moments.

I also began manifesting mysterious powers. My fellow villagers were frightened and prepared to cast me out for witchery, when a hooded old man–

Oh, right. Allow me to back up. The only other notable thing about my childhood besides my orphan status was the old man who lived at the edge of the valley. He kept to himself, causing wild rumors about his past to circulate amongst the village folk. No one knew who he really was or where he came from, but his cloak and his staff made him look Very Important, so people left him alone. Except for me. I had one run-in with him as a child, which scared me out of my wits and also served to foreshadow future events.

Ahem. I turned sixteen, manifested powers I didn’t understand, and was about to be cast out by a mob of villagers, when the old man spirited me out of harm’s way. We hid in his hut, where he explained in cryptic words that I was special. Chosen, in fact. The world beyond Quaint Village was in dire need of a Hero to save them–and I was the only one who could do it. Of course.

But before I could ask more questions (like, “Why me?”), sudden war descended on Quaint Village. It appeared that my flare of powers had attracted a horde of not-quite-human soldiers. Gasp! The horror! They charged in, swinging massive blades, yelling in a guttural language, and setting fire to homes. And then they did the unthinkable.

They killed a sweet but personality-less friend of mine. A person named Incentive.

“NOOOOOO!” I screamed.

Charged with sorrow and vengeance, I struck out with my mysterious powers in a flash of light. These powers spun out of my control and conveniently decimated the entire horde of enemies, but also injured some of the villagers, including a resident bully who had hounded me for years.

Half of the villagers praised my victory, while the other half glowered with suspicion. (None glared quite so darkly as the bully.) The Very Important old man leaned on his staff and surveyed the damage I’d done, then muttered more cryptic words, something ominous along the lines of, “The old darkness has awakened.” And then he said, “Meet me on the mountain. Your training begins at sunrise.”

[via Unsplash]

That was how I met Mentor.

Afraid and confused, I climbed the mountain the next morning, where Mentor promptly began to rail at me for being late–as all teachers must do–and then launched into a flurry of tests to gauge my control over my powers. I failed every one of them. But each day, I climbed the mountain again for another training session. Mentor was gruff and difficult to please, but he sprinkled the physical lessons with nuggets of grandiose wisdom. He taught me how to harness the energy within me, control the visions, and wield a sword within a week. I was a fast learner. Chosen heroes have to be.

Every time I probed into his past, he dodged my questions, letting only one or two characteristically ambiguous hints slip out.

Once I had gained a basic level of training, another disaster occurred to keep the story of my life moving. More of those not-quite-human soldiers came to the valley, but this time they lay in ambush on the mountain where we trained. In the skirmish that followed, Mentor and I slew every enemy. The last one, as he lay dying, gurgled a warning: “The darkness is watching you, Hero. The final note will be sung . . .” And then he died.

Mentor looked shaken, which was unusual for him. Apparently the warning was the beginning of an old prophecy–about me, of course, as all prophecies tend to be. This is how it went.

Darkness watches the chosen one

Many wrongs have been done

When the final note has been sung

And night is day and old is young

Seize the keys that Villain flung

Mentor recited the poorly-written poetry with such doom and gloom in his voice that every word was branded perfectly in my memory after hearing it only once. I asked him what it meant, and all he knew was that the “keys” were said to be sealed in a vault far, far away in Distant Land. Or at least, they were supposed to be. The presence of these dark soldiers indicated that the keys had, in fact, been stolen. Nothing would be right with the world until they were restored to their rightful place.

“Who stole them?” I asked.

“Villain,” Mentor snarled. He then proceeded to spend a chapter of my life explaining Villain’s backstory.

Villain and his brother were princes in Distant Land, living in opulence and peace. But Villain’s older brother always bested him at everything, causing a deep bitterness to take root in the younger brother. The more they fought, the more Villain desired the throne, for it would be the ultimate victory against his sibling. To gain the strength necessary to seize it, Villain began dabbling in dark magic and soon grew evil. He killed his father, his brother, and his brother’s wife–somehow their infant child escaped his grasp–and seized the throne for himself. Now Villain reigned Distant Land with an iron fist. He enslaved his people and forged them into an army in the depths of the earth. And, Mentor told me, it appeared that he had snatched away the keys that kept the entire world in balance.

It was now my task to travel to Distant Land to find the keys, stop the Villain, and save the world.

If I refused, these dark soldiers would keep coming for me and endanger everyone I loved. I couldn’t help but think of poor Incentive, killed in cold blood, or the visions of suffering that still attacked me, providing me with both the logical and emotional means to commit to my quest. So with unquestioned resolve, I swore to do just as the prophecy foretold.

My real journey began at that moment. But little did I know what great and terrible things lay in store . . .

To Be Continued, Perhaps . . .

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Fantasy in My Veins (#SilmAwards2017)

Tracey Dyck July 29, 2017 Faith 26 Comments

Well, my friends, the 2017 SilmAwards have come to a glorious and bittersweet end. If you missed any of the presentations, I finally got around to putting a list at the end of my own presentation post, which you can find HERE. Thanks for joining us in this epic event!

Now, to wind it all down on the very birthday of Lord of the Rings, we’re throwing a party to celebrate Tolkien and all things fantasy! Feel free to join in with your own blog post or update on Facebook/Twitter/Instagram/whatever, using #SilmAwards2017. The more the merrier, of course. (And one side of me is chuffed as chips that this coincides with Realm Makers–how appropriate!)

Last year I presented a small smorgasbord of Lord of the Rings stuff–quotes, pictures, musings on what the books and movies and soundtracks mean to me, etc. Today I wish to broaden my view with a reflection on my reading history, and fantasy as a genre.

* * *

picture via Pinterest, graphics my own

Fantasy is my literary homeland.

See, I grew up in a family that treasured stories. My parents read to me copiously as a child. I vividly remember afternoons snuggled up next to my mom with a picture book, prodding her awake and asking her to reread pages when she grew sleepy and began slurring the words I’d memorized . . . evenings gathered around the kitchen table to eat night snack with my siblings while my father read a storybook of our choice . . . trips to the library every three weeks, during which my family of six would haul out 60-70 books at a time . . . lonely bus rides during my earliest elementary school years (prior to homeschooling) when I would bury my nose in a book and ignore the noisy teenagers in the back seats . . . I even recall bedtimes as a teenager, when my dad read a chapter of a novel to me every night just for old time’s sake.

I remember learning to read. I remember my parents telling me that books were like picture windows. When one learns how to read, one can go through those windows into another place.

I remember grade one, when a beloved teacher taught me the bare bones of crafting a story: beginning, middle, and end. She unlocked the first of many doors into a world of making my own magic.

I was hooked.

The moment I mastered beginner readers with stories like “The cat sat on the mat,” I reached for bigger books with longer sentences. From there I jumped to novels like Anne of Green Gables, which was marvellously long and dense for such a young mind, and full of words I didn’t yet understand. As I outgrew animal stories about puppies and horses, I discovered the mystery genre. The Boxcar Children, Jigsaw Jones, Nancy Drew, and Mandy Shaw books held me in suspense and piqued my fascination with the unknown, with secrets to be discovered and trails to be followed.

But the moment a young classmate recommended The Chronicles of Narnia to me was the moment that changed the course of my reading years. I distinctly remember climbing to the second floor of my school library and hunting down the name C.S. Lewis. That day I went home with a copy of The Magician’s Nephew, and I was utterly enchanted.

I was rather young at the time, perhaps eight years old. My parents were wise enough to put the rest of the series, which was a wee bit over my head, on hold for when I turned ten. Yet another clear memory: the day they put a massive tome containing all seven Narnia books in my hands.

There was no looking back. I had found a world that entranced me, inspired me, kept me captive and set me free all at once. The idea that another world might be as close as the next wardrobe nestled somewhere deep inside my heart. Here was a genre that deepened my understanding of reality by stretching my vision into realms beyond my own. Here was a genre that strengthened my hands with the courage of a knight and filled my heart with the compassion of a hero. A genre that allowed me to soar on dragon’s wings.

Thereafter followed several years of testing my mother’s patience every single time we visited the library. I very quickly exhausted their supply of age-appropriate fantasy, plagued my mother with cries of “I have nothing to read!” and subsequently turned down every thoughtful suggestion she made that fell outside the realm of my beloved fantasy. (God bless Mom.) She eventually managed to help me stretch my horizons, and I found enjoyment in a collection of other genres as well.

Older horse stories took me to Thoroughbred races and equestrian shows. Frank Peretti took me to wild jungles with the Cooper family. Melody Carlson immersed me in the elitist ranks of drama-loving high school girls. Countless other authors introduced me to all sorts of wonderful things.

But fantasy remained my One True Love. From the beginning of my teenage years, Bryan Davis and Wayne Thomas Batson pulled me into worlds of dragons, slayers, quests, and swords. More recently, authors like Anne Elisabeth Stengl have painted heart-rending images in my mind’s eye of love and loss and beauty all wrapped up in another realm. And so many other authors in between have done the same.

I’m thankful for all the genres I’ve read, no doubt. But fantasy is where I feel most at home. Fantasy is often where I experience the greatest joys and deepest sorrows as a reader. It’s where my imagination takes flight. And most importantly, it’s where I see facets of the real Author’s character the clearest.

pictured above: The Chronicles of Narnia, C.S. Lewis // Liberator, Bryan Davis //
The Hobbit, J.R.R. Tolkien // Halt’s Peril, John Flanagan // The Door Within,
Wayne Thomas Batson // Heartless, Anne Elisabeth Stengl // The Bones of Makaidos,
Bryan Davis // White, Ted Dekker // The Return of the King, J.R.R. Tolkien //
Prophet, R.J. Larson // Raven’s Ladder, Jeffrey Overstreet

In Aslan of The Chronicles of Narnia, I witness His sacrificial love.

In King Eliam of The Door Within, I see His blinding glory.

In the actions of Billy, Bonnie, Professor Hamilton, Sapphira, and their friends from the world of Dragons in Our Midst, I see what great warriors of the faith are capable of doing.

In the Prince of Farthestshore of Tales of Goldstone Wood, I see my Savior wooing me to His side, and in the song of the wood thrush I hear Him calling me to His path.

In the waters of Elyon from the Circle quartet, I find transformative joy.

In the Keeper of the Auralia Thread, I sense His mystery.

In the courage of hobbits, the strength of men, the wisdom of elves, and the determination of dwarves in Lord of the Rings, I see treasure hidden in jars of clay. I see what happens to the small and insignificant when committed to the hands of One much greater.

I escape into fantasy not to avoid the trials of this life here on earth, but to find wells of inspiration that bolster my faith to face them.

And that, my friends, is why I call fantasy my homeland. These books and more echo the cry of my heart for something beyond this world, for something greater than myself, for wonders hidden beneath what my eyes can see–and to all those desires, I hear my Father answering yes, yes, yes.

Yes, the unseen is more real than the seen. Yes, I AM greater than you yet know. Yes, I have hidden jewels of wonder in the crevices of your days, and the final treasure trove awaits beyond the veil of this life. Yes, I am here. Yes, I am present. Yes, I care. Yes, I am the One who compels you to a quest of your own, the One who charts your best path, the One who infuses your weary limbs with strength, the One who promises a crown to all those who stay the course.

Perhaps I stray too close to the ditch of exaggeration, but I think not. God knows what best speaks to our hearts, and I think He finds pleasure in my delight over the fictional worlds I travel. Whatever mouthpiece will speak the loudest, the clearest, is different from person to person. But as for me, the far-flung reach of fantasy is one of the greatest calls I hear.

It’s a call I have listened to for years, and it is one I shall return to again and again for years to come. For me, fantasy is woven into the song of my Father.

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Silmarillion Awards – Winner of the Wisest Counselor Silmaril

Tracey Dyck July 17, 2017 Announcement 43 Comments

Me: Hello, everyone, and welcome to the final phase of the 2017 Silmarillion Awards! It has been a rollicking adventure indeed, and we can’t thank you enough for your enthusiasm and participation this year. To kick it off, I’d like to welcome up a very special character from Middle Earth to present the award for Wisest Counselor. *peeks over shoulder* Um, a very special character from Middle Earth. *clears throat* A certain wise counselor . . . to present . . . Ahem, it appears our presenter has yet to arrive–

*a pointy grey hat pokes out from backstage*

Gandalf: Not so, you fool! *strides onto stage and snatches mic* A wizard is never late, nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he intends to. I was merely arranging celebratory provisions for later.

Me: Apologies, Gandalf. We’re just happy to have you here. My friends, allow me to introduce Gandalf the Grey, also known as Mithrandir, the White Rider, Greyhame, and Stormcrow, among other names. He is certainly the wisest counselor anyone could meet in Middle Earth. *bows and exits stage*

Gandalf: Thank you. Now then. Where were we? Ah, yes, the time has come to award the Wisest Counselor Silmaril to the character deemed most worthy by all of you. *sniffs* You’re a much nicer audience than I find in Hobbiton, did you know? Taller, yes, but rather less noisy.

Ahem. Five characters of great wisdom contended for this Silmaril, but only one may receive it. And the fellow who secured the most votes is deserving indeed. I shouldn’t be surprised, really, but even the very wise cannot see all ends.

The counsel this gentleman has provided his friends has most certainly changed the courses of their lives, and perhaps even saved some. Like I always say, all we have to decide is what to do with the time that has been given us, and this man has decided to do a great deal of good with his. He knows that it is not our part to master all the tides of the world. Instead, he pours all of his strength and considerable heart into guiding the tides under his control, and surrendering the rest to his Master.

Though he has walked through times of sorrow and seasons of waiting, he has stayed the course. He is a beacon of light to those who follow in his footsteps. Others may claim the title of hero in his tale, but if not for him, the road would have taken a very different turn indeed.

My friends, may I present the winner of the 2017 Wisest Counselor Silmaril:

Professor Charles Hamilton!

*a smartly dressed older gentleman with wild grey hair rises from the front row and joins Gandalf on stage*

Professor Hamilton: *in a British accent* My, your fireworks get better every year, Gandalf.

Gandalf: I should say they do. Congratulations, young man. *hands over the Silmaril* This is yours to keep for a lifetime.

Professor Hamilton: Young? *smiles* Compared to you, perhaps. I am honored to receive such a prize, though I must that any wisdom I possess is thanks to the very Source of all wisdom. I merely listen to Him.

Gandalf: And that is precisely what makes you wise. Now, before we acknowledge the runners-up, I would like to take a moment to honor you, Professor, by calling up a scene from your past. *waves staff*

*translucent image appears over the stage*

The professor grasped [Excalibur] and limped toward the central pedestal. He knelt at Bonnie’s side and placed the sword in Billy’s hands, wrapping his own fingers on top and elevating the blade. Billy opened his eyes and tightened his grasp on the hilt.

“William,” the professor said, softly, “what now is your weapon?”

Bonnie could see Billy’s eyes reflecting the professor’s shining face, enhanced by Excalibur’s glow. She held her breath, waiting for Billy’s reply.

“Truth,” he whispered, his voice rasping. “Truth is my sword.”

The professor nodded, his eyes now flashing, and his voice erupted in deep, echoing tones as if Billy’s answer strengthened him. “And what now is your defense?”

Color returned to Billy’s face, and his jaw tightened. His voice surged with emotion. “Faith . . . faith is my shield.”

*image fades*

Professor Hamilton: *blinks back tears and beams at a row of young people in the audience* How well I remember that day.

Gandalf: As I thought. It was a turning point for one of your young charges. For using your wisdom to strengthen weary bones and direct wandering hearts, ladies and gentleman, I present to you Professor Hamilton!

*thunderous applause*

Professor Hamilton: *bows, then leans over to whisper* By the way, it is an honor to meet the namesake of a certain cat.

*sounds of a scuffle*

*a cat yowls and streaks away between chairs*

Someone in the audience: Walter! I told you to hang onto him!

*chuckling, the professor takes a seat*

Gandalf: I cannot forget the wisdom of four other magnificent characters, and I thought it might interest all of you to find out how they fared in the voting round. *pulls scroll out of his robe and consults a list*

Professor Hamilton from Dragons in Our Midst – 34%

Puddleglum from The Chronicles of Narnia – 23%

Albus Dumbledore from Harry Potter – 21%

Prince of Farthestshore/Aethelbald from Tales of Goldstone Wood – 18%

Beana from Tales of Goldstone Wood – 4%

*a marsh-wiggle, wizard, prince, and goat incline their heads respectfully from the front row*

Gandalf: To all who did not win this year, I will not say do not weep, for not all tears are an evil. You have all performed admirably. Once again, congratulations to the dear professor. *looks around* Now . . . what am I supposed to do? Just–leave? Introduce someone?

Me: *hurries back out* Not to worry, I’ve got it. Thank you, Gandalf! Make sure to follow along with the presentations, everyone. Tomorrow the winner of the Least Competent Henchman will be announced, an event you certainly won’t want to miss. Happy Silmarillion Awards 2017!