The Urn of Ulmadorn

Oh my goodness. What have we here? I'm clearing out the various boxes of books and other clutter from my office in preparation for the Great Bookshelf Construction Project, and I'm stumbling across all manner of interesting artifacts. Not least of which is a single sheet of typing paper, yellowing and tattered. The title The Urn of Ulmadorn is prouldly typed at the top, and the opening of Chapter 1 of my grand fantasy novel follows. As best as I can piece together, this work dates from circa 1985, a year or so, perhaps, after my initial foray into novel-writing ended roughly three sentences into the grand space adventure The Orion Project, and predating my first completed novel, the epic fantasy The Broken Balance.

Some writers hide away all their less-worthy material, lest its public display taint their current work or reputation. But, seeing as I have no shame, and got a kick out of reading the enthusiastic ravings of a devoted Dungeons & Dragons player who was convinced he'd hit the bestseller list before his senior year... well, I just had to share. For the record, I'v cleaned up some of the more egregious spelling blunders, but even so, I think you'll agree it worthy of a Travis Tea byline (were Travis one who dabbled in fantasy, of course):

Chapter 1

It was hot, that much was certain. Beyond that, it was anyone’s guess. The swamp’s mists were so thick that day couldn’t be distinguished from night, not that it mattered, though. Insects, twisted and grotesque, larger than should be possible, flew, buzzed and crawled, giving heartless testimony to the evil of the place. Giant, lumbering crocodiles with festering lesions patrolled the rank waters. The swamp was a single entity, and it was evil.

Yet there was something else, something that was not a part of the swamp, that should have no business there.

But they did have business there, and meant to complete it. Their quest had taken them the better part of two years, and had taken more than one of them within an inch of death. They had been hardened by their journeys, and this had enabled them to survive.

For a moment the fog broke to expose them. There were five in all, three humans, an elf and a halfling. The largest human was in the lead. He was carrying an old, battered shield and was sporting an ancient helm and a suit of tarnished chain mail. Only his drawn sword was clean and new looking, but even this he had had most of his life. Behind him came a second male human. This one was not as well built and wore no exposed armor, but the tell-tale clink of metal said he had more than skin under his swamp-stained blue robes. Next was the elf, the only female of the group. The grey hood was drawn tightly about her head, hiding it from view, but occasionally the cloak would slip open to reveal a supple, enticing figure.

Don't you now feel special, having peeled back the curtain of time to see from whence this grand and worth writer came? Hey, we all start somewhere, and judging by the prose in Ulmadorn, I started out in a gutter somewhat downstream of The Eye of Argon.

© 2005 Jayme Lynn Blaschke. Hee hee. It gives me no small degree of amusement to put my claim of copyright on this piece of enthusiastic cliché-mongering.

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