Wrensul
Dreamer
In my fantasy setting, I’m working toward a defamiliarized environment.
The people of Parsk belong to two broad biological lineages, divided into five distinct subgroups. Each of these peoples are close to a familiar fantasy concept, but none are exact equivalents.
The simplest example to present is the group I used to call my elves.
In concept, they are closer to what some settings treat as genetically distinct witches and wizards. They are not particularly Tolkien-like. They are certainly not cookie-makers living in trees, nor tiny seasonal authorities responsible for frightening children into good behavior. If they’re decent citizens, they avoid playing with time magic and live and die a life in about 100 years.
Some time ago it occurred to me that Parsk is an entirely separate world. Its inhabitants cannot possibly know what an “elf” is. The word carries a collection of associations from our own folklore and fantasy traditions, none of which exist for them.
So I began playing with language and history, and I developed a more world-appropriate name.
Amongst all the Tullan, they are the mystics. The Elturn. Stemming for an old Parsonul word (not their own Tullish) as an insult, meaning cave or tomb dweller. Irony goes that they do become more common than the Faer that judged them so long ago.
Anyway. I’ve realized this creates an interesting challenge. I am presenting concepts that are both old and new. Describing someone that looks perfectly human, aside from the bright purple hair and funny, swively ears hanging on the sides of their head. Yet they don’t even know what a human is. . .
I wonder.
How do you handle concepts like this in your worlds? How do you make a concept recognizable without allowing the familiar analogue to overwhelm what makes it distinct? How would you achieve such subtle oddity without confusing readers?
I certainly don’t intend to hide my inspirations, but I want to have some level of control over how they inform my work.
The people of Parsk belong to two broad biological lineages, divided into five distinct subgroups. Each of these peoples are close to a familiar fantasy concept, but none are exact equivalents.
The simplest example to present is the group I used to call my elves.
In concept, they are closer to what some settings treat as genetically distinct witches and wizards. They are not particularly Tolkien-like. They are certainly not cookie-makers living in trees, nor tiny seasonal authorities responsible for frightening children into good behavior. If they’re decent citizens, they avoid playing with time magic and live and die a life in about 100 years.
Some time ago it occurred to me that Parsk is an entirely separate world. Its inhabitants cannot possibly know what an “elf” is. The word carries a collection of associations from our own folklore and fantasy traditions, none of which exist for them.
So I began playing with language and history, and I developed a more world-appropriate name.
Amongst all the Tullan, they are the mystics. The Elturn. Stemming for an old Parsonul word (not their own Tullish) as an insult, meaning cave or tomb dweller. Irony goes that they do become more common than the Faer that judged them so long ago.
Anyway. I’ve realized this creates an interesting challenge. I am presenting concepts that are both old and new. Describing someone that looks perfectly human, aside from the bright purple hair and funny, swively ears hanging on the sides of their head. Yet they don’t even know what a human is. . .
I wonder.
How do you handle concepts like this in your worlds? How do you make a concept recognizable without allowing the familiar analogue to overwhelm what makes it distinct? How would you achieve such subtle oddity without confusing readers?
I certainly don’t intend to hide my inspirations, but I want to have some level of control over how they inform my work.
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Istar
Myth Weaver