Solomon of Itil
- Thread starter phargle
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Glad to see you're back to writing this, phargle. It's amazing how you've weaved these events of the game into a very compelling personal story.
THIS is a real gem - perhaps the best writing I've seen on these forums, and there's a lot of excellent stuff out there.
Feedback.
The system ate my first feedback. I hope this one works. . .
Jon Young - I'm glad you enjoyed it, and I am also pleased that details of the story like the hundred ducats are getting your attention. They've kind of become a character unto themselves.
stnylan - Kind words, and I appreciate them. And melancholy is a good way of describing things. The next update, whenever it arrives, might have more of a springtime feel to release the tension a bit.
Specialist290 - It's a good sign that you are filling in so many details in your mind. A lesson I learned in storytelling is not to say too much, and this journal format is working perfectly because we see what Solomon wants us to see. Remember that it's all through his point of view, so it could be biased or incomplete.
Murmurandus - I hope this deserves as good reading 'til my burnout on that other AAR ends. Thank you for the kind praise.
JimboIX - Thank you for reading. And yes, the conflict makes him work. Without conflict, there is no story, just a medieval blog. As far as the literary flourishes, I was worried they wouldn't work - but they gave me a small emotional chill, and I hope they did the same to you.
Deamon - Never dead, sometimes resting. Thank you for reading and enjoying.
anonymous4401 - Unlike another AAR I write that you may have heard of, the events in this story drive the plot directly. Things don't get made up, and what does happen gets tied into the story and given a reason for happening. That the events in Crusader Kings produced this story says more about the game than any writing ability I may have.
LordAumerle - If this AAR is even half as good as you say it is, then I'm happy. I admit I'm pretty proud of what I've typed here, but to hear it called a gem or possibly the best writing in the forums - well, even if that isn't true, it's nice that you said it. Thank you.
And thank you to all of the readers of this little tale out there. This isn't the most famous AAR, nor the longest or most-frequently updated, and I kind of consider it our collective little secret. And I am glad it gets read and enjoyed by even a few readers. Thank you.
The system ate my first feedback. I hope this one works. . .
Jon Young - I'm glad you enjoyed it, and I am also pleased that details of the story like the hundred ducats are getting your attention. They've kind of become a character unto themselves.
stnylan - Kind words, and I appreciate them. And melancholy is a good way of describing things. The next update, whenever it arrives, might have more of a springtime feel to release the tension a bit.
Specialist290 - It's a good sign that you are filling in so many details in your mind. A lesson I learned in storytelling is not to say too much, and this journal format is working perfectly because we see what Solomon wants us to see. Remember that it's all through his point of view, so it could be biased or incomplete.
Murmurandus - I hope this deserves as good reading 'til my burnout on that other AAR ends. Thank you for the kind praise.
JimboIX - Thank you for reading. And yes, the conflict makes him work. Without conflict, there is no story, just a medieval blog. As far as the literary flourishes, I was worried they wouldn't work - but they gave me a small emotional chill, and I hope they did the same to you.
Deamon - Never dead, sometimes resting. Thank you for reading and enjoying.
anonymous4401 - Unlike another AAR I write that you may have heard of, the events in this story drive the plot directly. Things don't get made up, and what does happen gets tied into the story and given a reason for happening. That the events in Crusader Kings produced this story says more about the game than any writing ability I may have.
LordAumerle - If this AAR is even half as good as you say it is, then I'm happy. I admit I'm pretty proud of what I've typed here, but to hear it called a gem or possibly the best writing in the forums - well, even if that isn't true, it's nice that you said it. Thank you.
And thank you to all of the readers of this little tale out there. This isn't the most famous AAR, nor the longest or most-frequently updated, and I kind of consider it our collective little secret. And I am glad it gets read and enjoyed by even a few readers. Thank you.
After reading that sad update, those comments "yey, update. happy day" feels so out of place.
We won't tell anyone about itphargle said:
In which Solomon distances himself from despair.
Aug 6th, 1081
Little exists in this world that is not ephemeral. Even castles built of stone can be smoothed away like sand on a table as the passage of time or the whims of kings pull them down. And yet, though they can be as fleeting as a stray ray of sunshine in the cold of winter, the emotions of men and women nevertheless have to them a compelling certainty that castles lack. They have an unsettling permanence upon which change has no hold. What stood between my wife and me has more or less been laid to rest, but there remains a cool distance between us that persists; it is a distance that even my fingers against her open skin cannot make more brief. The longer we touch, the further away I feel her become. It is perhaps imagination at work, for terrors worse than this have haunted me before, and yet the ghosts of fears past are minor shades compared to the ghosts of grim normality. As I leave the villa Perpinyà, I fear that I may not return. It is this fear which compels me now to write of other things. I will not allow myself to be haunted again. S.
The passing of these many months has been a most welcome medicine. The troubles of my mind have been supplanted by the simpler troubles of governing Valencia and La Mancha, for there is much to rebuild. Nor is news from Rosselló wanting; Miraglia writes with detailed attentiveness of the goings-on in my northern estates. There is little of day-to-day management, but much of a topic more dear to my heart. Mordechai is now two years old, and has become a strong and quick boy ready to be fostered to Kuddana in Urgell. His sister Adah is four, and at my instruction has been kept with Miraglia at the villa Perpinyà, where she may perhaps learn some of my wife's almost magical insights. If Miraglia's letters to me were matter-of-fact, then mine to her were equally cordial, but even the passive tone of our correspondence has not been able to pierce the veil which Springtime has laid upon me. My mood turns from delight to delight as I surround myself with the labor of construction. January saw the beginning of a new school in Valencia, and this day marked the completion of a court of justice in La Mancha. La Mancha is where I shall take my rest this night. It is the worthy sleep of he who has built with mortar and stone. S.
Another letter from Rosselló arrived late this evening, this one by the hand of my steward Raimunda. She tells me that I have fathered another child, and that the birth is expected any day now. It is late, but not too late to pen a letter in response. That I have done, in which I declared with as much sincerity and verve as felt comfortable that I would return to the villa as soon as my work here permitted. S.
May 12th, 1082
My youngest son was born before dawn nearly two weeks ago, days before my arrival at Rosselló. He is called Girard, a local name that matches his face. The infant is fair like his mother, and shares her eyes, with pupils both sharp and merciless and irises like the calm on the surface of biblical flood waters. He is healthy, I hasten to add, as is his mother. This stay at Rosselló has also allowed me to spend time with Huddan, my eldest. He is possessing of robustness of both mind and body, and just this day spent the morning engaging me in conversation on topics both idle and serious. We spent the better part of an hour on the matter of Islam, where I hope to have impressed upon him a sense of mercy. It is a moving thing to be able to truly speak to one's son. The arrival of Miraglia ended our conversation, but it is not in the spirit of assigning blame that I write these words; there was merely much we needed to discuss, little of which is fair for the ears of young children to hear. S.
The ride from Rosselló to Valencia gave me many lonely hours during which there was little to do but reflect and think, and of those times I wrote nothing despite carrying my journal with me. I instead looked over what I have written these past years. Whether writing about times joyous or dismal, there has been an undeniable fire present whenever I touch pen to parchment. To where, then, has this fire gone? These pages are lifeless and I cannot spill enough ink to bring them back. Perhaps the fire was the excess of drama of which Miraglia once accused me, and perhaps observing it extinguished is observing me finally growing up, finally growing old. It is responsibility and duty, and it is a cold pit with embers that have long since ceased to smoulder. S.
It was my decision to let those under my rule worship freely. Now that decision has returned to me as the Muslim elders of Valencia and the Moorish leaders of the surrounding townships have come to my court with objections to my rule. They view me as an infidel and a man to whom they cannot offer loyalty, and I do not know what I will have to do. S.
Solomon of Itil
Aug 6th, 1081
Little exists in this world that is not ephemeral. Even castles built of stone can be smoothed away like sand on a table as the passage of time or the whims of kings pull them down. And yet, though they can be as fleeting as a stray ray of sunshine in the cold of winter, the emotions of men and women nevertheless have to them a compelling certainty that castles lack. They have an unsettling permanence upon which change has no hold. What stood between my wife and me has more or less been laid to rest, but there remains a cool distance between us that persists; it is a distance that even my fingers against her open skin cannot make more brief. The longer we touch, the further away I feel her become. It is perhaps imagination at work, for terrors worse than this have haunted me before, and yet the ghosts of fears past are minor shades compared to the ghosts of grim normality. As I leave the villa Perpinyà, I fear that I may not return. It is this fear which compels me now to write of other things. I will not allow myself to be haunted again. S.
Apr. 6th, 1082
The passing of these many months has been a most welcome medicine. The troubles of my mind have been supplanted by the simpler troubles of governing Valencia and La Mancha, for there is much to rebuild. Nor is news from Rosselló wanting; Miraglia writes with detailed attentiveness of the goings-on in my northern estates. There is little of day-to-day management, but much of a topic more dear to my heart. Mordechai is now two years old, and has become a strong and quick boy ready to be fostered to Kuddana in Urgell. His sister Adah is four, and at my instruction has been kept with Miraglia at the villa Perpinyà, where she may perhaps learn some of my wife's almost magical insights. If Miraglia's letters to me were matter-of-fact, then mine to her were equally cordial, but even the passive tone of our correspondence has not been able to pierce the veil which Springtime has laid upon me. My mood turns from delight to delight as I surround myself with the labor of construction. January saw the beginning of a new school in Valencia, and this day marked the completion of a court of justice in La Mancha. La Mancha is where I shall take my rest this night. It is the worthy sleep of he who has built with mortar and stone. S.
Apr. 6th, 1082 (cont)
Another letter from Rosselló arrived late this evening, this one by the hand of my steward Raimunda. She tells me that I have fathered another child, and that the birth is expected any day now. It is late, but not too late to pen a letter in response. That I have done, in which I declared with as much sincerity and verve as felt comfortable that I would return to the villa as soon as my work here permitted. S.
May 12th, 1082
My youngest son was born before dawn nearly two weeks ago, days before my arrival at Rosselló. He is called Girard, a local name that matches his face. The infant is fair like his mother, and shares her eyes, with pupils both sharp and merciless and irises like the calm on the surface of biblical flood waters. He is healthy, I hasten to add, as is his mother. This stay at Rosselló has also allowed me to spend time with Huddan, my eldest. He is possessing of robustness of both mind and body, and just this day spent the morning engaging me in conversation on topics both idle and serious. We spent the better part of an hour on the matter of Islam, where I hope to have impressed upon him a sense of mercy. It is a moving thing to be able to truly speak to one's son. The arrival of Miraglia ended our conversation, but it is not in the spirit of assigning blame that I write these words; there was merely much we needed to discuss, little of which is fair for the ears of young children to hear. S.
Aug. 2nd, 1082
The ride from Rosselló to Valencia gave me many lonely hours during which there was little to do but reflect and think, and of those times I wrote nothing despite carrying my journal with me. I instead looked over what I have written these past years. Whether writing about times joyous or dismal, there has been an undeniable fire present whenever I touch pen to parchment. To where, then, has this fire gone? These pages are lifeless and I cannot spill enough ink to bring them back. Perhaps the fire was the excess of drama of which Miraglia once accused me, and perhaps observing it extinguished is observing me finally growing up, finally growing old. It is responsibility and duty, and it is a cold pit with embers that have long since ceased to smoulder. S.
Aug. 5th, 1082
It was my decision to let those under my rule worship freely. Now that decision has returned to me as the Muslim elders of Valencia and the Moorish leaders of the surrounding townships have come to my court with objections to my rule. They view me as an infidel and a man to whom they cannot offer loyalty, and I do not know what I will have to do. S.
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I particularly enjoyed the second diary entry- the whole update I was thinking that this seemed so tame compared to the last update, and the retrospective on Solomon's part helped put things in perspective, the rise and fall of verve in Solomon is what makes him interesting, his interludes in the south and the device of letters makes for a nice mechanism of displaying his relationship with Miraglia as well.
Only if the child lives. Given his state of mind the poor lad will get pneumonia before he's 5.Murmurandus said:
In which loneliness fosters despair.
September 21st, 1082
I have made of the time the Lord has given me great industry. Although the preponderance of my efforts in appeasing the hurt in Valencia have been those of the administrator and the diplomat, I find myself more and more burying my thoughts in works of stone. To set aside pen and parchment for this honest labor is like a welcome breeze in summer, as words bring memories where work often leaves them mercifully undisturbed. The elders of Valencia grow satisfied with my rule, and I with their bureaucracy and politics, and I find the hurt of missing Rosseló becoming less and less. The growing absence of affection in my heart plagues me with guilt, guilt that can only by dirt under my nails and aches in my back be sublimated and kept hidden. As I plot the spanning of roads from the great city to the subjugated hills of La Mancha, too often are my eyes drawn to the road that exists in my heart and the map alike; the old Roman road to the Spanish Marche that winds its ways past olive trees and orange groves to the villa Perpinyà, a trail on which my soul has lingered far too long. I cannot speak her name, and I find that I hate myself for it more and more. S.
Amidst the suffering and poverty into which the sanguine Crusades have plunged the desperate southern Moors, an unwelcome letter from the north finds new ways to inspire me to rage. She has contacted me. She speaks to me of the urgency of court, of fair things to wear and entertainments to offer, and to all this there is attached a cost. My days are spent in labor as I build with bricks civilization and hope for those who have none, and she asks for frivolties? On this, I can write no more for fear of what thoughts my impolite pen may dispense. For my dearest wife, there are two missives. Primus, a rejection with sternness appropriate to the inappropriateness of her request; and secundus, a letter to say that I shall not be soon returning to the villa Perpinyà. The tasks before me would challenge Hercules, and I am but a man. Only this day I passed near El Micalet to hear the call to prayer, and written in the faces of the poor I saw my vindication. Here, I remain vital. S.
I confess to have seen her in my dreams. A great weariness surrounds my dreams of late, a lethargy that smothers and oppresses with a weight that is nearly overwhelming. Into this miasma of choked dreariness a vision of light and gold intrudes, but it is a welcome intrusion, like sunlight cutting through the clouds on a cold afternoon. I can see her face, a glowing light that shines with color where everything else is lonely and gray. I am a part of that lonely gray expanse, but she is as lovely as fair as summer, lovely as an angel, and cold as a wall of stone. A smile is forming on that divine face, and the anticipation of the parting of those lips fills me with hope that can only be dashed by the ending of this dream. It dies inevitably as the past always does, but the forgiveness I give her in my dreams persists. I must see her. I cannot see her. Against this, what can I hope to do? S.
December 24th, 1083
Miraglia! The recent letter you sent me pours anguish on top of anguish. What need have you for a private tower in Urgell? Why do you hide behind words? I have mastered words, but with these you go somewhere I cannot follow. S.
Solomon of Itil
September 21st, 1082
I have made of the time the Lord has given me great industry. Although the preponderance of my efforts in appeasing the hurt in Valencia have been those of the administrator and the diplomat, I find myself more and more burying my thoughts in works of stone. To set aside pen and parchment for this honest labor is like a welcome breeze in summer, as words bring memories where work often leaves them mercifully undisturbed. The elders of Valencia grow satisfied with my rule, and I with their bureaucracy and politics, and I find the hurt of missing Rosseló becoming less and less. The growing absence of affection in my heart plagues me with guilt, guilt that can only by dirt under my nails and aches in my back be sublimated and kept hidden. As I plot the spanning of roads from the great city to the subjugated hills of La Mancha, too often are my eyes drawn to the road that exists in my heart and the map alike; the old Roman road to the Spanish Marche that winds its ways past olive trees and orange groves to the villa Perpinyà, a trail on which my soul has lingered far too long. I cannot speak her name, and I find that I hate myself for it more and more. S.
May. 25th, 1083
Amidst the suffering and poverty into which the sanguine Crusades have plunged the desperate southern Moors, an unwelcome letter from the north finds new ways to inspire me to rage. She has contacted me. She speaks to me of the urgency of court, of fair things to wear and entertainments to offer, and to all this there is attached a cost. My days are spent in labor as I build with bricks civilization and hope for those who have none, and she asks for frivolties? On this, I can write no more for fear of what thoughts my impolite pen may dispense. For my dearest wife, there are two missives. Primus, a rejection with sternness appropriate to the inappropriateness of her request; and secundus, a letter to say that I shall not be soon returning to the villa Perpinyà. The tasks before me would challenge Hercules, and I am but a man. Only this day I passed near El Micalet to hear the call to prayer, and written in the faces of the poor I saw my vindication. Here, I remain vital. S.
December, 20th, 1083
I confess to have seen her in my dreams. A great weariness surrounds my dreams of late, a lethargy that smothers and oppresses with a weight that is nearly overwhelming. Into this miasma of choked dreariness a vision of light and gold intrudes, but it is a welcome intrusion, like sunlight cutting through the clouds on a cold afternoon. I can see her face, a glowing light that shines with color where everything else is lonely and gray. I am a part of that lonely gray expanse, but she is as lovely as fair as summer, lovely as an angel, and cold as a wall of stone. A smile is forming on that divine face, and the anticipation of the parting of those lips fills me with hope that can only be dashed by the ending of this dream. It dies inevitably as the past always does, but the forgiveness I give her in my dreams persists. I must see her. I cannot see her. Against this, what can I hope to do? S.
December 24th, 1083
Miraglia! The recent letter you sent me pours anguish on top of anguish. What need have you for a private tower in Urgell? Why do you hide behind words? I have mastered words, but with these you go somewhere I cannot follow. S.
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So this one updates annually?
Wow...I've never read this before, but after reading through your recent update, I think I will have to.
Wow...I've never read this before, but after reading through your recent update, I think I will have to.
*screams*
I have not read the update yet, but it will be great. It will be like all the best from all your other stories wrapped into one small, tightly packed bundle of awesome.
If you excuse me, I'll go have a cigarette now.
I have not read the update yet, but it will be great. It will be like all the best from all your other stories wrapped into one small, tightly packed bundle of awesome.
If you excuse me, I'll go have a cigarette now.
My God! This must set some sort of record for hiatuses between updates, 1 year!
Of course, I'll probably have to read it now...
Of course, I'll probably have to read it now...
This is some of the best writing I have had the privilege to read in a while. Please do not let another year and a half pass before you continue this.
Damn you, phargle! How many of your AARs do you want to force me to read!?
Seriously, the tone is very good. You lend a very unique voice to this Solomon guy. And now I shall have to go and read the previous chapters. Thank you, dad! *grumbles*
Seriously, the tone is very good. You lend a very unique voice to this Solomon guy. And now I shall have to go and read the previous chapters. Thank you, dad! *grumbles*
Heh, it's been a year or more, but this AAR deserved to be receive a bit of justice. The quality is not what it was, a result of losing the vague mood of the AAR in the intervening year, but hopefully it's sufficient to merit y'alls enjoyment.
Alfred Packer, yeah, it updates on some kind of basis. It's the hardest AAR to write for me, and the sad part is this: the gameplay is finished and has been for a couple of years. Solomon has adventures ahead that I'd love to tell y'all about, but I have to get there first. And I have to lay the groundwork of his relationship with Miraglia, which is really the cornerstone of most of the early updates. I recommend 'em. I'm proud of 'em, and pleased to have entertained one or two people (literally! (literarily!)) with them!
Daemon, my apologies for the long delay. I'm a sad, sad man, and Solomon has never competed with my main AARs in terms of affection from either me or the audience. I'll try to update it again before 2009.
Eams, you are correct. And also moist, it seems. Solomon has been fun, and (imo) some of the neatest portrayal of character I've managed to produce.
demokratickic, I dunno if it's a record. . . wasn't there some guy who went more than a year? Anyway, you'll be glad to know this ain't a long AAR.
The_Archduke, you're very kind. I think the earlier updates are much better than this one, but it's hard to get back into the right mindset to pen these characters after being away so long. I had Solomon's writing style down to an art of sorts, and I think I've lost that. Alas!
The_Guiscard, if you must read only one AAR, I hope it's this one. (Oh you mean my AARs?) Hopefully, you like the earlier updates of Solomon! I'd love to get your input on some of them. The love story between Solomon and his wife has been a lot of fun to write, and getting feedback and analysis of it would delight me!
Onward, to . . . ah, who am I kidding?
I am especially grateful for your comments and your readership. This AAR has had a special place in my heart, kind of like a three-legged puppy, and it makes me happy that it has entertained you.
Ta!
Alfred Packer, yeah, it updates on some kind of basis. It's the hardest AAR to write for me, and the sad part is this: the gameplay is finished and has been for a couple of years. Solomon has adventures ahead that I'd love to tell y'all about, but I have to get there first. And I have to lay the groundwork of his relationship with Miraglia, which is really the cornerstone of most of the early updates. I recommend 'em. I'm proud of 'em, and pleased to have entertained one or two people (literally! (literarily!)) with them!
Daemon, my apologies for the long delay. I'm a sad, sad man, and Solomon has never competed with my main AARs in terms of affection from either me or the audience. I'll try to update it again before 2009.
Eams, you are correct. And also moist, it seems. Solomon has been fun, and (imo) some of the neatest portrayal of character I've managed to produce.
demokratickic, I dunno if it's a record. . . wasn't there some guy who went more than a year? Anyway, you'll be glad to know this ain't a long AAR.
The_Archduke, you're very kind. I think the earlier updates are much better than this one, but it's hard to get back into the right mindset to pen these characters after being away so long. I had Solomon's writing style down to an art of sorts, and I think I've lost that. Alas!
The_Guiscard, if you must read only one AAR, I hope it's this one. (Oh you mean my AARs?
) Hopefully, you like the earlier updates of Solomon! I'd love to get your input on some of them. The love story between Solomon and his wife has been a lot of fun to write, and getting feedback and analysis of it would delight me!Onward, to . . . ah, who am I kidding?
I am especially grateful for your comments and your readership. This AAR has had a special place in my heart, kind of like a three-legged puppy, and it makes me happy that it has entertained you.
Ta!
I have just read through this entire AAR, and I've got things to say.
First of all, I do not like first-person accounts of the distant past, especially not when they are presented as a kind of diary, an unheard of thing for the middle ages. Another problem is that such writing affords us a very intimate and immediate glimpse of the fictional author's mind, and this is problematic, as it is very hard to avoid becoming too modern, and even if a writer pulls this off he runs the very real risk of making his protagonist seem very alien and thus ultimately unsympathetic. That's why I have no taste for historical first-person accounts, not even of a calibre like for instance Robert Grave's I, Claudius.
That said I have enormous respect for you, phargle. You have taken a literary genre, the historical first-person diary entry, and made it totally your own. Solomon of Itil is a believable and likable character and I can only wonder why you have not received the Character WritAAR of the Week for him many times over (or mabe you have). He is one unlikely creature in power, a man who'd rather be good than powerful. I suspect that he works exactly because he is such an unlikely creature, a (reasonably) devout Jew and a cultured man of the letters, basically a humble man who detests war and who cares for his subjects like he cares for is family. He is somebody of whom I am just ready to accept that he would write a journal, and write it in exactly the way you have done, phargle - and I have never before been willing to accept diary or journal literature from the ancient past.
To me this is the finest of your writings I have the joy of knowing. Please continue updating this, but please do so at an unhurried pace, as I suspect that the protayal of Solomon and hitting the exactly right tone for his journal entries requires a certain special mindset of you.
First of all, I do not like first-person accounts of the distant past, especially not when they are presented as a kind of diary, an unheard of thing for the middle ages. Another problem is that such writing affords us a very intimate and immediate glimpse of the fictional author's mind, and this is problematic, as it is very hard to avoid becoming too modern, and even if a writer pulls this off he runs the very real risk of making his protagonist seem very alien and thus ultimately unsympathetic. That's why I have no taste for historical first-person accounts, not even of a calibre like for instance Robert Grave's I, Claudius.
That said I have enormous respect for you, phargle. You have taken a literary genre, the historical first-person diary entry, and made it totally your own. Solomon of Itil is a believable and likable character and I can only wonder why you have not received the Character WritAAR of the Week for him many times over (or mabe you have). He is one unlikely creature in power, a man who'd rather be good than powerful. I suspect that he works exactly because he is such an unlikely creature, a (reasonably) devout Jew and a cultured man of the letters, basically a humble man who detests war and who cares for his subjects like he cares for is family. He is somebody of whom I am just ready to accept that he would write a journal, and write it in exactly the way you have done, phargle - and I have never before been willing to accept diary or journal literature from the ancient past.
To me this is the finest of your writings I have the joy of knowing. Please continue updating this, but please do so at an unhurried pace, as I suspect that the protayal of Solomon and hitting the exactly right tone for his journal entries requires a certain special mindset of you.
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