Fantasy Divine Tragicomedy
For some time now, I have been sharing the prologue to the Inscrutable Ways of Fate across social media, and though this may seem like retreading old ground, I’d like to delve into this latest version and explain the intentions that shape the story’s beginning.
First, I want to clarify that while some feedback from beta readers has been disheartening, this article is not intended as a rebuke to their opinions. Instead, it seeks to analyse parts of the prologue that were labelled “incomprehensible” or “boring” by some.
It is important to state upfront that Divine Tragicomedy, the larger fantasy series to which this book belongs, was never meant to conform to contemporary trends or to cater to the mainstream. We are not driven by the pursuit of fame or wealth, but by the ambition to revive the beauty of language, imagination, and deep psychology within storytelling. These lofty goals stand in stark contrast to the modern proclivity for simplicity, omission, and fast-paced narratives, which is why we do not follow those paths.
Now, let us turn our attention to the prologue to The Inscrutable Ways of Fate.
Unlike much of fantasy—whether modern or classic—our story does not open with an action scene or the protagonist’s preparation for a grand adventure. Instead, we meet Jordan, a secondary character who has faltered in his faith and failed to realise his dreams. He has returned to his native elven village, sitting in the middle of nowhere, where he has spent the last fifteen years in quiet dissatisfaction with himself. Jordan’s fate is neither heroic nor tragic; it is the all-too-familiar reality of being average. There is no shame in this, yet few are willing to embrace the idea of being merely ordinary.
Jordan’s depression is evident in his posture, his clinging to the past, and his habit of drinking. It is a chilling thought that such a man holds the position of a teacher, shaping young minds for more than a decade. What is even more unsettling, however, is the reaction of beta readers, particularly those in their twenties and thirties, to Jordan’s character.
The consensus can be summarised as follows:
“So what? Plenty of people do jobs they don’t like, including teachers. Why should I care about someone like him? He’s not extraordinary, and he’s not dealing with anything important. He’s not even gay, so why should he matter?”
Such responses reflect not only reader preferences but also a broader shift in societal values. We live in a time of democracy and individualism, yet the new generation of readers still gravitates towards characters who are different, exceptional, or defined by their gender or sexual orientation. One can only hope that this sample of beta readers does not reflect the majority, for the books written to please the majority today will shape the readers and writers of tomorrow.
Returning to the prologue, we see Jordan’s disillusionment clashing with the enthusiasm of children, eager to hear tales of the demigod Great Mage Gwyddion. Set in a medieval world, these children have no access to the internet or television, and books are rare treasures. Reading and writing are not common skills, and most of their knowledge comes from folklore, passed down orally. For them, stories are one of the few escapes from their dull and confined lives.
Despite Jordan’s possession of the sacred skills of literacy, he does not relish sharing them. The children, in their youthful naivety, are not interested in the subtle art of storytelling. Instead, they crave tales of violence, war, and even rape, enchanted by the thrill of rule-breaking and victory, with no real comprehension of the consequences such actions bring. Growing up in their quiet village, they have no experience with these darker aspects of life and thus find their world grey and uninspiring.
Their impatience with Jordan’s retelling of Gwyddion’s story for the hundredth time mirrors the reactions of beta readers to the prologue. Just as the children demand instant gratification through action-packed narratives, these readers seem to hunger for fast-paced thrills. The parallel is clear: both groups—children and new adult readers—use fantasy to escape their safe but unfulfilling lives, yearning to be someone else, somewhere else.
This is why our work is intended for adult readers, those who have moved beyond the self-centred outlook of childhood, those who have faced disappointments akin to Jordan’s, and those mature enough to engage in retrospection and appreciate challenges beyond their own.
The second aspect worth noting is the language itself. I write in a style that evokes the richness and depth of classic literature. I do this deliberately, as it is my way of sharing the beauty and nuances of language with others.
I cannot agree with the notion that simplicity can capture the full breadth of human experience, for emotions and life itself are far from simple.
A broken heart, mental illness, shattered self-confidence, or fear—these are not matters to be distilled into plain language. Similarly, love, nature, and the miracles both great and small cannot be reduced to mere words without losing their essence. Life, like art, is a spectrum, not a monochrome or basic colours.
Many have forgotten this, living their lives in monotonous cycles, seeking extremes for stimulation, much like our growing reliance on fast food and sugary snacks. Our work does not cater to these cravings but instead aims to shine a light on them.
The prologue is a deliberate choice, a filter through which we invite only those readers who are prepared to engage with our vision.
Jordan’s final words in the prologue, “Boring or not, every tale has a beginning,” serve as our message to the readers. We are reminding them that our story unfolds at its own pace and that our mission is not to fill the void in their hearts with quick bursts of energy. Rather, we seek to heal their wounds and lift their spirits—if they are willing to let us—but such things take time.
Here, you can read the latest version of prologue.
The prologue to the Inscrutable Ways of Fate
Lexaurrin Village; the year of disgrace 1352
The elven sorcerer reclined into the embrace of an old wooden chair, reaching for his hip flask. His indigo-blue mantle draped over the armrest, whispering secrets to the curious eyes of twelve children. Fifteen years had passed since his return to Lexaurrin, the home he abandoned, chasing his childhood reverie—a dream now faded like mist at dawn.
Embarking on his journey, he harboured the ambition of attaining the title of Honourable Magus. Yet, after years of arduous studies at The Capitolium, The University of Mages, the sages judged his talents insufficient. Hence, they dismissed him with the rank of a mere tutor. The days ahead stretched before him like a barren landscape filled with the monotonous task of seeking out new talents and, at best, guiding young elves through the rudiments of reading and writing.
Jordan bore the heavy cloak of failure, the bitter taste of regret staining his every thought. The shame bedevilled him, same as the haunting memories of squandered resources, lost time, and the dormant potential that could have woven a grand tapestry of possibilities. The villagers hailed him like a hero, yet Gunter, with his silly pointed hat, remained aloof as a mysterious sphinx with a smile like the oldest enchantment of wood. That same Gunter, an unskilled witch man and Jordan’s long-time rival. A dark premonition gnawed at Jordan; he was convinced that Gunter held a truth which, once revealed, would expose his own inadequacies to the entire village.
“Master Jordan!” the shrill voice of a little elven girl snapped him out of his thoughts of the past. “Tell us the story about the Great Mage Gwyddion, please!”
The sorcerer took a slug of juniper spirits from his silver flask.
“Pleaseee!” her younger brother echoed.
Jordan bowed his head, his ash-blond hair veiling his face, and sighed.
“Very well, you’ve persuaded me,” he said, a bitter smile curling his lips.
Taking a deep breath, he began, “In the days of yore, the Mighty Mother Nature graced the earth with a being destined to tread the path of both a great hero and an infamous felon of this world.” His voice was tinged with mock seriousness. “From a mighty oak he was born, and thus he was bestowed with the name—”
The oldest boy in the group uttered a disapproving sound, abruptly cutting off Jordan’s words. A big-eyed, pigtailed little girl next to the boy pouted.
“That’s boring!” she whined. “Tell us how he started the First Great War! You know, the part where he raped that maiden!”
“Or how he bravely fought in the Battle of the Trees!” another elven child chimed in, bouncing with excitement.
“Or how the Lady of the Water Hole ensnared him!” shouted the ginger-haired boy.
The children turned towards him in unison.
“That happened to a different sorcerer!” declared the pigtailed girl, her brother now ardently joining in.
“You’re a dunce!” he yelled at the mistaken boy.
“Sneezewort!” answered the ginger elf with a flowery curse word.
“Enough!” Jordan shouted at them. “A ghrian, blàth sinn,” he intonated a spell in Elven language, raising his hand in an elegant gesture.
The invisible wave of hot air filled the schoolroom, silencing the squabbling children.
Jordan narrowed his eyes and briefly flicked his gaze over them as he continued, “Boring or not, every tale has a beginning.”
Thank you for taking the time to read the prologue to the Inscrutable Ways of Fate. I would love to hear your thoughts and impressions. Feel free to share them in the comments below or reach out to me directly. Your feedback means a lot and helps shape the future of my work.
Yours Truly,
Nathaniel Wonderful
Author
nathanielwonderful@gmail.com
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