Hellshock opener

A respectful and compassionate attitude towards mental illness and the lost; a philosophy of empathy coupled with melancholy introspection, pathos and moody art: Damn. And we haven't even gotten to the mythological aspects yet.

Hellshock, you and I are already off to a great start.

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I mean... holy shit.

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Edit: Hmmm.

Hellshock actually has my least favourite way of dealing with supernatural events or mythology; Presenting events in such a way that it leaves an interpretation up to the reader. Where the reality of the situation is up to the main character's perception (or the narrator, who then is unreliable). But I do have to admit that in this way, rather cleverly, Hellshock also addresses, point-blank, ontology for a short bit, and which was interesting, but ultimately; as this is about mental illness, and as the 'supernatural' elements were kept so vague, once the story was done I never bought that there might have been anything going on outside of the main character's slipping mental stability, making this, of course, even more about personal reality vs larger reality.

Mental illness in a nutshell, really.

Also, the cross iconography present in the awesome comic covers and the back-blurb implying christian mythology is blatantly misrepresentative of what's actually here.

This is pretty much solely about mental illness, and no religious themes are actually present inside of the cover, other than in a loose, hypothetical kind of way.

Oh, and points deducted for the original negative downer ending (which isn't even that different from the added stuff but which is very flat-out dark) that suggests that for people with these problems there is no real way forward.

This actually strokes with my own views and mindset, but, man, I didn't really need that right now.

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The added ending to the comic ends in three different points, ostensibly separate from each other,  differentiated by a shift in colour and tone. Scenes revisited through a different mirror, viewed through a lens that bestows an idyllic quality to earlier grime, a point of view on earlier happenings coloured by a mind become unhinged.

What this really is, is Jae Lee revisiting his comic, years later, with an ending that is a little meta, and which because of that then becomes (in parts) applicable to a broader canvas, allowing the reader to easily insert oneself into the narrative, and a longer resolution that seems cautiously benign and even hopeful, rather than the sobering gut-punch of the original ending.

First there is love, found in a hypothetical other, and in the main story this is present via the medium of Daniel, in which I mean that he grants Christina (wait, is that her name?) the awareness of something 'higher', a destination if not an outright goal and purpose. The reality is up for interpretation here.

What isn't up for interpretation is an ending of insanity, where we (and Christina) have to face a continuing reality in which anchoring in that other has been lost. Given enough time, this always ends up happening. This eventually leads to suicide, overt or not. Self-destruction takes over and leads the way until it becomes the only remaining, dwindling point of focus. It becomes the idealization of death and suicide and the ending to all.

This element isn't present in the added parts, but insanity is still the name of the game here.

And then comes part three, which doesn't seem to stroke with the original ending, although it doesn't contradict it so much as that it ignores it to give the reader a half-assed guideline to keep moving.

I say it's half-assed, not because it's bad advice, as really, it's the only thing one can do under these extreme conditions, but because it's presented sloppily and, where before things were presented in a broader manner, here it seems as if Jae Lee made his narration too specific to the point where things were cancelling each other out, where one type of advice doesn't lend itself to every type of mental illness. Mine's not yours, I'm saying, and where for me Hellshock's run up to this point had been perfect, here I found myself at a disconnect. It's a little unfortunate.

But still. A very good, interesting comic.

Titus Groan and Gormenghast

When I was reading book three of the Gormenghast trilogy, right off the bat it became quite clear that one probably shouldn't be speaking of a trilogy and rather of a duology that comes with a third book attached, a third book that was supposed to be only the first part of a new cycle.

Titus Groan and Gormenghast together form a pretty close-knit story though, with most every plot line being resolved within its combined 735 pages, barring the jumping blood story line, which can only be resolved by a continuation which of course follows its central 'jumping' protagonist; the Seventy-Seventh lord of the groan line, deserter and heretic; Titus Groan himself, and which story line, as it should be a circle; a journey that leads back to its beginning, can never now be completed due to Peake's untimely death.

However, the duology that is actually set in Gormenghast is almost incomparably beautiful to any other work I've read.
It's immediately skyrocketed into my all-time favourite pieces of literature, and that pretty much solely because of its style and its incredible artistry; and of course because of Peake's uniquely memorable characters, who are frequently mocked for their absurdities and their eccentricities.
The imagery of these characters, their descriptions, the deportment of character: all these occasionally come across as cartoonish in a way that reminds me of the early Mickey Mouse cartoons, with exaggerated posturing, pantomime and an almost impossibly wild variety in motion.

As for story:

The story shouldn't really be to anyone's liking, because even though the great story beats are really quite good, they are also just a little too slow in how they flow, with a prose-style that's just a little too pedantic. But at the same time any and all objections are just swept away by that same determined pedantry, the incredible dedication of its style, that is perfectly maintained throughout the two books, and just how beautiful it is, and how dazzling its imagery, bombastically momentous or intimately close.
Or when emotions are so pervasively present in a scene, so perfectly conveyed, like where for instance in Book 2 Gormenghast:

Poor old Bellgrove, a man whose gentle heart should be universally adored by the hordes of schoolchildren but who, for some unexplainable reason just don't respect or even like him, who is so alone and yet with such foolish determination clings to his pride; reasoning it is better to be aloof and austere than to let glimpse the true heart inside. Peake's belabouring of these points, and all the attention to building it up for something is just perfect, and he lets it serve as set-up and preamble to various memorable scenes throughout the book, but here in particular; as we have been familiarized with Bellgrove already, we are introduced to another scene with him, a scene with the potential to be both formative and momentous, and where Peake draws back a whole swathe of the curtain yet further, opening us up to pity and love for this kind-hearted old man.

And then immediately afterward, before the pity can begin to rule, Bellgrove is given a moment where he earns a connection with a young boy, but which, before it has even been given a single chance to bloom, is immediately endangered by the appearance of another character, who at not a single other point since the start of book 1 has shown much compassion, or if he has, that compassion has always been tainted with mockery for the eccentricities of others, however so gently.

But, at the same moment the timorous heart quails (mine), weary of yet more kindness withdrawn in the face of outside mocking scrutiny, this other's heart, against all expectation, opens itself also. And instead of kindness denied, we are treated to a moment of deep compassion.
In this scene everyone's slate is wiped clean with the pitying love one carries for a poor lonely child, someone who has been pushed into a place ordained by ritual, a child has been denied the simple act of being himself.
Bellgrove drops his defenses, acts out of character and is transported to a more simple and a more honest time, while the other man, showing the depths of his subtle understanding, alters his usual eccentric approach into one of straightforward acceptance and camaraderie.
It's very unexpected and very lovely.

The books are filled with scenes like this.
Incredibly sweet or horrible resolutions given an incredible depth of feeling by an almost ridiculous level of dedicated build-up.

And there are indeed quite some horrible resolutions in this story, and in a way that makes me feel that it walks very close to tragedy. And in fact; half of the reviews I've read, all the write-ups or descriptions one sees will belabour the terribleness, the nastiness, the mockery, the grotesquerie, the horrible violence, and sure, yes, there's some of that, but for every single hair-raising one of these, there's 10 of the above; the quiet scenes, infinitely pleased and infinitely pleasing, in and of themselves, with themselves; art celebrating itself.

Though it must be said that the nastiness, the grotesquerie, and the violence are really nice also. And that in fact these are also heightened by the pre-amble, the endless set-up and the complete delight in language. It's an effect akin to a movie setting up a good jump scare, except here, generally, these instances aren't sprung upon us, oh no. The few I've read, I've seen, have been effortlessly built up, tension-building like it's nobody's business accompanied to a gradual darkening in tone, to then plumb depths of horror and villainy that are quite unexpected if you're familiar with the sweet gentleness of some of the book's other scenes.

It took forever to read these books, but I'm so glad I just took the time to let everything connect with me, seep in and carve out a place in my most memorable reading experiences.

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Even though the long-time leisurely handling of the omnibus caused quite the wear and tear.

Also, the above picture shows the duology versus the third book. As you can see, Titus Alone is quite a bit smaller than either of the first 2, below 200 pages, to Titus Groan's 360 and Gormenghast's 400. Quite a difference.

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Some spoilers if you are familiar with any of the characters in the book.

Of rebellion in the Castle, of

rebellion against the rebel, and of the

strange verisimilitude in the

comportment, outlook, and inner

landscape of various teachers.

Truancy, and a comedy of death.

Of horrible death, accidental, stupid,

preposterous and silly,

and profoundly tragic. as it ever is.

A party of professors. New love,

for old persons. The lion shook his

mane, stretched his claws, hid his teeth

and won her heart, birdlike and shrill

though it is.

Murder awry. Like a balrog blazing

from on high, to a struggle in mud

and in water. Choke the life, still the pulse.

A grave miscalculation indeed.

From the depths he rises to the peak,

though iron ritual coils stronger than ever,

But there rests just time, and unbreakable will.

Formality, mere, the striking of these links.

But eyes are watching, and ears have heard.

1 to 2, 2 to 3, and 3 to 5, and the rollcall

isn't done. How many more will be added

to the hallowed halls, the glorious dead?

A chase into regions of madness and despair.

The peacock struts, unhinged with the echo of fire.

For the love of home, unmask the lord of lies,

and die in triumph.

Rampant murder and storming heat.

Ritual denied, spat upon. Heresy. Blasphemy.

Water, lightning, lust and hate.

The end of age, and hereditary fate.

Deluge and flood. Calamity,

and ritual suspended, in survival.

The animal's red ether. Carnage,

brilliance suspended, in blood-thirst.

Lovelorn. Melancholy.

I love you so,

my dark and lonely soul.

Heartbreaking tragedy,

in the ease of water.

Climax.

Boats in water, in fire, in rain.

Deepest shadows and golden light.

Crimson blossom of rage and violence.

Desperation. Exhaustion. Madness.

Hate. Murder. Vengeance.

Nowhere to go. Magnetic,

but one path before you.

Silver knives in the moonlight.

Of the mad and how they crow,

how they lust and how they want,

these upstart rebels both.

Aftermath and healing.

Scars of flesh, slime on stone,

the broken remains of love.

The jumping blood.

Rejoice.

Jumping blood,

rejoice.

Dead Man's Shift

In preparation for an open house day on a school that we have a maintenance contract for, we spent a night burning weeds on the parking lot. This had to be done at night so that there would be the least amount of parked cars around. Last year we were done by 2 o' clock, as we had done some burning in the days beforehand and the weather happened to be on our side until the very last second. This year it took all night, because after a very hot day, in which by the way we'd already worked full hours already, it began storming something fierce.

That kept up to within an hour or so of when we started burning, and which meant that the

weeds were still very much saturated and rather more resistant to flame than they otherwise would have been. Best laid plans and all that.

And so the night ended up being cold and clammy, and pretty much never-ending.

I have a very large amount of footage, most of it blurry and low quality, but enough of it is good enough to share.

 Most of the videos were recorded with my smartphone, but I did also have along a camera for some high(er) definition sparks.

Some of us were more bad-ass than others: dual-wielding flamers, like some sort of hoodie-wearing Terminator (Warhammer, that is, not Schwarzenegger).

Others were a mix of bad-ass and silly.

No prizes for guessing who.

As per usual...

Early on there was a lot of optimism and fun to be had. Burning at night is very beautiful because you can trace pretty much every spark. Because of the darkness surrounding you, there's little outside distraction, and so the world becomes a very small place; and all of it is fire and flaming comets.

The hours while away to Imagine Dragons, Kasabian, Big Black Delta, Prof and other assorted feel-good music.

But later on at night, somewhere beyond half past 2, everyone goes into zombie mode.

 Slow shuffling steps and constrained movements speaking of tiredness in every limb. It's already been a long day, and the burning has not progressed as well as hoped. Some of us had been under the impression that it would've been done by now. From feel-good and uplifting music I graduate to the metal madness of the Doom soundtrack; BFG Division, Rip and Tear, Mastermind and more.

Olivia's Doom comes on and I am creeped right the fuck out.

That song, especially at this time of night, tired as I am, just isn't right. It is a discordant hell, a clamour of sounds, and not even close to being music at all. The voices are scary, but there's a sick delight in seeing what they offer.

What can I say? Sometimes you walk a tight-rope and manage to keep your balance. You don't read too much into it.

Then comes the Dead Hour; The hour in which people sleep the deepest, and where the ill slip from dream into oblivion.

This is the quietest time of the night. The world around is asleep and there must be some sort of bleed-over from this as, in the utter quiet, with thousands dreaming within shouting distance, the mind goes very small, maybe seeking to go to the same place as where the dreamers go. It wants to hide itself away, it wants to shut down, and it partially does. It flickers and the world goes dream-like.

The cars that pass on the road beyond the treeline are symptomatic of something off with the world. There must be something wrong with their drivers, their occupants. A sickness in the soul, in the mind. They shouldn't be here, they're lost in every way. They're unmoored, homeless, and profoundly alone.

The mood shifts and we all feel it.

For a while nobody speaks, and everyone tightens up, hunches in on themselves. Keeping themselves close.

There are some desultory efforts to reach out, to connect, to feel less alone.

Some succeed and keep the darkness at bay. It is the old saying; "Inching towards daylight," and that's a hell of a lot easier with someone by your side.

But not me. I'm not one of them.

For a short while, I am removed.

 No footage here.

 Unnoticed, the time passes and then all of a sudden the night comes to an end.

And still we go on. 

But the darkness lifts with the coming of true light, and as the end comes in sight, optimism makes a welcome reappearance. Because even if this doesn't get done, soon we get go home.

At this point there's a spring in everyone's step.

Pleased with the night's progress, the First Lady is already up to her usual antics.

But still, despite appearances, the night has taken its toll and everyone is pretty much tapped out.

But then, under a steadily brightening sky, come the final moments, and it is done.

At this point my status is 'Fucking tired'.

Quite happy it's done and even a little satisfied, even though the occasional missed patches of green contrast quite clearly with the recently scorched areas. Someone's going to have to come back later today to do some spot-checking.

Not me though.

I did what I needed to, and rather a bit more than that.

 Time to go home.

I'm very happy I didn't have to drive as everything occasionally went a little wobbly.

We also had been given a bunch of pizza around midnight or so, but as my dietary habits have profoundly changed recently, the few pieces I had weighed too heavily on my stomach and Ruben ended up being the one to take them home.

After this I went to bed and slept for four hours. I would've wanted to sleep a lot more, as I definitely needed it, but the biological clock is an asshole, and so were the workers outside my front door. And let's not forget about the demon birds, with their unholy cravings.

So instead of being able to do the healthy thing, unable to catch up on sleep, I ended up just watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine and other random crap on the internet. Later in the day I slept a little on a fold-out chair next to the pool.

Tired and aching,

but there's worse ways to spend your day.

Red Country

Red Country is the sixth chronological novel in Joe Abercrombie's First Law world.
I had read all the earlier ones previously, some years ago now, and I had read them pretty close together. Naturally, first I read the trilogy, which I thought was pretty passable,

Mainly I was annoyed with that ending, what? Bite me. I do not like literal cliffhangers, Especially after 1800 pages of what should be a closed story... Ask me again in ten years, And I will be able to concede that this shit was honestly pretty damn epic and had an ending that was poetically perfect... But not right now.

but then, like an idiot, I read The Heroes and only afterwards I read the novel I should've read earlier; the stunningly fun Best Served Cold.
The reason why Red Country didn't get read any sooner, was primarily because I wasn't keen on yet another unsatisfying romance, one ending with a whimper or a shrug.

Looking back on Best Served Cold I can easily see why I enjoyed that one so much: I tend to if not root for a novel's romance, then I'm definitely always riveted by it, and Abercrombie has a nasty habit of giving you something to root for, only to then deflate the living fuck out of it at the novel's ending. But with Best Served Cold, as I'd already read the novel after it, I already knew how Cold's romance would go and I just ended up enjoying the rest of the story... yes, and the style and the humour, because Abercrombie is actually really very good.

Red Country then was a long delayed read that I started on impulse after reading Gail Simone's Red Sonja, which for some reason made me feel like reading a western, of all things.
It turned out pretty well in its story department, even if at times it felt as if Abercrombie had taken a step down.

Shy has left her violent past behind her, and together with her adopted grandfather Lamb and her siblings, has settled down on a small farm to make a more honest living.

But when they return from a trip to town to discover the burnt-out remains of her second chance at life, and when she finds that her brother and sister are missing, she and Lamb are forced in pursuit.

Shy South is no stranger to violence, and though the tracks around the farm suggest a great group of men, she is sure that when they catch up with them she will think of something.

But she's worried about Lamb: The big hulking Northman, though horribly scarred, is some kind of coward, always backing away from a fight, never looking anyone in the eye. You'd think a man would stand up for himself, especially in lands such as these.

With only him to help her in the chase from the Near to the Far Country to find her family, what hope does she have?

And the land out there is wild and inhospitable, it is the last stop for those desperate to make their fortune, as it is for those who prey on them.

A land for those looking for gold or for blood.

And some times, men will want for both.

Nicomo Cosca, famous soldier of fortune, has taken on a commission to root out the seed of rebellion from the Country's disparate townships, and he and the company of the Gracious Hand trek west in pursuit of rumour, of rebels, and more importantly of course; in search of gold.

The second most important man in the company, Temple, has had his doubts about this particular commission, if he's honest. But he's always taken the easy way, and it's certainly easier to go along with the press of  common greed than to follow the jabs of his own conscience.

But this time, he's about to do what's right. And he'll regret it.
 Because  this place is a Red Country, without justice, without meaning.

and a conscience is the last thing that'll help a man.

So yeah. I quite enjoyed it... In retrospect.
At the time I was going through some stuff, and the book was good enough to let me forget about that for a few hours. Abercrombie has a knack for getting you on board and rooting for his characters.
But after a few of his books you know those characters are probably not going to end up anywhere nice, but his style and humour pull you along regardless.
But it's actually the reverse here: The style is quite a step down from the previous novels, and the story, its resolution, didn't make me feel bad or dissatisfied at all. Very odd, really.
So for the most part I was reading the novel with the idea, that everyone was going to end up fucked, or with everyone fucking each other over, which naturally put a bit of a damper on the whole thing.
And that didn't happen... well it did... but not as a central conceit, and without impacting my enjoyment of the whole thing. It felt right, like a punctuation, and, to a certain degree, quite pleasant. It was kind of a happy ending, as these things go.
It's a shame then that the quality wasn't quite as good as in previous iterations.
Abercrombie has an occasionally clipped style because, I presume, every other chapter follows along a different character, so that the subtle changes reflect the character of the moment. But, for me at least, these changes detract from the experience, rather than heighten it. They're just not up to snuff, really. They became a little irksome. There were some other things that bothered me, but I've already left it way too long and things have gotten very vague.

I'm of two minds here, then. Pretty great, but shoddy maybe.
Ah well, they can't all be fucking winners. A man's got the be realistic about these things.

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Pain demands vengeance.

Better to be a coward, than to be

awash in a river of blood.

But then again, the colours are

so pretty, and to give in is to

be in the moment. Unconstrained,

in power, and unstoppable.

The easy way, and the right way.

Easy every time, until you can't anymore.

Until friendship lies bleeding in the dust,

senseless and choking on its own

sad sense of making the world

a better place.

So take up the mantle, and discard

the previously trodden path.

Money and greed, a happy life

if you can learn not to care.

Narcissism, or a complete lack of

self-awareness, either will do

a man just fine.

Cosca, Lamb or Temple,

but it is Shy you'd want to be.

Nevertheless, a life of violence,

crime, and a conscience beaten

to within an inch of its life.

For all of these. Well...

Maybe not for Cosca.

Connection and comfort,

sundered by cowardice.

The easy way, giving in to

your weakest side.

Cowardice sundered by the

lust for old desires; the smell of

fresh blood leads to the breaking

of men, and an unholy glee.

The easy way, giving in to your

darkest side.

Welcome back, old friend.
It is good to see you again.

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Yeah, I'll probably start adding selected bits from the currently reading side-bar.
It started feeling a bit stupid to just keep deleting those outright.

The Great, but local, Outdoors

I'm generally uninterested in going to new places, eating out, doing new things or even going out of my door in general, but in the interest of positive self-improvement I've taken to saying yes to some things recently, preferably something new each day, and so I went along with my brother and his girlfriend on their walk in a local reserve.

It was alright.
I even took some pictures. Because I'll be damned if I don't have proof that I did something supremely boring that I had absolutely no interest in.
No, you know, that's not fair; it wasn't boring...
It was alright.

Self-reflection time.

What is it you really want?

"I would really like to, maybe, 1 time, (that on a) one day

if it was possible..."

Here's Ruben trying to connect with a young colt, only seconds before he jolted himself on the electric wire. 

Edit: this is actually not the first picture mirrored but another one taken from the other side, when we were on the way back.

The walk was actually so that these two hippies could gather Elderflowers to use in their hippy stuff.

Eh... what I'm saying is that it's nice when people have a passion.

That was all.

Goodbyeee.

Blackadder for the win!

Little-itty-bitty book in the post

After I finished Final Fantasy 12 and its mile-long train of mythologically inspired bosses, silly or otherwise, I looked into getting some literature on one of the more memorable ones, with a name that has resounded in many another game and work of fiction: a name of power; Gilgamesh.

As I tend to be thorough, I quickly stumbled on the Penguin Epics, a smallish collection of about 20 works, which had the epic of Gilgamesh under its many well-known titles (of which I'd only read Exodus).

I thought the series' artwork was striking, and my interest was piqued pretty quickly when I saw how Gilgamesh in particular looked.

I didn't wait long to order it.

Second-hand of course, as these are generally out of stock, though the pricing seems to be rather reasonable.

And when it arrived I found out exactly why so reasonable.

It is pretty with reflective gold spotting, but if you can't tell from the picture above, it wasn't exactly what I expected. When I opened the mail box and saw the package I genuinely didn't have a clue what could be in it, it was that tiny.

 I mean look at how small it is to a modern day epic novel.

Quality over size, I hear you whisper, and that might be the case, but I'm not here to compare the two in what's between the covers. This is just to illustrate how small the book is.

I'm very happy though. It's beautiful, and oh so tiny.

I just can't stress how adorable it is, it's just ridiculous.

It's actually a little bit larger than a standard mass market paperback, but because of its small page count, it just seems slighter.

-----

I've also already read a chapter and though there seems to be occasional repetition, the style is familiar enough to be comforting to this old Bible-reading soul.

I'm not chomping at the bit to read it through in a sitting, but am interested enough to read some pages in the idle moments. Its length is quite inviting too. Short but indeed; epic. They don't write 'em like this anymore.

Northlanders

I've been reading some Northlanders and eh...

it's rather good.

The above is one of the covers from omnibus 2's Icelandic Saga, which isn't even the best of the Northlanders stories, and to be honest one of the least engaging arcs in the series, and apparently the readership and Vertigo thought so as well, because it lead to Northlanders' eventual cancellation; but well... you can probably see why I wanted to share it:

Blood and gloom coupled with the contrast of the title, makes this particular piece quite the stand-out.

Try as I might, I just couldn't get decent enough scans of some pages, so you'll just have to do with some enhanced photographs instead. I do think I did it ok, though.

Written by Brian Wood and illustrated by a host of different artists, Northlanders' 50 issues follow around various characters and families in 14 separate arcs during the age of viking exploration and expansion.

If you want to, you could probably slot the Black road comic under Northlanders as well,

as it's certainly similar in most respects; subject matter, approach to violence, introspection and even the art style.

Come to think of it, Black Road has a crazy amount of similarities to the Cross and the Hammer arc.

It's Brian Wood slipping one under the radar maybe, by going to Image, but certain names had to changed to make that possible I'm guessing. There's certainly some dudes called Magnus in both of these.

Here's how all that looks on the shelf, by the way.

For the purposes of the picture the volumes are snugly nestled between my Matthew Woodring Stover stuff and what is still a pretty cool-looking bottle, even if it was a gin one.

Anyway, back to why we're here: The Northlanders arcs are largely unconnected and generally can be read on their own, except of course for the absolute King of these arcs, which has a one-shot closing out the saga in another omnibus:

The Saga of Sven The Returned.

Sven the Returned stands head and shoulders above the rest of Northlanders.

It is the tale of a warrior returning to his homeland in search of his hereditary wealth.

Naturally the current holder of that wealth doesn't much like this forgotten relic coming back out of hiding to undermine his authority, and so, plans are forged to get rid of 'little Sven'.

Problem is though that ever since his leave-taking of his home and culture 'little Sven' has not had an easy life, and through ups and downs, this has made of him a member of Constantinople's Varangian guard, and a warrior without peer.

And so. Violence ensues.

A lot of violence.

 But that's not all of the appeal here, because besides the violence entrenched in some readily approachable art, there's also quite an engaging and against-the-grain story, and on top of that it's got a main character liberally endowed with Brian Wood's penchant for melancholy introspection.

It's pretty much what I generally want in any swords and blood comic.

And the ending, both the one of the Sven the Returned arc, and the one of the addendum to the story in omnibus 2, are also quite good. No downer endings these, unlike a lot of the rest of the Northlanders arcs (omnibus 2 in particular).

The rest of the Northlanders arcs are mostly hit, though frequently too short to be of much consequence. I do like all of them, apart from the Icelandic saga, which is just a little too incoherent, though well researched.

Yeah, this post is mainly just to showcase that first piece and the Sven story.

Somebody else might've just shared that and moved on without comment but I just couldn't just leave it like that.

I've not read Omibus 3 yet though I'll get around to it...

With titles like 'Metal' and ' the Viking art of single combat', there's still some definite promise here.

There's even an arc of similar length to the Sven saga.

Hmmm, better get round to that soon-ish, I think.