An introduction to The Song of the Sorcelator

by Horace Engdahl, secretary of the Swedish Academy and professor of literature

I have, as all fans of the magical and fantastical doubtlesslessly have, more than once plowed my way through countless tomes of fiction regarding the fantastic, only to afterwards find myself asking; What is wrong with today's writers? Where has all the excitement, thrill, and badassedness gone?
L H Franzibald thought like us, only He was greater than all of us. While we only gazed into the darkness of modern fantasy, He plunged headfirst into that dark pit, and where other, lesser men would have fallen prey to the horrors lurking within, Franzibald emerged unscathed and gloriously from that void of decrepidity, much like Grimm Shado emerged from the toxic vats of Trogdulon, the pus-oozing plaguelord of Grambul to claim revenge upon the fools foolish enough to make an attempt on his life. As Franzibald returned, He did not do so emptyhanded. He had gazed into the horrors of modern fantasy, and seen the errors of it. He had seen how countless writers dabbled over worthless books many a lonely night, and how few got rich and famous off of it.
He saw what needed doing.

Fantasy needed to be pimped. Fantasy needed to have a Franzibomb dropped on it. To the Extreme.

Employing His vast genius, Franzibald merged fantasy with cyberpunk, post-apocalypse and to some extent science-fiction and erotic novels. The result was the masterpiece known as The Song of the Sorcelator. It was, and remains, an unequaled piece of literary history, and with Tome 1, He lay the first stone on the road leading to legend.
The fine mixture of the many genres became an instant success with many, and unlike the drab and wretched books popular with the fantasy audience, this applied not only to the mainstream, it was also so Extreme that it gave Franzibald enough chicks to satisfy a lesser man for a lifetime.
Some filthy, unworthy dogs have claimed that He has stolen His monumental work from the impotent and illiterate mind of Tycho Brahe. Whilst certain similarities can be found between the sagas, this is only understandable, as Franzibald observed Brahe's works to specify exactly what was wrong with modern fantasy.

Today, Franzibald is a multi-millionaire, as any man of His genius deserves, and resides on a secret location. Rumor has it that He has build a secret harem containing only women too fine for the Bangin' Sexx Gardens of Landoramm-IV and that in his study are the two actual wands Hurt and Burn. Of course, noone has ever seen this fortress, this radiant structure that stands as a monument to His glory, and lived to tell of it. Although this is only a rumor, Franzibald has never outright denied it, which has only helped to fuel the speculations.

Closingly, what I with this article am trying to say is that any man, woman, child, or otherwise semi-intelligent creature should, nay must, consume these books - although the term "book" isn't even remotely powerful enough to describe these masterpieces - as soon and often as possible. I, myself, have many times proposed that he be awarded with the Nobel prize of literature for His renaissance of the dull fantasy genre, yet without any luck. Within the pages of The Song of the Sorcelator, you will not find a regular story of untold brilliance. You will find a story of untold brilliance taken to the limit.

Taken to the limit extreme.


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