Up on the Esja, just north of the capital city that used to be known as Reykjavik, a hiker found this journal. He had passed the rock wasteland of Þverfellshorn and the plain of fresh snow, and had reached the grassy peak of Hábunga. As he crouched along the water that cuts through the mountain to wash the sweat from his brow, he saw it. Lodged in a crevice on the stream’s bank was a small leather-bound notebook wrapped in plastic. He picked up the treasure, threw it in his backpack, and started his trek down. With the exception of its last few missing pages, the following chronicle is the contents of that book translated in its entirety. The ink and paper have been authenticated, and we believe this journal is an original document from the period of the Red Death.
I loved the idea in this book, and the imagination used in describing the afflictions on human and vampire alike. The background, set up, and climax were all well planned. So, why did I not like this very much?
The prose sounded rather ridiculous at times and heavy thesaurus’d. It just didn’t lend itself to being natural, or fitting into the time setting. Very few of the characters themselves left any impression, and the overuse of foreign languages, accents, and epitaphs was ill executed.
It was, however, an interesting take on zombie/ vampire/ plague story. Which was its only saving grace.
The denouement however was wholly unfulfilling and abrupt. So while I like the author’s imagination, their skill was not up to task I feel. Or they needed another draft.