Welcome to the Worldbuilder’s Anvil

Welcome to the Worldbuilder’s Anvil: Crafting Fantastical Worlds with "Lessgood," Aquifers, and Literal Gills.

The Worldbuilders Anvil Awaits

Ah, friend—I’m thrilled you’re here. Truly. There’s a particular kind of joy that stirs in my chest when I get to share the hidden bones of a world. Lore, you see, is my compass. It always has been.

When I play my favorite games—The Elder Scrolls, Fallout—I find myself less interested in the main quest, and more intrigued in the dusty books on forgotten shelves, or the fragmented entries on glitching terminals. My brain just works that way. I chase the why.

So today, I’m overjoyed to say this: I've finally got enough of my own books to take a swing at something I’ve always wanted to do—lore content. Tiny shards of worldbuilding. Notes from the forge. Writer’s commentary, behind-the-scenes secrets, and glimmering little easter eggs.

Four tasty treats today, forged on the Worldbuilders Anvil. Let’s begin:

1. How I Built Ascendant: Saga of Valor on Broken Language and Orwellian Control

Write dumb. Let’s get weird.

Ascendant: Saga of Valor was shaped by a whirlwind of influences: Mistborn, the protests of 2020, and the linguistic manipulation seen in North Korea. The theme of control through language had always haunted me—and so, in true Orwellian fashion, I built a world where words were stripped away by a regime that feared thoughts themselves.

Some readers asked why I didn’t pull a full Tolkien and invent a sprawling language. Here’s the truth: halfway through, I looked at the page and muttered, “I am not very smart.” So instead of Elvish elegance, I gave you something else: junk code. Broken, simple, ugly on purpose—“moregood,” “un,” “doublepluslessgood.”

Junk Code as a Worldbuilding Device: Make Readers Feel the World

Why? Because I wanted it to be uncomfortable. I wanted readers to trip over the words, to skip them, and for their minds to glaze over like citizens in the Lord Ascendant’s perfect little utopia.

But I’m curious—how could I have done it better?

2. Floating Islands, Catchleaf Trees, and Meltwater Aquifers: Worldbuilding the Fauna of Aithos

When your world exists on floating islands on a Jupiter-eques gas giant, it calls for some strange epic fantasy worldbuilding that really doesn't make sense. Bite me.

Let’s drift to the skies for a moment.

In Aithos, continents don’t lie flat—they float. Each landmass is called an island, and the ones anchored in place are literally tethered by veins of magic deep beneath their soil. These are the Anchored Islands. The rest are free-roaming wanderers in the sky, pushed by wind and whim.

Naturally, the first question I asked was: How in the world does anything live here? No oceans. Just wind, storms, clouds, and drifting giants of rock—and magic can't be the answer to everything.

Here’s the trick—these floating islands are hollow. Beneath their surfaces are basins filled with meltwater from snowcaps and underground rivers fed by the island’s magical core. Trees have evolved, too—some, like the catchleaves, grow vast vine-branches that stretch above the clouds, gathering moisture from mist through fine, open pores.

Fantasy biology, right? Probably couldn't work, but my heart says it should.

3. Hide the Magic in Plain Sight: Gills, Idioms, and Immersion

This one’s quick—but fun.

When a Throwaway Phrase Becomes Canonical Worldbuilding

There’s a moment in Aithos where a character says, “I’m sick to the gills.” A classic phrase—except here, on this gas-giant planet full of airborne ecosystems and floating cities, it’s both a metaphor and a literal biological feature.

Many of the inhabitants of Aithos have gills—because survival in a world like this requires breathing through more than just lungs. Gills are normal here. Unremarkable. Which is why no one comments on it in the books.

Hopefully, I’ll be revealing some anatomical sketches in books two and three. But I loved hiding that little worldbuilding gem in plain sight.

And now, the hammer falls. The forge cools. And the old chronicler of memories past must trudge down the hill to the local inn, muttering, "I need a quote from Kote," under his breath and wondering if the mead is still warm.

Until next time, friends.

— Izaic Yorks

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