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 L. Sprague de Camp is one of the few authors who can “fake” old fashioned English in dialogue and make it all come out sounding fine. I think the correct expression is, “He has an ear for dialogue".”
It doesn’t have to be remotely real. It just has to sound as though it could be real. The Pixilated Peeress is one of the books I am getting rid of. It is a decent read, but nothing exceptional I want to keep or reread. Standard hero’s journey were the hero sets out to help a maiden, except “stuff” happens and he has to work through a number of obstacles on his way to saving her. This is the first little bit of the book. It is definitely a passage for lover’s of language, what with words like incondite, aureate, raiment, hight and wherefore: Thorolf Zigramson laid his scabbarded sword on the grass and baited his hook with a squirming green grub. He tossed the hook into the pool in the mountain stream and watched the crimson float bob amid the silvery ripples. He gathered his russet cloak to sit down on the greensward when, a paces downstream, a holly-green spruce sapling spoke: “Goodman! Pray give me some clothes!” Thorolf started. Dropping his fishpole, he clapped a bronzen hand to the hilt of his dagger. “What say you, bush?” The sapling’s voice, though musical still, took on a note of command. “I said, give me some clothes! Your cloak will do, to start.” “Forsooth! And why should I give my good Tyrrhenian mantle away to the first bush that begs for it?” The voice grew sharp. “Cease calling me ‘bush,’ knave!” “Why? Prefer you ‘shrub’? Or perchance ‘evergreen’?” “Oaf! The proper address for one of my rank is ‘my lady’ or ‘your Highness'.’” Thorolf sheathed his dagger with a smile. “A female shrug, forsooth? You are the first plant I ever heard to claim nobility. Not that it signifies aught in Rhaetia; we long ago abolished titles.” The soprano voice rose in exasperation. “I know that, yokel! That is why you have no government worth the name. But I am in sore need of garments. You should have the courtesy –“ “Come out and tell me who you be, and I’ll consider.” “I cannot.” “Wherefore not?” demanded Thorolf. “I am not decent.” Thorolf smiled through his beard. “Let not that prevent you. I know persons of all degrees, including some given to crass indecencies.” “Not indecent in a moral sense, blockhead! I beg your raiment because I lack proper attire.” With slow deliberation, Thorolf picked up his fishpole. “No meeting, no garments. Now go away; you frighten the fish.” “Incondite rascal! I’ll show thee!” From behind the conifer sapling stepped a slight, fair-skinned young woman, naked save for a golden coronet on her aureate hair. Although but little over five feet tall and a jot too slender for Thorolf’s tastes, she was a beautiful creature.
Good gods!!” he explained, dropping his rod the second time, “Are you, mayhap, the Queen of the Fairies?” “Nay; a mortal woman in distress. I hight Yvette, Countess of Grintz.” A little later in the book, the first major obstacle appears. The Countess, fleeing an evil Duke, purchases a potion to make her ugly and get the Duke off her trail. Unfortunately, the magician who prepare the potion forgot to mention that alcohol was to be avoided. She had quite a bit that night and was getting kind of steamy with her hero: “… it must be close to the time for Bardi’s spell to take effect.” “Oh, I had forgotten! Wilt still love me, even though I become dark and dumpy? I shall still be the same. … Ouch! I am in pain. … glub –“ As Thorolf gazed with mounting horror, the slight, golden-haired woman changed before his eyes. Her voice sounded like the bubbling of gas through swamp water and then ceased. She seemed to flow together. Her limbs became limp, as if their bones had dissolved. Her face lost form and sank into her body. Thorolf shrank back, for the thing on the settee was no longer remotely human. Its parts shifted into a completely alien configuration. The limbs and eyes migrated to one end, leaving the torso a mere fleshy bag. The four limbs split lengthwise to form eight, which became sucker lined tentacles. They surrounded the mouth, which acquired a short, horny beak. The skin changed into a shiny, mottled, dark brown integument, over which rippled flashes of red, yellow, white, and black. The Countess had become an octopus. Thorolf sat paralyzed. When he gathered his bare legs beneath him to spring up, the octopus whipped tentacles around his neck and hoisted its bag of a body into his lap. It pressed its beak against his bare chest, but it did not bite him; it merely touched his skin lightly here and there. Thorolf realized that it was trying to kiss him. To be seduced by a drunken octopus was, he thought, not a fate that befalls many. If he survived this night he would have a tale he could dine out on for years; but just now he would gladly forgo the experience.
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