Hi, everyone! I’m excited to share a sneak peek into my new LitRPG series, Zephyros Chronicles, and the first book, A New Awakening. If you’re a fan of dynamic world-building, character-driven storytelling, and epic adventures with a mix of magic, tech, and humor, this might be for you!

About the Series

The Zephyros Chronicles follows Solomon "Sol" McCallister, a man from Earth who gets a second chance at life in a vibrant, divided world. Zephyros is split into zones of magic and technology, each unaware of the other's existence. Sol’s journey is one of self-discovery, bridging barriers, and bringing together a fractured world to face an impending, world-ending threat.

This series combines:

• Witty banter and humor (think He Who Fights With Monsters or The Land).
• A unique rank-based progression system instead of traditional levels.
• A richly detailed world with immersive lore, dynamic characters, and evolving relationships.

Book 1: A New Awakening

The first book begins with Sol, a 70-year-old Southern man nearing the end of his life. After a lifetime of regret and loss, Sol awakens in Zephyros as his younger self, with a game-like interface and the opportunity to live again.

Starting in the Elemental Highlands, Sol discovers his unique role as a support hero, using buffs, shields, and tactical skills to protect allies and turn the tide of battle. Along the way, he forms an unlikely party:

• Ellie, a compassionate healer with a mysterious connection to his past.
• Garrek, a gruff warrior searching for redemption.
• Liora, a playful but cunning archer with her own secrets.

Together, they uncover a growing corruption threatening the Highlands and take their first steps toward uncovering the secrets of Zephyros. But as Sol begins to connect the dots, he realizes his role in this world is far greater than survival—he’s the key to uniting its divided zones before they collapse under a looming threat.

Why You’ll Love It

If you enjoy:

• Richly detailed worlds with day/night cycles, seasons, and cultures.
• Dynamic characters who grow, come, and go, helping along the way.
• A protagonist who evolves from humble beginnings to a central, powerful figure.
• A balance of humor, heart, and high-stakes action.

Then Zephyros Chronicles will deliver all that and more!

I’d love to hear your thoughts or answer any questions about the series! What kind of characters, zones, or challenges do you enjoy most in LitRPG stories? Let me know!

Here is a sneak peak of Chapter 1. Let me know what you think.

Book 1: A New Awakening 

Chapter One: A Peaceful End 

The sharp creak of the rocking chair cut through the stillness of the barn as Solomon "Sol" McCallister leaned back, letting his weary eyes wander across the dusty beams overhead. The sweet, familiar smell of hay mixed with the faint metallic tang of rusting tools. This place had been his sanctuary for decades, a piece of his soul woven into the wood and straw. But tonight, it felt heavier, as though the barn itself knew it was time to say goodbye. 

  Sol was tired. Not the kind of tired that came from baling hay or fixing fences, but the deep, soul-weary exhaustion that settled in when you outlived everything and everyone that mattered. His hands, calloused and weathered, cradled a photograph of his late wife, Sarah. Her smile was as bright as the summer sun, frozen in time, unchanging, while he had grown old and brittle. 

  "You got to stop haunting me, Sarah," he muttered with a chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. "A man can only carry so much before he breaks." 

  The barn door creaked open, and a cold wind swept in, carrying the faint scent of rain. Sol shivered and pulled his coat tighter. He glanced at the loft, the place where he and Sarah had carved their initials so many years ago. "Maybe I'll join you soon," he said, the words tasting like both relief and regret. 

  The world outside was moving on without him. The bank letters piling up on the kitchen counter didn’t bother him anymore. The neighbors had stopped visiting, the last of them too young to remember when Sol had been the strongest man in the county. Now, he was just a forgotten relic, waiting for the end. 

  He rocked back and forth, the motion soothing as he let the photograph rest on his chest. His eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, he imagined he was young again—sprinting through the fields, Sarah’s laughter echoing in his ears. 

  Then it came. 

  A sudden, bone-deep vibration rippled through the barn. Sol’s eyes snapped open as the wooden beams above groaned and the ground beneath his chair shifted. He scrambled to his feet, his body protesting every movement, and stared at the loft. A soft, golden glow was emanating from the floorboards where he and Sarah’s initials were carved. 

  “What in the hell...?” he muttered, gripping the edge of a workbench for support. The glow grew brighter, pulsing rhythmically, like a heartbeat. He felt a strange pull, like something was calling him, tugging at his very essence. 

  Against every ounce of reason, Sol climbed the rickety ladder to the loft. Each step sent a jolt of pain through his knees, but he pressed on, driven by a force he couldn’t explain. When he reached the top, he froze. 

  The initials—S + S—were glowing, the light so intense it cast shadows against the barn walls. The air around him shimmered, and a deep hum vibrated through his chest. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the glowing wood. 

  The world tilted. 

  The barn disappeared. 

  Sol fell. 

  He didn’t hit the ground. Instead, he plunged into an endless void, weightless and disoriented. Lights flickered in the darkness, forming symbols and shapes that danced just out of reach. He tried to scream, but no sound came. It felt like he was being unraveled, his very being stretched and woven into something new. 

  Then, a voice—not his own, but calm and resonant—echoed in his mind. 

  "Welcome, Solomon McCallister. Your journey begins now." 

  When Sol opened his eyes, he was lying in a meadow bathed in soft sunlight. The air was fresh, carrying the scent of flowers and earth, and the sound of birdsong filled his ears. He sat up, his head spinning, and looked down at his hands. 

  They were young. 

  Gone were the gnarled, wrinkled fingers of an old man. Instead, his hands were strong and steady, the hands of a man in his prime. He scrambled to his feet, feeling a surge of energy coursing through his body. His reflection in a nearby stream confirmed it—he was young again, his face free of lines, his muscles lean and powerful. 

  “What... what is this?” he whispered. 

  A translucent panel appeared in front of him, floating in midair. Words etched themselves into the surface, glowing faintly. 

  System Initialization Complete. Welcome to Zephyros. Designation: Solomon McCallister. Rank: Initiate I. Essence Core: Locked. Abilities: None. 

  Sol stared at the screen, his mind racing. It was like something out of a video game, but it felt real—too real. 

  A rustling in the bushes drew his attention, and he turned, instincts kicking in. From the shadows emerged a creature, its eyes glowing red and its body covered in dark, leathery scales. It snarled, its fangs glinting in the sunlight. 

  For the first time in years, Sol felt a spark of adrenaline—a spark of life. 

  “Well,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “Looks like the peaceful end’s gonna have to wait.” 

  He charged. 

  Sol’s legs moved faster than they had in decades, muscles surging with a strength he’d thought long gone. Each step was steady and purposeful, closing the gap between him and the creature. The beast snarled, a guttural sound that vibrated in the air as it lunged forward, claws glinting. 

  Instinct kicked in. Sol sidestepped the attack, his body reacting faster than his mind could process. The creature landed where he’d been standing, dirt scattering from its impact, before spinning to face him again. 

  His chest heaved as he sized it up. It stood low to the ground, a sleek, sinewy predator with legs coiled like springs. Its glowing red eyes locked onto his, full of malice and hunger. Sol didn’t need the translucent interface to know it meant to kill him. 

  "Alright, big guy," Sol muttered, rolling his shoulders. "Let’s see if I still remember how to throw a punch." 

  The beast lunged again, this time faster. Sol barely ducked in time, the creature’s claws swiping past his ear. He countered on instinct, swinging his fist into the side of its head. Pain shot up his arm—punching scales felt like hitting a brick wall—but the creature yelped and staggered back. 

  He shook out his hand, wincing. “Damn. Either I hit harder than I remember, or you’re softer than you look.” 

  The creature growled, low and dangerous, and this time it pounced. Sol braced himself, grabbing a loose branch from the ground just as it leaped. He swung with all his might, catching the beast mid-air. The impact sent it tumbling to the ground with a sharp whine. 

  Before it could recover, a chime echoed in his ears, and the interface flickered to life again. 

  Combat Detected. Initiating Emergency Protocol. 

Essence Core Unlocked: Support - Resonant Bastion. 

Ability Gained: Aura of Fortitude (Rank I). 

  “What the—” Sol’s question was cut short as a strange sensation washed over him. It wasn’t painful, but it was overwhelming, like someone had flipped a switch in his very soul. His body tingled, and a faint golden glow radiated from his skin. 

  The beast growled and charged once more, but this time, Sol felt... ready. The world seemed sharper, clearer, as though time had slowed. Without thinking, he extended his hand, and the glow around him pulsed outward in a wave. 

  The creature hesitated mid-stride, its movements sluggish as if it were wading through water. Sol’s instincts screamed at him to act, and he didn’t hesitate. Gripping the branch tighter, he delivered a bone-crushing blow to the creature’s head, sending it crumpling to the ground in a lifeless heap. 

  Panting, he dropped the branch and staggered back, staring at the beast’s body. His heart hammered in his chest, but a strange sense of satisfaction bloomed within him. He was alive—more alive than he’d felt in years. 

  Combat Complete. 

Experience Gained. Progress to Initiate II: 10%. 

  The glowing panel floated in front of him again, and Sol swiped at it experimentally. To his surprise, it responded, sliding away to reveal a more detailed breakdown. 

  Current Abilities: 

  Aura of Fortitude (Rank I): Emits an aura that passively boosts physical resilience by 10% for you and nearby allies. 

“Alright,” Sol muttered, running a hand through his hair. “This is either the weirdest fever dream I’ve ever had, or I just fell into some kind of crazy video game.” 

  A soft rustle in the bushes pulled him from his thoughts. He froze, gripping the branch again, but the movement didn’t seem threatening this time. From the underbrush emerged a small creature, no larger than a rabbit, with shimmering fur that glowed faintly in the sunlight. It cocked its head at him, large, curious eyes blinking slowly. 

  “Well, aren’t you a cute little thing,” Sol said, lowering the branch. The creature chirped in response, hopping closer. It sniffed at the air, then nudged his leg with its tiny nose. 

  Sol couldn’t help but chuckle. “Guess not everything here wants to kill me.” 

The interface flickered again, displaying a new message. 

Companion Discovered: Lumibloom Hatchling. 

Do you wish to bond? 

[Yes] [No] 

  He stared at the screen, then down at the glowing little creature. “A companion, huh?” he mused. “Well, I could use a friend in this crazy place.” 

  He tapped [Yes], and the creature chirped excitedly. A faint light enveloped it, then surged toward him, settling in his chest. A warmth spread through him, and he felt an inexplicable connection, as though a thread now tied their souls together. 

  The interface updated. 

  Companion Bonded: Lumibloom Hatchling 

Abilities Unlocked: Luminescent Heal (Passive) 

  Gradually restores health over time when companion is nearby. 

“Well, aren’t you useful?” Sol said with a grin, scratching the creature’s head. “Guess you’re stuck with me now.” 

  The Lumibloom chirped again, hopping up to perch on his shoulder. Sol glanced at the horizon, where a dense forest loomed in the distance. Somewhere beyond those trees lay answers—about this world, this system, and why he was here. 

  “Alright, Zephyros,” Sol muttered, tightening his grip on the branch. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” 

  With his new companion at his side, he set off toward the unknown. 

Part 1

Fire rained down from the sky. It was so sudden. One moment he was playing with his sister. Next moment, his entire world rocked. Then the sound of explosions hit him like sledgehammer. He took his sister's hand and scrambled towards safety.. or what he thought was safety.

Part 2

The necromancer kept staring at the man's soul desperately trying to leave its cage. The heart had given up a while back, only the soul had remained entrapped within by the sheer force of the necromancer's power. It desperately wanted to leave its mortal prison at last, but the power of the necromancer's will held it in place.

"Why even try," wondered the necromancer, "Just let it go embrace freedom." His face remained impassive though, his concentration steady as usual. The woman who happened to be the man's wife, had been weeping silently holding his hand. Now she spoke up. "Is there no other way? He's suffering, we all can see it. Does it have to be this way?"

Every face in the room except the man's turned towards the necromancer. At that moment, he felt a sudden rush of power. Here was where the actual power vested, in the knowledge of his art, in the depth of his mind. The most powerful man in the country was lying helpless in his seat of power and only he, the necromancer, had the power to decide his fate, and that of the country. He thought of the people dying outside, innocent people who never had anything to do with the war, reduced to mere pawns as they gave their lives for a regime that treated them like livestock. He thought back to his childhood in the ghetto, where they lived like outcasts, worse than livestock. He thought about the people he knew back there, all scattered to dust and ashes, only their memories lingering like faint redness after sunset. He could change it all, with one slip of his hand, one break in his concentration. But what good would it do? Who would replace him? He thought about the dying man's brother, deployed in a war on the frontlines. A cruel man who would not think twice before crushing his own people down like insects. A man feared even by his own soldiers. A man who would replace his brother as ruler should he fail in his duty. He closed his eyes, cleared his throat and opened his eyes again. All of them were still staring at him, their faces ashen, their eyes hollow. It was as if time itself had stopped right there inside the room.

"There is another way," he managed to get out. "All I need to do is a soul cleansing. His soul has been corrupted by his ailing body, but if I let it escape for a while and if the medbots continue doing their work in the meantime to repair his heart, then it can come back to a new rejuvenated body. But the timing has to be perfect," he continued. "We cannot let the soul stay away from the physical body for too long or else it will be impossible to bring it back".

"How long?" asked the Chief Aide, the man who was currently running the government in place of the ailing president.

"Two minutes is the ideal time, but we can stretch it to five, but not more than that, " he replied, consciously aware of the distant sound of bombings.

"Do it," said the aide. "We have to evacuate any time now. I will get the planes ready."

"Wait," cried out a minister, "Can't we do it while on the plane. Surely the necromancer could..."

"It doesn't work that way," he interrupted. "In the higher planes, souls travel more freely. It will be difficult to reign his soul in at those altitudes. It has to be here and it has to be now. Everyone clear out. I need to concentrate."

One by one, they all filed out. Only the wife remained, and the doctor controlling the medbots. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was doing this. There was no coming back now. He thought one last time about the poor souls dying in the ghetto and then started chanting softly.

Part 3

He was flying in the sky. How was that possible? Last thing he remembered was him running with his sister towards the bunker before another explosion upended his world again. Where was he now? He started looking around frantically. He had to save his sister. He looked towards the ground only to have his vision obscured by dust and smoke. He tried to get down to the ground but instead started to get drifted away from the chaos and destruction. He looked up instead. A colossal palace seemed to be glowing in the distance, beckoning him frantically. It was the palace of the ruler, he vaguely seemed to remember, but he had never seen it. The ghetto was too far away from the city proper and the palace was in the centre of the city. He started hearing a rhythmic voice in his head. Something or someone from the palace seemed to be calling him, urging him towards it. He could not resist the pull however much he wanted. He realised he was leaving his sister behind, but somehow in the back of his mind, he knew he was dead and so was she. He gave in. Maybe that was where all tormented souls go. To the palace which controlled their lives when they were alive. Maybe the cycle continued after death also.

Part 4

The medbots stopped all of a sudden. The necromancer let go of his power and slowly opened his eyes. Everything was as it appeared before the soul cleansing ritual. He looked at the clock mounted on the wall. Five minutes. He had cut it close, but it had paid off. The heart was back in shape and the soul was back in place. He breathed a sigh of relief and then opened his inner eye to examine the soul more closely. The cleansing had been accomplished successfully in the realm of the souls, now came the reattaching part. If it went wrong, there could be all sorts of difficulties. He had seen people waking up with no memory, or with completely different personality because naive necromancers had not paid enough attention to the reattaching. They tend to forget cleansing was only the first part. The reattaching was equally as important. He started examining the soul now to get a grip on it and almost flinched back. It was a different soul. How was it possible? The palace had soul barriers all around to prevent errant souls from coming in. As the palace necromancer, he knew each and every person who was sick or dying, each and every soul which had a chance of escaping. This soul, as he examined it properly, had come from outside, most probably from the area of bombardment. He felt a cold shiver run down his spine. Had the the palace barrier been breached? He had a tour with the palace magician the previous day only, and there had been no reports of any fray in the barrier.

Suddenly without his will the soul started getting attached to the body on its own. Realisation washed over him in an instant. The body, whoever the soul had belonged to while alive, had been a necromancer.

In some time forgotten, an ancient power wrought walls of crystal in a great forest. 

What purpose these walls had; none knew. Mayhaps they were made as part of some plaything for those old gods; or a bauble for a servant; or some trifling test of power.

The walls wended about the trees but stood higher than them all. They girded dells of flowering bluebells, long sweet grasses and many an oak tree.

Birds and winged insects could fly over them as they would, but no creature of the earth lived within - save for a single girl.

Who she was, and whence she came - again none knew. Mayhaps she was part of the making of that place. Her mind held no memory of a time before; nor did it hold the image of any other human. She learned her shape, her differences, from reflections in the sunlit river.

She was a thing defined by the unknown, the shadows of her origin. From what breast did she sup as a babe? What guardians attended her beyond the boughs of the trees sheltering her from the sun?

Her earliest memory was the smell of spring grass; the dragonflies among reeds. Naked as a chick, she fed off fruits, nuts and greens; and she grew vibrant and healthy. She loved all the insects and birds that flitted through her fields. She learned much, each from each - but she learned most from the butterflies.

Butterflies are strange creatures. Alone they are dim sparks of awareness. As they gather in rabbles and flights, these sparks accrue, the fire grows, and their intellect is empowered. Ever the gatherings of these creatures is small - so that their minds are never greater than that of a newt or frog. 

The butterflies came to love her. They gathered about her in ever greater numbers.

“What do you love most of all, Beloved?” They spoke with flits of their wings, with delicate stampings on the glass walls. 

“The trees, and the river; and the bluebells flowering in summer; and the red berries of spring.”

Their laughter rose in a breeze; for they knew that she loved their many coloured wings, their dances in the air.

*“*Where do you go when the winter snow comes, and cold frost blankets the grass?” She asked.

The myriad wings beat faster, shuddering the air.

“Beloved. The leaffall is the herald of our deaths. When the forests blush; we birth our children and sing our memories to them. They're dreaming minds engulf them and they learn the secrets of our race. Then we make our last flight across the Lethe, leaving our memories in her depths. We reach the shores of limbo and fly forever among the godless.”

And then Autumn would come, and Winter would blow. The butterflies would disappear.

But their children would rise in Spring, and fly atop the glass walls. They would sing of its prisoner; and others would join - so that the throng of wings grew year on year.

“What lies beyond the sunset and before the dawn?” She asked them. And they told her the secrets of the morning light that fears the Beast of Night, the sun slipping beneath the waves to escape its jaws. 

“Do you dream as butterflies do?” And she told them of her dreams where she walked in the heavens and spoke with the stars, and learned their true names. But she did not dream as they dreamed. For their dreams were as a river - ever flowing and renewed through generations. And the dreams of Men are like clear pools formed from rain and lasting for but a small while.

And the butterflies would depart with Autumn. But the next year they would return in greater numbers.

And as she grew old her thoughts strayed away from trees and flowers, to the world beyond her glass prison.

“What lies beyond these walls of pure crystal? How far does the earth stretch about us?”

“Beloved. The trees stretch far on all sides. But they fail, and then there are open fields in which great beasts graze. Beasts with a semblance of yourself are their friends. At night they light fires and call out to each other.”

And the next year her womanhood flowered. And she looked at the hart and the doe with a new wonder. She called to them, asking after their strange love. But they looked at her and disappeared from view - long ago they had learned to fear the sons and daughters of men.

When the butterflies returned she asked them if there was a beast like her; but in form of the hart.

*“*We have knowledge of them. They are the fire-lighters, the ore-melters, the woodcutters. The forest holds the hart, as the sky holds us. But they are held by nothing, but make of the world as they will it.”

At that time, the butterflies thronging about her were legion.

The next year, they came in such numbers that the forest was more wing than leaf. And while she waited for them all the long year, she wondered after the warm shape that such a beast would take.

 *“*Could you bring one of those creatures to me?” She asked.

*“*Yes, Beloved.”

And a huntsman who prowled the fringes of the wood for game, saw an army of wings descend about him. He was confounded, as if waylaid by a blizzard. Losing his way, he became fearful of the beating wings. Reaching out his hands, he crushed the flying bodies, destroyed the small flights. But they flew in myriads, and his murdering hands tired of the killings. He lost hope and wandered where they seemed to guide him. Ever he lamented mocking the priests warnings of the forest; now he was ensnared by its demons - to what end?

Then the butterflies parted and he saw before him towering walls of crystal. 

He forgot his fear, and touched the shining walls. Beguiled, he did not see the girl - now a woman grown to beauty - gazing at him from the other side.

She looked upon him and felt a stirring within her. All the forces of the wood had moulded her into a pattern near whole, yet she suffered a small dearth. Now, she saw this creatures’ bright eyes and weathered face, and she knew he held an excess that would make her whole.She strode out of the trees’ shadows and spoke:

*“*Beloved.”

The butterflies heard, and blew a gale with their wings. It shuddered the trees and set their leaves to fluttering.

The huntsmans heard her, looked upon her. But she spoke the parlance of the trees, birds and waters; and he could not understand her words.

She pressed her hands, breasts, face against the crystal and spoke again.

And he saw her in her nakedness and drew back.

*“*No. You are no woman. No child of man born. For what purpose did you draw me here?”

And all she could do was call to him; and he recoiled in fear as the gale of the butterflies fell about him.

“By the power of God, be rebuked. Witch. Demon.”

His lips curled like the wolf in affray. His eyes furrowed like the wild cats when they duel. And she knew that he hated her. And it broke the pattern inside her. For never had anything hated her.

She screamed then; and shed her first tears.

The huntsman fled into the forest.

She was alone in her agony.

And the butterflies settled about her.

*She wept; and they crooned with their wings, and said: “*Beloved. Beloved. Beloved.” For even in their great mind they could not comprehend the nature of her sorrow.

But the sight of the huntsman had changed the girl. Her domain of water, rock and leaf - once a palace in her mind, had now become a prison.

“Please,” she said to the butterflies, “help me escape this place.”

And they clustered about her and blew their wings and said:

“The walls were wrought long ago, by a power unmatched save for the White Christ. This destruction is beyond the work of any beast.”

And her weeping was renewed. She struck the walls and screamed and cursed them with the first curses she had spoken.

*“*Break! Shatter! By the power of Sirius and Arcturus and Claunt, be broken.” and thus she cursed them by the names of all the stars from her dreams.

And the butterflies rose in a grim chorus. They gathered together like a great storm cloud, and a shadow settled over the forest, so that beastlings took to ground and the birdsong was stilled.

“We cannot break these walls. But we love you moreso than our own children, and so we will give you this. There are so many of us here. Tear the wings from our bodies. Place them together, and we will fix them together with our sweet spit. Make thus, wings greater than Fafnirs’. We will set them to your back, and you may take flight over the walls.”

And so they spread their wings before her. And she tore them free even as her tears watered their bodies and the forest grass. She wept for the butterflies that loved her; and even as she tore the wings from them they stamped out their agapē:

“Beloved. Beloved. Beloved.”

She wept for herself, for she was eternally changed.

“Beloved. Beloved”

They spat and wrought their myriad winglets into great pinions.

“Beloved”

They ran their soft jaws over her shoulders and opened her flesh. There they sowed their great work.

Beloved…

And then she could hear them no more. The butterflies lay dead or dying. What little of their number that remained whole had fallen silent, and nothing could coax them to sound or flight.

The gibbous moon shone bright above the forest glade, the corpses of the butterflies gleamed in the silver light. The woman stood in the midst of this desolation, and she knew peace. She beat the mighty pinions upon her shoulders and arose into the night. 

Up.

Up; and before the waxing moon, her body formed a shadow like a smear of blood on a misplaced thaler.

Up she went, until the music of the stars surrounded her. Then she called out to them by their true names.

“Raum! Vine! Bifrons!” Those ones came and many more; and they spoke in their weighty tongue such that the clear sky rang with thunder.

Hello all, I am looking for critique on a random story idea I had. It's a modern setting, where gods, heroes, mythology, and creatures of every religion/pantheon exist on Earth. Basically long ago, all the gods were at war on Earth, and eventually they realized that they shouldn't make humans suffer the consequences for a fight they aren't involved in, and made a law that no god can interfere with Earth, and any who do are punished. Think Percy Jackson but with a lot more gods. Normal humans are kept unaware by the gods via magic, but some humans are either naturally aware or made aware via magical awakening. The most exceptional of awakened humans can be made a host for a hero/god or exceptional figure of these myths. Magical weapons/items from the various mythologies exist in this world as well. I'm not too far into developing it, but maybe the characters stop the endgame for the mythologies, ex: Ragnarok, titans escaping Tartarus, flooding of the world, awakening of Apophis, etc. Sorry if this sounds poorly written, clumped or lacking a lot of details, it's just not fleshed out enough yet.

• Origin

Saveara is an Oni (human/devil species) that was born in Vanaheim (the theocratic homeland of Scorpio's faith) to her parents in a monastery as they where the masters of the monastery. She lived with her parents and the other hundreds of people in the monastery while they weren't blood they were kin. She was a kind person with a deep compassion for the weak, she is also a prodigy in martial arts and magic specifically Necromancy as she made a Risen at 8 years old, that Risen wasn't bound by control and stayed out of love for his "mother".

At 11 the "Cromwell Massacre" occured, the Iron Angels (Asphodelian Templars, clad in armor, & weilding holy magic) murdered every man, woman, and child. Saveara watched as her little brothers and sisters had glaives & swords plunged in their bodies, her magic was nothing compared to the Templars, even her own parents lost their lives. She was able to escape through a portal but the destruction of the monastery made it unstable and it sent her to a random location Gardenia in the midst of war with the Darkin, the unstable portal also scrambled her inner essence and thus locked away alot of her innate power.

• Time In The Garden City

Having no where to go she was brought into the orphanage where the headmaster Lady Ethelia, picked her up by her horns, and tossed her down the stairs and locked her in the basement. She was left to rot and starve in the black mold infested basement, her pain and rage built in her until she met a demon cloaked in black sludge, but it had the shape of a young boy, named Morigan. The demon didn't attack rather made a friend from Saveara and taught her some arcane magic, not a lot but enough to transmute soul energy into magic energy, transmute magic energy into food and water, and tried to lead her from rage and vengeance.

Eventually Nio Olgrim (youngest son of the Olgrim Dynasty) found the two and let them out where they got closer as friends but Nio & Saveara would show signs of a deeper potential for love. Nio was a prodigy wizard like Saveara but prefered Evocation (elemental energy magic) and had a distain for Enchantment (a school of magic involving controlling emotions, memories, and the mind) just like her, but Nio was born with a weak heart & life force. During a battle in the city streets Nio, Saveara, & Morigan where separated. Once Saveara came back to the orphan she saw an Arch Wizard named Forneus having an argument with Ethelia. They argued over how she was supposed to keep Morigan in the basement until he came to collect him but he got out to radiate dread and bring in more trouble, she tried to plead her case but Forneus murdered her, his Miracle "Materia" made her bloat and explode all over the basement.

Forneus knew Saveara's potential and asked her to become his apprentice. He spoke of how Morigan wasn't a friend as he taught minimal magic, was a demon made in a lab, spread dread to the populace (negative emotions lures eldritch demons), and tried to steer her away from her justice (exacting her vengeance on Asphodel). He offered to show her spells & technology that even the best in her era don't know but she would have to leave with him now leaving Nio as he is a growing prodigy like her and can't be distracted. She left with Forneus to Asphodel even though it broke her heart to leave Nio with no goodbye.

• Time In The City Of Purity

In Asphodel Saveara had to follow a few rules

1) Necromancy is very illegal so she could absolutely never use it in public, so she began practicing illusion magic
2) Oni aren't allowed on the surface of Asphodel's capital city Caduceus and had to make an illusory veil around her body now taking a new human identity for her time in the city.
3) She was to keep her hands clean of blood until the masterstroke was to be enacted 
4) She was to practice her skills in magic for 6 hours a day & to aid in Forneus's experiments.

During her time in Asphodel, the divine magic was getting weaker as Virgo was leaving her people, disgusted with their societal shift ever since the massacre on Saveara's home. Paladins (main military & law enforcement) where getting weaker in their spells. While the Iron Angels where punished by Virgo, their magic revoked, exiled to a remote island, and made infertile, Saveara worked with Forneus to rot & destroy the culture that made them.

Forneus was hired by Aerafel (the leader of Asphodel society) to remedy the drainage of magic and Forneus made Vigor. Vigor is a drug made from thick liquid life energy sourced from technology his people made eons ago, it augments the physicality, healing factor, and thinking of the user, however Vigor leaves dark veins on the person, and is very addictive, if you stop your body will begin to degrade and hallucinations can occur the severity depends on how strong your pre-existing trauma is. Saveara under the new name Alexa would aid in the production and distribution of Vigor to mainly the Templars but the sometimes to civilians as well. Forneus got to further perfect his craft in the Phlegethon Citadel (a mega prison full of test subjects living and dead). To further sow doubt and discord in Caduceus Forneus would use ichor on corpses to make various Tehom hybrid monsters.

While Saveara had to hide her form and integrate with the culture that took her family watching them slowly rot with Vigor and Tehom attacks made it worth it. However down in the slums where the Oni live in squalor she met a little Oni girl named Susie, her father locked away in the Phlegethon Citadel. She felt a kinship with the slums and would use her normal look down there to offer aid to the people of the slums.

• Beginning Of Redemption

7 years went by, and Saveara had grown immensely powerful over the years. Hundreds of people have died from Vigor usage and the negativity brought by such long suffering was only one part of the masterstroke. The Darkin have been trying to destroy the entire planet and Nelio came to Asphodel with his sister & her adventuring party. Darkin Royalty Dregen & Maya have been trying to recruit the people of the slums, and Saveara didn't want to see the people involved in a fight they can't win. The two have been working together but Saveara remained in her human guise to not complicate their objective even though getting closer to him in this form was breaking her heart, despite leaving for his benefit she hates the turmoil it brought him. Eventually after a fight Nio learns that Saveara was the illusionist he was working with and the two rekindle their love with Nio using his genius in magic & inventing to reforge the Kamas Saveara left in Gardenia, rechristened to the Burial Blades.

Now ready to work alongside Nio and Gardenia she worked to thwart a plot to kill everyone in the slums with a nerve gas that only works on Oni. She worked hard to get everyone out but she passed out from the gas. Forneus found her and figured that she had outlived her usefulness. He was on his way to increase the effectiveness of Vigor and reached a breakthrough with a previous test subject so instead of blowing her to pieces instantly he gave her the same procedure believing it would make her either dead or a useful monstrous tools. The procedure placed enough Vigor to kill her painfully, it felt like lava surging through her veins but her willpower allowed her to survive and be transformed.

The life giving substance increased her physicality and soul energy reserves, her strength, speed, and durability have increased dramatically, her body can heal & regenerate, her soul energy reserves where enough to fuel spells for longer. The side effect of her transformation was increased hunger to keep up her physicality & the Vigor messed with her mind as it stimulates cells not only in her muscles but in her brain, should her heart rate get too high she will experience vivid hallucinations of the Cromwell Massacre, her strength will increase in this state but she can't tell friend from foe. After this she used her new found power to aid Nio, in saving Asphodel as she could let love take the place of malice & vengeance. After freeing everyone who was wrongfully imprisoned in the Phlegethon Citadel & aided in Virgo having faith in her people she left the land and uses her Necromancy to aid Nio & Gardenia in their war against the Darkin.

Ok so I am trying to figure out a plan for my characters exploiting a weakness. Basically it's a dad, his son, and daughter being stalked by an old lady and an invisible creature.

The weaknesses known at this point are

1. Cannot go on sacred ground
2. Cannot be seen by dieties
3. Invisible creature can be seen by the daughter
4. No ranged attacks are available.

The family is trapped in a temple unable to leave safely. The enemies are targeting the daughter as being able to be seen is the most dangerous. They can get help from a high priest or priestest but cannot be healed.

The creature is intelligent and has some weird ability to disappear by walking behind stuff. The old lady has no serious powers. It's early on so magical abilities aren't in play yet

“Remove your leg!” Commander Protector Atwood’s voice cuts through the wind whipping across the airship’s deck.

I watch as Old Man Ambrose trembles before him, and my mechanical legs itch with phantom pain. They call these brutes “protectors,” though I’ve never seen them protect anyone. They’re just Lord Solomon’s trained dogs, and Atwood’s the meanest of the pack. Give him a list of people to punish, and he’ll work through it like he’s checking off items at the market—methodical, emotionless, brutal.

“But sir, please,” Ambrose begs, his voice cracking. “I’m going to die out there anyway. Without my leg, I can’t—”

The airship lurches left, and Ambrose stumbles forward into the commander. Atwood’s hand shoots out, wrapping around the old man’s throat. He yanks him close, and even from ten paces away, I can smell the commander’s breath—like he’d been eating skitterer dung and washing it down with mud juice from Ashen Falls’ sediment pools. The thought of Atwood eating dung brings a flicker of joy to my otherwise grim situation.

“You know the law, old man!” Atwood towers over Ambrose, his head looming like a boulder about to break free from a cliff face. The old man’s neck bends backward at a sickening angle, held in place only by Atwood’s iron grip. After five endless seconds, the commander shoves him back into our crowd of fellow transgressors. None of us move to help. We can’t. We’re all prisoners on this damned airship, sailing toward our punishment.

The muscle in Atwood’s jaw twitches. “Now remove your leg, or I’ll remove it for you and take the other one as well!”

When Ambrose nearly collapses trying to undo the leather straps of his proth, I rush forward to help. His smile of gratitude is hopeless but genuine. My fingers work quickly at the familiar mechanism—undo the straps, disconnect the muscle sensors, quarter turn to the right. The prosthetic releases with a soft hiss of escaping air.

“You all know the law!” Atwood bellows. “If you’ve committed a level 2D crime, remove your proths and toss them over now. I will not repeat the command!”

I turn and add Ambrose’s leg to the growing heap at Atwood’s feet—a graveyard of mechanical limbs leaking brown fluid through the deck boards. Thirteen of us stand here, all convicted of level two crimes. But I’m lucky, if you can call it that. My crime was only level 2B, which means I get to keep my legs. Not many nineteen-year-olds have two prosthetic limbs, and no one has proths like mine. Papa made sure of that.

My proths are more than just legs—they’re my canvas, currently painted a deep obsidian with intricate patterns of copper and brass gears etched into the surface. The designs flow from my thighs down to where my trek boots conceal the mechanical workings of my feet and ankles. But these boots hide more than gears—inside the left sole rests a five-inch spey-point blade I forged myself, using skills Papa taught me.

The knife isn’t my only hidden tool. My brown leather top has reinforced seams containing surgical thread. Two needles nest inside my suspender buckles, and a two-foot length of death wire winds through my dark braid, disguised among leather cords. In the Dread Wastes, anything can become a weapon—or save your life.

Commander Atwood pulls a directive from his black leather trench coat and unrolls it with practiced ceremony. “Transgressors! Listen up!” His eyes scan the parchment. “You have been convicted of level two crimes. The penalty is banishment to the Dread Wastes. In addition, level 2D crimes require the surrender of proths. Punishment will be rendered in groups of thirteen on the first day following the waxing crescent moon. The group will be provided with four weapons and four tankards of water. If any person survives the Dread Wastes and returns to Eden, it will be taken as a sign of forgiveness by the Great Creator. Therefore, your Lord, Solomon the Merciful, will pardon your crimes and welcome you home.”

What he doesn’t say is that no one has ever returned to Eden. Half of us will die within minutes of touching the ground. The rest will succumb to thirst, baldagaars, or worse—the packs of grays that hunt in the darkness. Our only hope lies in reaching one of the scattered outpost settlements. I intend to be among the survivors, not just because I want to live, but because revenge burns hotter than the Dread Wastes’ sun in my heart.

The punishment system is carefully engineered for maximum suffering. Thirteen—the cursed number. The waxing crescent moon means seven nights of pure darkness ahead. Four weapons and four tankards of water for thirteen people—barely enough for a day, designed to turn us against each other before the Wastes can claim us. Even the entertainment value of our desperation was calculated.

Atwood tucks the directive back inside his coat and clasps his hands behind his back. The only sound is his boots clomping against the wooden deck as he paces. At least the open-air design of the transport ship allows a breeze to cut through the suffocating tension. It’s a standard three-balloon vessel, hovering just high enough to avoid trees, buildings, and in the Dread Wastes—baldagaars.

We’re crowded at the aft end, separated from the Royals by a brown canvas stretched from port to starboard. The wind carries fragments of their laughter and conversation—the same pompous garble I’ve heard countless times during my unauthorized visits to Eden’s Forbidden Zones.

Those excursions were always a game to me—one mouse against many cats. I’d start by launching a mud ball at a protector’s chest or head, watching them give chase while I slipped past their abandoned posts. The lobcocks never realized I was leading them away, too focused on catching the mysterious troublemaker to notice the real purpose behind my distractions.

For seven years, I played this game, gathering knowledge about the Royals that they probably didn’t know themselves. Until that one root caught my foot, sending me crashing through a hedge into a Royal matron. She was already half-drunk on kiju, but that didn’t matter. At least they never connected me to the years of protector harassment. I claimed I was chasing a rat, said I hadn’t noticed crossing into a Forbidden Zone since no guards were posted.

They convicted me of a B-level crime. Being my second documented offense pushed it to level 2B, landing me on this forsaken death ship. If they’d known the truth—the real extent of my transgressions—they’d have marked me level 2D or even level three. Direct insurrection against Lord Solomon is rare; I’ve only heard of two cases. Both ended badly.

Atwood’s smug grin sweeps across our group. “When the ship lands, you will exit in single file via the starboard ramp. Once you reach the ground, you are not to move until you hear the powder shot.” He pulls his blunderbuss from its holster, holding it high. “Weapons and water will be dropped fifty paces away. If anyone moves before the shot, I will personally put a bullet in your head. Once again, you are here on your own accord. No one forced you to commit the crimes…”

Papa’s arm wraps around me as his voice drops to a whisper in my ear. “Neeka, honey. Listen to me. Do not go for the weapons or water. Do you understand?”

“But, Papa,” I whisper back, keeping my voice just as low. “I’m faster than anyone here. I can—”

“No, Neeka! The protectors can’t know your proths have been enhanced. They will shoot you.”

He’s right about the shooting, but wrong about my chances. These airships max out at twenty-four on a windless day like today, and that’s after they build up speed. I can hit forty in an instant. If I can dodge their first volley, I’ll be out of range before they can reload. We need that water to survive. I could grab it, keep running, meet up with Papa later…

“Take heed!” Atwood shouts.

The protectors snap to attention as the separator canvas pulls aside. My fellow transgressors drop quickly to their knees, lowering their heads. I take my time, using the excuse of steadying Old Man Ambrose with his missing leg. But I would have been last anyway. I have no respect for the Royals.

Especially not for him.

Dennis lay motionless in Summer’s bed, one far-flung hand touching hers. Close to the side of the bed was a silent alarm clock, its gently glowing display showing how early in the morning it was. The blinds were half drawn so the light would wake them when it was time, but at the moment the sky was the darkest possible shade of red. Nothing moved beyond the thin wall of trees planted by the window.

Dennis slept uneasily. The world was preying on his mind, and he could see no end to the dark half-truths he pictured in his dreams. At first all he knew was colour, spiralling through his mind in a confusing kaleidoscope of misinformation and hallucination, until at last his world resolved and he looked up into a sky made of thunder.

There was no longer a mattress beneath him, nor any sort of duvet or sheet. His head was spinning and his mouth was dry, and when Dennis pushed himself up on his elbows his stomach turned. He found himself lying on hard gritty tarmac, between two hunched shadows to either side. He thought, I know this is a dream and doesn’t have to make sense, but this feels worse than any other nightmare. There was no answer as to why.

He stood robotically, functioning more upon strict instruction than human impulse, and took a long breath. The air was dry, rasping down his throat, and tasted of ozone and machine oil; more than one thing was wrong here. Looking up into the air, Dennis saw for the second time the ruin that was the sky, and paced out a slow circle on the cracked tarmac underfoot as he stared around. Finally he knew where he stood.

Over the roof of the burnt-out taxipod beside him loomed a shattered black oblong, wreathed in smoke and burning with a thousand bright pinpricks. Like a great jagged finger the Headquarters tower thrust itself up from a charred base strewn with chunks and blocks of smouldering metal, the wounds in its chamfered façade reminding him of moth-eaten clothing. Around it stood the charcoal skeletons of the numerous trees that had been planted around the tower, some still crackling as they smouldered.

Somehow the damage was known to him, or at least his eyes were prepared for the vision, because Dennis felt no wrench of horrific sadness; all he felt was a slow dull misery, as if all along he had known this would come to pass. He looked down at himself, and noticed with an odd detachment that he was in uniform – not his normal blue, but ragged crimson. Like Edgar used to wear, he thought, long may he rest. Whatever had happened was beyond his understanding until he stumbled slowly forwards and onto the plaza proper.

Where once neat gold lines and bright block colours had dictated traffic and personnel flows, instead slashes of carbon and lumps of shredded rubble littered the vast grey apron laid out before the Headquarters tower. Abandoned transporters, pods and cars were everywhere – some merely undamaged, some with visible dents and cracks, and some nothing but burnt-out shells. Dennis came close enough for the fumes to catch in the back of his throat, and he detected the unmistakeable iron tang of plasmafire.

Looking around further, he saw several of the defence grid’s pop-up cannon in the ready position, their slender gun barrels trained at the sky. As Dennis squinted, trying to examine them closer, he saw they were only another sign of total defeat; on inspection the turrets were discoloured, their carbide armour melted and their sensors reduced to slag. Taken out with precision, he thought, or caught on pause. Could this have been that much of a one-way fight?

He walked on, from time to time pausing to stare up at the immense black shadow that had been the Headquarters tower. His feelings seemed to be herding him towards the front access, so he went with the flow and headed right for the entry ramps, cutting across the broken roadways and kerbs in his path. It was by a crossing that he found the first body, and it stopped him in his tracks.

Dennis was no stranger to death, but the simple brutality of an attack so close to home came as more of a shock than any sledgehammer blow. It was a slow-motion blow; he had known he would see death here, had been preparing for it ever since he had woken to such a livid sky, but the vicious reality of it was still unexpected.

He knelt awkwardly, the jagged stones of the sidewalk digging into his knees, and reached out for the young man’s limp shoulder before realising the uselessness of the gesture. Dead; so obviously dead that I – I shouldn’t waste time here. The thought came suddenly, unasked for and callous in its disrespect – but his subconscious was right. He couldn’t stay here, he had to move on. He had to face the rest of the carnage, as respect and payment.

After slowly standing, Dennis moved hesitantly forwards, almost dragging his heels. His mouth was dry as he walked.  

Closer to the tower he could hear the crackle of flames high above, though the undamaged sections of black glass hid everything happening within. It seemed the building had withstood the initial attack, but Dennis wondered – at what cost? Evacuation would have made all of us targets.

He briefly turned back towards the city, the scarred leather of his boots creaking under the strain, and raised a hand to shield his eyes. As he tried to take in the ruination, Dennis’s emotions passed from disbelief to confusion to a sickening emptiness. They hit us where it hurts. All of us. It felt like he had taken a blade to the stomach.

The horizon was one long wall of smoke, cut by fires too numerous to be counted. Formerly, Dennis could have named a hundred skyscrapers by sight alone, and had been familiar with a great deal more; now, those names were nothing but markers for a hundred towering gravestones. When it washed over him, the wind from the city was filthy with grey ash and black soot. Where previously life had flooded the Imperial capital, only silence reigned.

Weak at the knees, Dennis stared back at the distant entrance to the tower. Smoke was drifting upward from the top of the bronze portico, leaking out from shattered windows behind the huge cross-braces that made up the base portion of the tower; much lower down, by the serried ramps leading to the portico, the sight of a collection of scattered human shapes turned his blood cold. He thought, this cannot be a dream. It is too real.

At the top of the formerly grand ramps, Dennis came to a dead stop. Sudden dizziness washed over him as he stared down at the tableau of human agony spread out in front of the doors like a ritual offering. Initially he could not take it all in, until he recognised their faces and it all came crashing down.

One day you suddenly realised that you have the superpower to reset the world's settings over night! So only positive settings are allowed, can be freaky but only postive ones without any disguiss of cruelty! May be just flood me with all the freaky things you swear inside secretly wishing to change these things in the world! Also this settings ability seems overwhelming cause it includes economy,politics, poverty, environment, queer problems, crimes and corruption etc! OMG 😭😭 Anyways, would love to know what this world really wants in all aspects! What is it that matters to you in your life, that particular change would make your life in peace!

I just got this freaky idea and really really wanted to go through the trouble of creating such a story! I've tried building up the world but it seemed too complicated 😕😞

For the story I'm writing, the characters have arrived at a castle which will be the setting for this chapter.

The story is set in 1704, on a fictional island in the Celtic Sea which has historic ties to Ireland, England, France, and Spain.

The castle itself is a Medieval castle perched on a cliffside overlooking the ocean which in the late 1500s/early 1600s was renovated to serve as a summer residence for the island's royal family. I've tried looking up some resources on castles, but I'm making myself go cross-eyed trying to figure out how to describe this building and its grounds. Is anyone able to give me some pointers or maybe even toward some sort of castle layout generator or something? Everything I find keeps describing either how castles were set up during the middle ages, or describes what appear to be just plain old mansions.

I've looked at stuff about Chepstow Castle, since that's a castle on a cliff overlooking water, and Windsor Castle, because that's a castle that was renovated into a residence, but I feel like I'm not...getting it?

Hi everyone! Im not sure if this is allowed and I'll be cross posting to a few groups just in case. I've had a story in my head and I've tried my hand at writing for a few years but never really let anyone read anything I've written. I feel pretty good about this story I've been working on and I've got it all typed out but I'd really love some readers opinions of it. I don't know if this would be a book 1 or a part 1, but I have ideas of a whole series planned out that I've written a small chunk of. It's definitely fantasy romance, I would say 18+ because there's not much spice but a little heat in this first part. If you'd be willing to read it and leave me notes or thoughts I would really appreciate it!!! Just please be kind 🩷🩷🩷 It is about a fairy named Kaia and a human named Alexander, oppressive laws, forbidden love https://docs.google.com/document/d/1S9r9-Jxo0GcB7Z1Kn9Sur19iYyvjiQgKgntRfJ5Fkw0/edit?usp=sharing

Hello! I am looking for Beta readers for a nearly finished adult fantasy manuscript that currently sits at roughly 113k words. I am looking for feedback in all aspects including, sensitivity readers, plot, and structure, and flow. I am also willing to look at your work if we can find a common interest in story. There are some dark themes so trigger warnings include; death, graphic violence, including violence against women and children, and implied sexual assault.

Book Blurb:

In a world forsaken by the Gods, one woman must reclaim their power—and her heart—before darkness consumes everything.

Lenox has always carried the burden of her divine gifts, a constant reminder of the Gods’ absence from the mortal world. When dark creatures rise to threaten her realm, she can no longer stand idly by. Determined to confront the very beings who abandoned humanity, Lenox embarks on a perilous quest to find the absent Gods and demand answers.

As she journeys through treacherous landscapes, she forms a fragile alliance with a mysterious God whose past is as turbulent as her own. Their connection ignites a fierce passion, but trust is hard to come by when dark forces lurk at every turn and the fate of both realms hangs in the balance.

With betrayal and danger looming, Lenox must navigate the complexities of desire and loyalty while battling the creatures that seek to shatter her world.

In a gripping tale of resilience, can Lenox reignite the divine spark and heal the rift between Gods and mortals, or will her heart's desire lead to their ultimate downfall?

Please DM me here if you are interested in Beta reading or swapping. I currently use Campfire writing technology but willing to find a software that is easy for the Beta reader! Thank you!

A constitutional scholar is betrayed by her friends and contemporaries to the secret police for political convenience. Her ideas are either too radical or simply don't fit the revisionist history the government is pushing. Either way, as she fights for her life and runs from the authorities, her only friend is the ghost/psychopomp of a revolution era author who was disgraced in the exact same way 300 years ago and died in poverty and obscurity.

Ghosts and spirits break down into their core components - habits and thoughts - when people die and are reabsorbed into nearby wood and stone. People build altars and effigies to loved ones to keep their spirits close: imagine Mexico's Day of the Dead mixed with Buddhist hungry ghosts. Ghosts can be completely resummoned and gain ego-identity when the living help them rebuild their memories.

I want to explore how revisionist history and core memories both affect our self-image, both as a community and as individuals. Including maybe having my psychopomp's sense of self be distorted by the revisionist history so that my FML is even losing her only friend to it.

The more lighthearted, happier times, first act plays on secret identities, as the psychopomp is just happy to meet someone who knows his works. In his time, he wrote essays, plays, pamphlets all in order to spread the ideas of the Revolution. He pretends to be a student at the university to hear this professor speak. Then gets to know her personally. When she finds out who he truly is, their first argument - besides processing meeting the ghost of her favorite founding father - is that he still holds his friends in high regard and she considers them cowards who helped his enemies push him into notoriety, obscurity, and pariahship.

Which obviously, he echos to her when the same thing happens to her and she can't see it.

As far as how it develops from there, I want her to be stubborn enough to not understand that she was isolating herself, but not too politically ignorant to know how to keep her tongue if a high-ranking officer is directly in front of her, asking her to repeat exactly what it was that she said to that foreign dignitary. That's why much of this is also going to be based on the changing of the times, political alliances changing and people like her being swept up in the crossfire. You're suspicious today for advocating for policies that were fashionable 5 years ago.

Would the police use the core memories concept on her? 🤔 The Sci-fi movies where you replace people's memories to make them more obedient.

Lord Foeyr, clad in rose gold armor, said: "The Allegiance is to the party, not to the king." (His voice boomed through the hall, resonating with conviction as he sat in his throne, the light reflecting off his diamond crown.) "Do not mistake my loyalty for submission mortal"

A Nobleman, in the utterly posh accent: "Ah, of course, Sir. My dearest apologies for any offense on my part. I was merely sent on a mission to gather allies."

Lord Foeyr: "Go find your 'allies' elsewhere worm" (he followed his remark by a chuckle that reverberated throughout the hall)

Nobleman: "You dont understand, dear sir. It is not a choice;the lord has decreed it."

Lord Foeyr: "Go Mortal! You have tested my patience long enough! Depart before I smite you down to the depths of the Nether!" (His voice exuded anger)

Nobleman: "Then you leave me with no choice but to-how do I put this-end your existence on Earth. But please, don’t be upset; you may yet live a good life in another realm."

This was the tipping point for the God of Trade. He at once summoned his weapon for the century, Deathsong, A blade forged in nether, created from sacrifice of a thousand soldiers. He lept right at the nobleman, his jump strong enough to shatter the ground and the golden throne. In mid air the king realised the nobleman was nowhere to be seen, and so he landed softly-still shattering the ground. He looked around for a moment only to feel a tickling sensation in his upper back-the nobleman had buried a long sword in the muscular god's back.

Lord Foeyr: "Thou art utter filth. It only just tickles."

Just as he finished, he saw the nobleman right in front of him appearing ought of thin air as if the man traversed realms-a preposterous thought. He threw Deathsong right at the nobleman who, as if ordained by a god, shattered the blade mid air, splitting it into a thousand pieces and redirected them each to pierce the god. "Impossible" the god thought to himself.

Lord Foeyr: "It seems I underestimated your resilience in your dying moments. 'Depreses Focuium'" (The god chanted the divine summoning)

Within a flash the hall's roof disappeared, or rather transformed into a dragon, golden with black stripes. It wasted no time and flew towards the man. The Nobleman quickly dodged the dragon's rapid attacks as if he could see the future. The dragon, after a flurry of claw swipes,finally connected with the nobleman,sending him flying out of the open hall.

Nobleman: "Very good sir, a neuberian dragon"

The man summoned a weapon of his own, a thunder catalyst. He directed its beams with his mind. The dragon flew towards the man, shooting golden rocks as sharp as knives. The man's eyes went completely white and all at once the he destroyed the incoming rocks with his lightning beams emerging from the catalyst,turning the rocks into goldust. He dodged the dragon crashing towards him. Just as the dragon relocated the man, he experienced the full force of lightning, stripping it of its scales.

Seeing this, the god joined the fray and punched the nobleman flat in the face while he was distracted. The man went flying for about a kilometer. The god saw the man's body, his head made a ninety degree angle with his neck.

Lord Foeyr: "Thou gave me more trouble than any mortal i ever faced, It is a matter of great respect." (The god started walking back towards the castle and signaled his dragon to return)

Nobleman: "You gave me more trouble than any mortal I faced, the respect is mutual"

This sent a chill down the god's spine. Illusion? He asked himself. No-gods are immune to it.

Lord Foeyr: "How did you revive yourself? Even gods dont have such privledges" (The god asked, clearly frightened by the scope of the man's power)

Just then the god felt deep cuts on his back. He turned to see the dragon attcaking him. The dragon, it seemed was under influence. The god quickly captured the dragon by extending his hand and the dragon submerged in the god. Right then the god felt a very foreign emotion-the sign of departure from earth. When he looked at his hand he saw nothing but air. It seemed his entire vertical half of upper body blew up. The god fell to his knees and flew up into air as dust to be reborn in another realm.

The Nobleman sighed after the hard fought battle. He took down his forcefield, which reconstructed the hall and castle right as it was before and he now appeared before the throne. The god's ministers looked towards the throne in confusion, they saw the god turn to dust the moment he called the nobleman a worm.

Nobleman: "I am Rosteran, a servant of the king. Do not fear for I am not a god. The king is very willing to increase the population of his empire. He would be happy to take any refuges as permanent citizens."

The Grand minister spoke: "How did you kill the god?" (His voice trembling with fear)

Rosteran: "I sir, dont like to reveal my secrets but if it would please you I created a force fielding-an alternate plain of existence with only me and him. He lost"

Suddenly everyone present in the hall started bowing down before Rosteran. He could only interpret it as a sign of submission to the king. "The land of Uqoburg is out of the question" he said to himself, immediately planning the next course of action, fearing the disadvantage in the war.

I'm writing a section of my story in which the MC hunts monsters, but I'm struggling to transition from the hunts to the main plot. It feels like I'm writing: "he found this monster, then this monster, and now back to the story..."

I can create better-developed chapters around the hunts, which would mitigate this problem, but I was hoping to do more with less, and keep this part short.

At the same time, however, I have a few concepts that I'd like to explore in some of these hunts, such as: reluctance in endangering allies and main objectives over saving people. These things make a simple summary of the events unfiting, but I feel like a middle ground it's even weirder.

I've tried thinking about solutions and exploring them through writing, but they never felt right.

(I hope to have shown this time that I've tried to solve my problem -- a strange requirement, IMO. On this side note, is there any other way to try solving a writing problem if not by thinking and writing?)

Any advice or book indications? Thank you.

Want to be held accountable by the community, brag about or celebrate your writing progress over the last week? If so, you're welcome to respond to this. Feel free to tell us what you accomplished this week, or set goals about what you hope to accomplish before next Wednesday!

So, who met their goals? Who found themselves tackling something totally unexpected? Who accomplished something (even something small)? What goals have you set for yourself, this week?

Note: The rule against self-promotion is relaxed here. You can share your book/story/blog/serial, etc., as long as the content of your comment is about working on it or celebrating it instead of selling it to us.

I want to start by saying something: since the beginning of my origins as a writer, I have doubted my authenticity: and I am tired of doing so.

I'll give you an example: I was a big fan of Holly Black, I loved her handling of fairy folklore and I myself became obsessed with fairies and started looking into them, while from time to time, A doubt appeared in my head: do I really like fairies and what I'm reading about their folklore, just for that, or do I like them simply because I know that Holly Black would like them? or just because it's something holly black would do?

Another example: right now you are reading something like an essay by a renowned writer, talking about what it means to be a writer, and I have a doubt: do I agree with him, or do I just agree because he is him?

This happens to me in terms of personality as well; I do want to be more emotional, but only because I'd like to have "emotional" on my list of personality traits? Wouldn't that make it a bit superficial?

What happens if you want to be an artist not because you really have beliefs or whatever, but because of the simple fact that you want to have an "artist" in your repertoire? I'm honestly sick of constantly questioning my genuineness, how do I know I'm being genuine? How do I know I'm not being superficial?What does superficial and not genuine mean in the art world?

Another example is that I was once watching videos and at one point I read a poem that says something that seemed ridiculous to me.

Then I read that it had been written by Silvia Plat and it was as if it had changed and out of nowhere it was another poem, a good one.

Hello. This post might seem weird, but I am asking for some criticism on an except and brainstorm help. In particular I have trouble writing the death scene and the scene where the character mentally prepares themselves for the sacrifice.

Menakura was dying. His armor was pierced by the warlord's claws. Blood leaked through the puncture wounds, pooling in the ground. He watched as his honor guard tried to reach him in vain, the feral orcs slowly dragging them down one by one. His soldiers, his first company, the warriors that were with him the day he joined the rebellion, were dying, their lifeless bodies falling into the mud, the orcs trampling them underfoot. He watched as Althea and her elven warriors met the orks in combat, their lines smashing into each other. An unnatural cold crept in as darkness crept in from the edges of his vision. He couldn't die. Not like this, not here, not when his warriors were dying around him, not when Althea was in danger. He wanted to pick up his sword, to join the fight, to cut down the enemy to relieve the burden on his army, to burn them all in hellfire, and to ensure that his soldiers would go back home, to go back home with Althea, to relax and enjoy what he fought for.

• Here is where I need help. I cannot, for the life of me, write something to put it in here. I have ideas that I can't make sense. He more or less talks to his familiar, Sa'raum, and asks him to perform a rite of sacrifice to transform Menakura into a powerful demon at the cost of everything, and allow him to destroy his enemies.-

"I offer my all. My flesh, my blood, my bones will be yours. My shield, my sword, my sorcery is at your command. My will, my mind, my memories, my soul, and my very being is yours for the taking."

Sa'raum did not answer. Instead, the cold in his body was scorched away, the darkness in his vision was replaced by emerald fire. His armor repaired itself, his wounds healed instantly, his fatigue vanished with the blink of an eye. He reached out and grasped his sword, hellfire reforging it the moment he grasped it.

His flesh ran like melting wax, as his armor warped and contorted around his body. His body swelled, muscles becoming taut, his hands and feet ending in great, rending talons. His sword, reforged by the malevolent powers fueling him, grew with him, hellfire coating the edges of his blade. His armor fused to his flesh, great horns erupting from his helmet, as a thorned crown of hellfire formed, wrapping itself around his head, a pair of titanic leathery wings erupted from his back, his teeth becoming fangs as his helmet split to accommodate his mouth.

His body was wracked in pain, every limb, nerve, muscle fiber felt like it was smothered in magma and his mind was being burned by the raw power being pumped into him. He cleaved his sword into a crowd of orks, scattering them in a shower of broken limbs and gore. Hellfire licked from his lips as he torched another group, turning them to blackened statues that crumbled in the wind.

His mind was being burned and scorched into nothingness, everything he sacrificed for this power burning to ashes in his mind. The faces of his parents disappeared first, their faces vanishing in an instant. His childhood, the memories of his former city, all gone. Hundreds of hours of intricate, carefully crafted battle plans, all gone , forgotten. The campaigns he fought, wars he waged, all of the victories and defeats he went through, all gone like ashes in the wind. He cared not. The memories of his soldiers, his warriors, his comardes, were next. But they burned slowly. The burning in his mind was slow at consuming them, like a fire trying to consume green leaves or grass. He remembered their faces, how he saved them and in turn they saved him, how they fought in battle, their friendship, the bickering and banter, their hopes and dreams. Sa'raum, his friend, the one who granted him this power, the one who always motivated him, who reminded him of his goal in the bleakest of times, it's cheerful tone, its uncompromising support. But they vanished too. He could not recall them anymore. He turned and cleaved his sword through another group of enemies. He did not know what they were or who they were, all he knew was that they were enemies.

He was suddenly aware of an absence in his mind, something was supposed to be there, in his back of his mind. He couldn't recall what it was. A small pang ran through his chest, he didn't know what that was either, as the words describe it were long gone.

The memories of his wife were next. His wife, Althea. These memories were burning even more slowly. The fire in his mind seemed to cling to them, trying to get rid of them, but they stayed, they persisted and motivated him in turn. He remembered how they met on the battlefield, how they held an uneasy alliance, how he persuaded the others to accept her, how she proved herself on the battlefield. How their emotions grew into a relationship, how she was there for him no matter what. How they used to share a tent together in the snow, that they used to look up at the star filled sky at night and talk until dawn, how they used to throw banter at each other all the time. He remember how she laughed with such joy, how she fought with such ferocity on the battlefield, how she blushed whenever they spent time together, how she wept in mourning, how her eyes shone whenever she found something she was fascinated with. He remember her hopes, dreams, and how they promised a life for each other after the war, how they would see the world, together.

He tore through more orks, column after column, group after group, his sword smashing, rending and cleaving as fire burned all around him. He saw another enemy. This one was different. It was larger than the other ones he was killing. Something filled his chest as he roared and charged. The enemy fell back, desperately trying to flee. He would not let it. He lifted it with one hand as he slammed his sword its chest. It let out a gurgling scream as it fell limp on his blade.

-And here's the other problem. I can't write a character death scene for my life, if anyone can help with that please tell me.-

Hello everyone,

Earlier this year, I started working on an text based interactive adventure novel game and wrote a rough outline and script for it. I used TWINE to build the game and made some decent progress too but soon enough felt like there were too much branching with the choices and well it got quite complicated, So I decided to put a break on making the game switch gears and try writing a full novel instead since as much as I wanted to make a game I liked the story and the characters I wrote and wanted to see it through. Fast forward to now, and I've completed the first draft of my military fantasy novel, which is around 211,000 words with 72 chapters (including the prologue and epilogue).

I’ve heard a lot about Royal Road being a great place to build an audience, but I’m unsure if it’s the right platform for my novel. From what I understand, it’s more suited for LitRPG and stories posted chapter by chapter. My novel is already finished, so I’m wondering:

1. Would Royal Road be a good fit for a completed novel like mine?
2. If not, what other platforms or alternatives should I consider for publishing a finished work like this?

Thanks in advance.

   Thank you in advance for people taking the time to critique this. It's my first time writing a story so feel free to lay into it!

  A chill of wind sent a shiver down Alaric's spine, wisps of snow gently melted against the warmth of his numb face. "I hate the cold..." he complained, forcing his worn leather boots through the thick layer of ice and snow that covered the winding mountain path. "Just shut your trap and keep moving, kid," Howe grunted without looking back; he was a sturdy, short older man who'd seen at least 47 winters with a bald head, bushy grey beard spotted with patches of black, and wrinkles to back that up, but he was surprisingly athletic for his age.

    So much so that Alaric was having a hard time keeping up with the experienced older man who was at least a few meters ahead on the trail and Alaric was only 15 years of age. He had difficulty moving with this boiled leather armor strapped to him; the boots were too tight, and his leather-bound gloves were too big. At least they'd given them fur to line their armor and woolen cloaks so they didn't freeze to death. I hate the cold he bemoaned. "But sir why do we even need to climb all the way up here to find one mine?" He whined again to the obvious displeasure of Howe, who turned around so quickly that the tattered brown woolen cloak draped around his shoulders twirled around with him, whipping up a small dusting of snow. "The village won't last very long without a supply of stone to build walls and without iron for weapons and tools, will it? Now stop with stupid questions and do your damned job! Quietly!" Howe snapping at him made Alaric flinch and frown.

    He watched as the old man swung forward again, causing the longsword dangling from his waist to clank against its sheath, and then he continued up on the seemingly endless drudge along the snowy mountain path. After that, he followed Howe silently, wrapping his woolen cloak around his arms, trying to shield himself from the encroaching bite of the cold. I wish I never left home, Alaric thought. He'd enlisted in this expedition to reclaim an old mining settlement for the kingdom thinking he'd go on an adventure and become a hero like stories his man used to tell him. Well, adventure sucked... the Thul mountains of all places; of course, he had to go to the coldest, harshest highest place on the continent. To make matters worse all the old man ever did was yell at him! That and to shovel horse shit. 

    At least he didn't have to shovel any shit because the horses couldn't make it up such a narrow path in a foot deep of snow. You're a fool, Alaric; you should've stayed in the city, he chastised himself, not that he had anything to return to there. His mother and brother died of the plague a year back. Nor did he have any coin to his name, but surely he could have thought of something less life-threatening and uncomfortable than this. He hung his head in defeat, his long black hair drooping over his face. He sighed filling the air with his frosty breath.

    By the time they neared where the mine was supposed to be, the sun had been half veiled by the horizon, illuminating the grey cloudy sky a beautiful shade of bright oranges and reds. The icy expanse of the mountain range was gradually submerged by the creeping shadow of the sun. The shining white peaks turned to a sea of darkness. He'd have stopped to admire the sight had it not felt like if he stopped moving, his legs would freeze and shatter. 

    Howe stopped at an old wooden rope bridge. It stretched across a gorge so long and deep Alaric could have sworn it led to the hells itself. The wooden planks looked splintered and rotted; the rope that held it together was frayed and discolored. It looked like they hadn't been used since the founding of the Arataian Kingdom or maybe even the ancient dwarves. Just looking at it made him feel like he was falling to his death. His stomach certainly agreed with that, too, but he didn't have any choice but to brave it, or the old grump would yell at him again.

    Well... I guess I should just get this over with, he thought gulping. Alaric shuffled through the snow to the bridge and put his boot firmly onto the first wooden plank. "Wait!" Howe shouted, and then a creek and a crack echoed through the gorge turning Alaric's face so pale he could've been mistaken for a spirit. The wooden plank under him shattered, falling into the never-ending depths of the crevasse. It caused him to lose his footing, and Alaric fell forward, his vision went dark, and his heart dropped and pounded in his ears. There was only him and the depths now... it was all he could see. His head was filled with pressure and his body burned with white-hot fear in anticipation of his impending doom. It all happened so fast that he didn't even have time to scream. Mom, it was the only word that flashed through his head as he was faced with death.

    Then he felt a rough tug at his neck that gagged him as he went flying the opposite way. The next moment he found himself firmly planted waist-deep in snow. Huh? Wasn't I dying? He questioned. He looked at the palms of his hands, they were shaking uncontrollably. Drops of water pattered against his palms. "I'm crying?" He wondered out loud, tracing the water to its source gently wiping away a stream of tears. He didn't have the time to process what had happened before the old man picked him up by the fur lining of the worn-boiled leather armor strapped to his chest. Howe pushed him, and his back thudded against the icy mountainside. "Are you daft boy?! You either want to die or you're just the greatest idiot born to this age!" Howe scolded. He was close enough that Alaric could smell the ale on his breath. "I-I-I'm sorry, sir, I didn't think-" he said stuttering, still in shock at his near-death experience. "No, you didn't think! That's the problem. Use your damned head, boy, or it will be the death of us both." Howe cut in, knocking Alaric's upside the head with a thump.

    Alaric flinched and then rubbed the spot of his head that had been thumped as the old grump let him go and turned to the bridge again. A few moments of silence passed, allowing Alaric to collect himself before Howe turned to him again with a small piece of cloth he held out in offering, "Clean yourself up; you can't be a boy forever; I'll not be here to save you much longer." Howe said with an uncharacteristic calm that if Alaric didn't know better would've mistaken it for care. He'd been assigned to the greybeard ever since he left for the expedition over a year ago now. Maybe Howe had grown to care for him? Alaric almost dared laugh at the thought but stifled it, taking the dirty hole-filled rag from Howe. "Yes sir..." he said quietly, wiping the tears from his eyes with the old rag.

    The old man gripped the frayed rope railing first, then stepped over the broken planks that'd just fallen off onto the second row of planks. He applied a small amount of pressure with his foot to see if it'd hold. These planks didn't thankfully. Howe stepped onto the planks with both feet, causing the bridge to sway side-side; the planks creaked loudly but didn't break. Alaric followed after him with a knot of anxiety in the back of his throat. He gripped the rope so tightly it hurt his hands, one foot after the other. It's easy, he told himself. He placed his first foot onto the second plank. One foot after the other, he repeated his mantra as he placed his second foot on the plank. The bridge swung again, making it hard for him to maintain balance; he swayed his body back and forth, trying not to fall... again. 

    The constant creaking of planks, as they made their way across the gorge, turned his bowels to liquid. Every step he took, he'd think, this is it, this is how I die, falling to my doom, he thought. You're not dead, and you're not dying, he said to himself, and again he repeated to himself, You're not dead, and you're not dying he repeated attempting to stoke the flames of his courage. With an unusual stroke of luck, the rest of the bridge held long enough for them to get across, if just barely. Once he stepped to the other side of the gorge he let out a loud sigh of relief. He thought he'd piss himself about halfway through, but at least his bladder was braver than himself. He followed Howe around a sharp corner of the mountainside. They had to cling to the mountain as the path around the corner got narrower and narrower until his back was against the mountain, and the shelf of rock and ice beneath them was so steep he could see the entire valley beneath his feet that was half floating by now. 

    "Please, Thul, let me survive this, and I'll pay my respects to your mountain everyday," he prayed frantically to the God of the mountain as he shimmied slowly around the corner. "Hells lad, I don't think a Dwarven God is gonna listen to a human," Howe said scoffing as he made his way along the narrow path. It was the closest he'd ever heard to the old man laughing. Although Howe was right, he hoped Thul might be listening since they were on his mountain. Although the old dwarves had long abandoned these mountains since the kings of old drove them out with their great hosts during the migration. Yet, maybe their mountain God was still here.

    Eventually, they made their way along the narrow mountainside to a wider pathway lined by wooden planks that had been nailed to the ground. The snow seemed to have not built up as much here. They'd found the path to the mine and it was a welcome sight. He had enough of this mountain and its trials. At the end of the short pathway of wooden platforms, the entrance of the mineshaft began. A great square hole in the mountain was held up by a series of aged wooden beams set along the edges of the walls. He was surprised that the entrance hadn't collapsed by now. "Light a torch. This mine has long since been deprived of light," Howe commanded, peering into the deep darkness of the mine. Looking into the mine's ancient shadow-covered halls sent a shiver down Alaric's spine; it reminded him of the gorge he had almost fallen into. An ill omen he feared.

    Alaric moved his woolen cloak out of the way and moved his hand to the leather belt tightly bound to his waist. He grabbed the shaft of a long wooden rod wrapped in layers of linen drenched in oily animal fat sliding it from his belt with a few tugs. Then he unlatched a small animal skin pouch from his belt. Kneeling over and placing the unlit torch on the ground, he dug his hand into the pouch, taking out a couple of shards of flint that he struck together over the linen, causing bright orange sparks to fly into it. After a few strikes, the cloth ignited crackling to life in a torrent of flames that reached toward his face. The yellow and blue fire reflected in his hazel eyes.

    He quickly grabbed the flaming torch off the ground and held it up vertically. The intense heat from the burning animal fat and linen warmed his numb face and hands even through his leather gloves. He'd missed the feeling of a warm fire, it reminded him of the hearth back home, sitting by it with his little brother. Their mother telling stories of their father and his merchant adventures or the tales of the elder days. It made him want to sob; he felt the tears well in his eyes, he missed them both so much. He wished he could turn back and go home. To be greeted by a warm hug from his mom and play with his little brother just one more time... but there was no home left there. There was no family left there. Even a peasant boy like him knew the dead were gone. He'd felt the cold touch of their skin when the sickness ripped them away. He watched those cold bodies were carted to the flames. Those flames were supposed to feel warm, but all he could remember from that day was the cold. There was nothing he could do to bring them back. He'd never know that real warmth again. Only the cold. Only their cold.

    He shook the solemn thoughts from his head and did his best to keep the tears in for fear of a walloping upside the head from the old man. Just do your job, Alaric. As the old man said, you won't be a boy forever, he reminded himself, standing back up and making his way over the threshold of the mine. The shadows clinging to walls met with the blazing torchlight were pushed back into the deepness of the stone-carved halls. He followed after Howe into the stone hall, torch in hand. As they walked through the mine the shadows closed in behind them when not held at bay by the torchlight. 

    Howe seemed fixated on the walls of the hallway. He was examining them quite closely. "Bring the light closer lad. Toward the stone." He said, and Alaric complied, extending his arm toward the wall. The fire illuminated a large portion of it revealing what seemed to be runes and letters carved into the stone from top to bottom. He didn't know the language, not that he could read in the first place so he couldn't tell if it was human-made. "I can't read, sir. I have no idea what they say." Alaric said, "I know that you fool; I didn't expect you to be able to. Even I can't read them." Howe grunted with his obligatory insult toward the boy. "But... you learned how to read, right, sir?" Alaric asked. "Aye... but this is not the common tongue. This is the language of dwarves. I've seen it before during the sack of Bhal-a-uhm. I'd thought something was off, these halls are far too well crafted for any man."  Howe said with a grumble. It seemed to displease him, his brow furrowed as he mentioned that they might be made by dwarves, or was that sadness? Why would that make him sad? It was also the first he'd mentioned of the war with southern dwarves despite his constant probing over the last year that was normally met with nothing more than a grunt.

     "But my mother said there wasn't anything left of Thudur. How's that possible?" Alaric asked. Could it be that the stories weren't entirely true? Did King Edan not burn all the dwarven cities of Thul as the stories say? He wondered. Howe suddenly snatched the torch from his hands and walked forward. He seemed somewhat frantic. He followed after the old man, trying to keep pace with his panicked jog. The stone halls grew bigger and bigger and bigger until he felt like nothing more than a nat in comparison. The stone turned to a fine granite the bigger the corridor got. At the end of the colossal hall they met two caved-in wrought iron doors. They were at least ten times the size of any normal man. Standing next to them made his knees weak; he'd felt this before as a child standing next to the walls of Edas that surrounded the capital.

   The greybeard held the torch up high pushing the shadows farther into the abyss. The grand doors were ornate and gilded with silvers and golds so pure they shimmered when met with torchlight even through the weathering of the ages. Warped murals of crowned dwarves with gold-ringed beards gripping double-sided axes to their chests adorned what was left of the doors. However, he couldn't make out their faces. They were scorched and covered in old, hardened soot. "This is no mine," Howe said with wide eyes stepping between the bent-in opening of the doors. Alaric followed. As he crossed through, the top rail of the door caught his attention. A substantial chunk was seemingly ripped from it; the missing chunk was jagged almost resembling a bite mark. What in the hells could have possibly done this? He wondered. He certainly didn't want to find out; it made his stomach churn to think about it. 

    "It cannot be!" Howe exclaimed so loudly that his echoing voice pulled Alaric from his thoughts. Alaric walked hastily over to the old man who stood at the edge of a ledge. The boy was shaken to his core by what he saw when his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The entire mountain was hollowed, rows of riveted stone towers hundreds of feet tall carved into the mountainside like pillars into the ceaseless deep. Networks of enormous stone and granite bridges lined with gold connected each tower, with at least half of the bridges cracked in two forever separating one tower from another. Some towers seemed collapsed, nothing more than ruins filled with rubble; others were like melted candle wax dripping sadly toward the earth. Only a few towers still stood unblemished in all their immense splendor. He couldn't even find the words to describe the ruined beauty before him. He couldn't even comprehend the monolithic city of stone before him. It was all too much for him; his head spun, and his stomach felt light; it turned to water, and he turned around, keeling over and vomiting out his fear. His retching echoed through the expanse.

    He felt Howe put a hand on his shoulder "I don't fault you for that lad. Men were never supposed to behold the cities of the Dwerdal," Howe said. While he seemed just as shocked as Alaric was, he sure held it together far better. "Why did they think this was a mining town?" Alaric said, wiping the vomit from his mouth and standing up, wobbling on weak knees. "They didn't, I don't think this was ever actually a mining expediti-" Howe was interrupted by a thunderous terrible grumbling from the deep that froze him in place. His face went pale as the snowy mountain peaks.

Alaric didn't just hear the same sound; he felt it rumbling inside his bones, vibrating his body. His mouth went dry, his hair stood on end, and his eyes didn't dare blink. It poisoned his soul with fear, no, it was something deeper, far more primal. Every animalistic instinct inside his body was set on fire, and for once, he didn't feel that cold... he was burning. He was engulfed in flames. Then, like thunder after lightning, a great, violent, earsplitting roar exploded from the deep and shook the weathered city of stone like a ground quake. The nauseating smell of sulfur filled the air. Small bits of rubble tumbled from the aged towers, and Howe looked at him with raw deep fear in his dark eyes and only said one word. "Run."    

Hey, everyone! So, I was working on a scene and thought I'd share it here. This scene got me thinking about how character dynamics can literally carry a story. I have tried to do that in the scene I wrote.

Do you also enjoy using small gestures or meaningful silences to hint at something deeper? Or do you prefer intense, emotionally charged dialogues? And what about those moments when characters share secrets or show vulnerability—when one lets their guard down and the other doesn’t even need to respond, just be there? Honestly, those moments get me every time.

I’m writing these two characters, Aurora and Hazan. Aurora is reserved, cold, and sharp (literally, since she’s always caring for her beloved pair of daggers), while Hazan is this stubborn guy who loves to fight, doesn’t care what others think, but has that knack for breaking the ice at the right moment. They share silences, exchange snarky remarks, and occasionally let slip vulnerabilities they didn’t even know they had. That vibe got me wondering: how do we create relationships that truly resonate with readers?

These two are like cats and dogs, constantly at odds, and they’re stuck together because of a curse. In other words, they’re forced to coexist even though they can’t stand each other, all while trying to break the curse that binds them. But here’s the question: once they finally break it, will they even want to part ways?

Please, share the types of scenes you love writing, or even those missteps that somehow turned into gold when building connections between characters. Let’s swap ideas and inspire each other!

For anyone curious about the scene I was working on, here it is:

At the top of a small hill, where clouds wove themselves across the sky like threads in a tapestry, stood a rustic tavern illuminated by torches flickering in the night breeze. A gentle melody floated from inside, creating a welcoming atmosphere for travelers and adventurers seeking refuge from the darkness outside.

Aurora sat with her back to the hilltop, the vast expanse of the starry sky stretching out before her eyes. Her hands worked methodically, cleaning the blood off her daggers with a strip of white leather now stained red. The footsteps behind her didn’t faze her. She already knew who it was.

“Those daggers get more attention than anyone I’ve ever met,” Hazan remarked, stopping beside her, a smile playing on his lips as he took in the scene.

“Maybe that’s because they’ve never let me down,” she replied without looking up, her voice as sharp as the blade she held.

Hazan set down a wooden bucket beside her before sitting, a casual gesture that seemed almost too natural. He began unwrapping the bandages covering his hands, wincing slightly as the dry fabric tugged at his wounded skin. Aurora glanced at him briefly but said nothing.

“Aspen and Lunna are fine,” Hazan said, breaking the silence as if to fill the air. “Flint’s looking after them.”

“About time he proved useful for something,” Aurora murmured, her tone indifferent.

Hazan exhaled and plunged his hands into the bucket of water. Red rippled across the surface like ink on paper. He didn’t seem bothered by the pain, only weary.

“Training right after recovering from the fight with Dorian,” Aurora noted, her tone detached yet firm. “You do realize your actions affect me too, don’t you? The Scarlet Guard isn’t just going to let this slide.”

“I took down the first lieutenant, and you took down the second. We’re in this together,” Hazan replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Which leaves the captain… A seasoned fighter. Two minutes, if we’re lucky. If he even gives us that, we should make a toast.”

“Perfect. Beer and food are on you, though, because I’m not planning to back down,” he said, a confident grin spreading across his face.

“With how much you eat, I’d definitely come out at a loss,” she shot back, quick and dry. “If I’m covering your share, I might as well prepare to live on the streets.”

Hazan chuckled softly. For a moment, silence fell between them. The distant melody from the tavern filled the space as Hazan replaced his bandages, and Aurora continued cleaning her blades with mechanical, almost meditative movements.

“Where’s the white leather from?” Hazan broke the silence, nodding toward the strip in her hands. “I don’t recall any monsters with that feature.”

Aurora hesitated, her eyes fixed on the stained strip in her hands. “It’s… special.”

He noticed her evasiveness but didn’t press further. He let her keep the mystery, something that seemed to define her.

“In that fight with Dorian,” Aurora began without looking at him, “weren’t you scared? He was one strike away from finishing you.”

“No,” Hazan said, drying his hands and lifting his gaze to the sky. “Winning was all that mattered. And I won.”

“Everyone’s afraid of something…” The bitterness in her voice was unmistakable.

“Even the mighty and ruthless Aurora?” he teased, giving her shoulder a light shove.

She turned her gaze away, as if his remark wasn’t worth acknowledging. Once again, silence settled between them, but this time, it didn’t feel unwelcome.

“What about you?” Hazan asked after a while. “What are you afraid of?”

Aurora didn’t answer right away. Her eyes lifted to the moons shining above, but her thoughts seemed far away. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, almost a whisper.

“Myself.”

Hazan furrowed his brow, surprised by her honesty. “Why?”

Aurora held one of her daggers, gazing at her distorted reflection in the blade. The moonlight cast soft shadows on her face, but her eyes were cold.

“Sometimes, I think about doing terrible things…” she murmured. “And sometimes, I do.”

Hazan didn’t reply. He just stayed there, sitting beside her. The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. After a moment, he reached out and lightly touched her hand. They stayed like that for a while.

300 years ago, during the Revolution, a lowly scribe was the Watson to a brilliant Sherlock. He wrote dozens of essays, philosophical conversations, and satirical plays with his partner, preaching the virtues of the revolution. But as what often happens after the Revolution is over and the new government is established, his radical views simply aggravated the new status quo and he was driven into destitution and died in poverty. (His partner Sherlock learned to keep his mouth shut and stay on the good side of the new order.)

Watson went from being named along side the founding fathers to becoming obscure trivia for only academia to remember. "Oh, Sherlock is the speaker, but did you know Watson wrote everything and is the narrator?"

But the Spirit of Death took pity on Watson and didn't let his soul suffer. She recruited him to be her servant and help her with her unending work sorting through the souls of the dead. He became her angel, a scribe, a soldier, and a reaper.

Present day, FML is a constitutional scholar, a political professor, and the only member of the John Watson Historical Society. Her bookcase is lined with all of Watson's plays and anthologies. The Angel of Death had a mission nearby (these two aren't even the main couple, LOL, but he's introduced through his romance arc and then by doing his actual job in the story) but he overheard this scholar quoting his works. The Angel of Death came back to the university under disguise and struck up a deal with the scholar to learn about her work.

In between his actual job in the main plot, I want my Angel of Death to be going on dates with this gorgeous liberal arts professor who has found herself in a similar position to where he was 300 years ago - fighting for all the right ideas but in a way that will get her killed by the powers that be.

And I want EVERY hijinx and shenanigan to happen during this super-serious political plot. I want the monk who is supposed to chaperone the Angel whenever he's in the human world to be gawking outside the Italian restaurant where they're having dinner. "What is he doing? What is he doing?"

Anyone know some really good recommendations? Stories? Plot bunnies? I think I could write a whole Bible of secret identity shenanigans happening before she ever finds out the truth. Even with that said, I wonder HOW so she will? I mean, it's not like she'd ever expect him to either be a paranormal being OR one of the authors of the revolution. Or, even funnier, she finds out one and says "Oh, good, I was beginning to think you were the other." - "Oh, I'm the other, too."

I’m working on a novel right now. It’s a struggle, with lots of highs and lows. I’m approaching 30k words, and feel mostly good about how it’s going. I’m slow, and go back and edit each time I sit down to write, which I know is a bad habit, but it’s the only way I can keep going.

I have three fight scenes so far. I think I did well the first time, I did okay the second time, and now for a big fight with lots of moving pieces, I just don’t think I nailed it. It feels like “this happened, then this happened, then this happened.” I don’t want my reader to get lost, so making sure they know where all nine characters are in the fight is importing to me, but I just don’t know if it gets bogged down and confusing.

How do you guys write fight scenes, and more importantly, what do you like to read? Do you have any great examples of fight scenes executed well?

Thanks.

hi everyone! i'm a young writer that has been interested in creative writing for some time- except just never had the motivation to finish it. but! i woke up with a new story idea, expanded on it, some more, and i think i have a sort of strong-ish story idea (though i do have to tweak some things). it's a romance x fantasy story. i have some questions to start writing:

1. how do i explore a person and their personality? how do i outline it?
2. how do i add sensory detail in small things (just to add some extra words :3) to bring the story to life?
3. how do i pick a tone, and can i have multiple tones in a story? how can i express the tone?
4. i was thinking to do first person POVs but switching between my two main characters. how can i keep it smooth between switching? do i also switch tones? when i switch the tones, do i use like different words?
5. how do you, writers, plan a story? like plot, setting, etc. do you do like exposition, rising action, climax, falling action, the resolution? how do you outline it? can i have some tips?
6. how do i make my readers hooked and not bored with the same thing over and over again? how do i build suspense, mystery, and confusion to keep them on the edge of their seat?
7. how do i build different parts of the story and write like a lot, as well as full of details?
8. how do i build the main characters' relationship gradually in the book and show individual character growth? how do i show a theme in the story?

any other generalized tips (for outline) for a new writer would be much appreciated!! sorry if some questions are repetitive and seem scatter. thank you so much!

Hey, there, everyone!
I have tried coming up with a solution for this myself, but would like some advice. I am currently getting close to finishing the first draft of my first fantasy novel (meant to be part of a series). I am at 85k words and probably have about 4 or 5 more chapters to finish the story. I am, however, struggling with whether or not I should add a prologue to the book. Being the first book in this world, i obviously have to introduce readers to elements of the world and story organically, and this first book is from the perspective of a character who starts off not quite as connected to the major threat as other protagonists who get introduced- with this one slowly getting pulled into the bigger picture as he discovers things with the readers. However, a massive part of the world state for my story is a magical disaster that basically opens up some magical/eldritch end of the world type stuff to be dealt with.

Without getting too deep into the details, I have written this protagonist to very specifically not know much about this event or how it's effecting the world around him right now. He grew up in privilege and has his own goals and priorities that make it so he really only hears snippets from other people from time to time. Book one is meant to be smaller on the scale, as we step into this world, with the future stories being what drives up the stakes. I am wondering if I should include a prologue that shows this starting event and some of its immediate impact on the world, being from outside the protagonist's perspective. Obviously, this would be good for giving readers a glimpse of the big picture, but also could set the wrong expectations for this specific novel and the story it's telling going forward.

What do you all think? Should I give the readers a splash of world information right off the bat so they have questions and also get an idea of what's to come? Or should I let the story speak for itself and let them get this information at the same pace as the pov characters throughout the story?

Any advice would be greatly appreciated!

(This is my first work in progress. All support and criticism is much appreciated! This is a story that will lead to cosmic-like battles)

Eyes burned like embers, their touch was frostbite. No breath escaped their lips; no life adorned their forms. Blood drenched the town and forest, pooling from still bodies, seeping into cracked earth.

Minors, villagers, workers, they all turned, walking away, without haste, vanishing into the familiar distance beneath a sky split open by a glaring red sun.

This vision dissolved into shadows, fading away as Caldrin "Cal" Veyr gasped awake, his sharp eyes snapping open. Sweat plastered his wiry frame to the worn cot beneath him, tears dampening his face.

---

Within a shabby mining village surrounded by jagged cliffs, where everything feels like it might collapse at any second—including the people. Cal sat on a precariously stacked pile of crates, munching on a hunk of stale bread under a perpetually crimson sun.

His fellow miners slog through their work, their expressions ranging from exhausted to outright despairing.

 Cal, however exhausted, seemed blissfully detached from the misery around him.

A burly man approached, his scowl as permanent as the calluses on his hands. His pickaxe slung over one shoulder, stopped and fixed Cal with a glare.

"Cal, what in the seven smelts are you doing sitting there like the camp mascot?."

Cal takes a dramatic bite of his bread, grimaces, and glares at it like it personally insulted him.

"I'm contemplating life, Jorn. Why are we here? What’s the purpose of it all? Why does my bread taste like it was baked during the last solar eclipse?"

Jorn raised an unimpressed brow, "You’re supposed to be working, not philosophizing. And stop eating that. It’s not bread; it’s a petrified rock from the quarry."

Cal paused mid-bite, "Explains the crunch."

Jorn’s scowl deepened, “You’ll be a ‘living statue’ in the foreman’s office if you don’t start pulling your weight.”

Cal leaned back, balancing on the crates with casual confidence.

“Relax, Jorn. I’m on my... uh. Innovation break. Thinking of ways to make mining more efficient. Like, what if we trained squirrels to dig for us? Little helmets, little pickaxes—”

A lump of ore flew past Cal’s head as Jorn growled. “Innovation won’t keep food on the table. Get up. Now.”.

Sighing theatrically, Cal hopped down, grabbed his pickaxe, and trudged toward the mines.

“Fine, fine. But when squirrel-mining technology takes off and you’re stuck with a rusty pickaxe, don’t come crying to me.”

The path to the mine was littered with broken tools and weary villagers.

Cal’s gaze wandered as he muttered under his breath, “Another day, another vein to bleed dry. Same faces, same paths, same air that tastes like rust. No one asks why anymore. No one wonders if there’s more than this.”

Jorn stopped abruptly, turning to face Cal with a flat stare. His silence asked, What now?

“Cal, if I wanted to listen to poetry written by a drunk goat, I’d go to my cousin’s wedding. And he’s dead. Now shut up and walk before I start wondering if there’s more than you.”

Cal blinked, caught between indignation and reluctant admiration for the burn.

Jorn and Cal reached the mine. Lanterns flickered against jagged black walls as the pair descended into the mine. The tunnels stretched out like veins, suffocating and cold.

“So,” Jorn said, breaking the silence. “I heard they’re shutting down Shaft Nine. Foreman says it’s unstable. Elders think it’s cursed.”

“Unstable? Cursed?” Cal’s grin spread wide, his sharp eyes glinting with dangerous curiosity.

Jorn shivered involuntarily. “Why do I feel like you’re about to do something stupid?”

“No, no, no,” Cal replied, waving off the concern. “I won’t be doing anything stupid.”

Jorn exhaled in relief. “Good. For a moment, I thought you were up to one of your—”

“We will.” Cal muttered.

The words cut through the damp air like a pickaxe through stone.

Jorn froze, “What?!”

Cal placed his pickaxe down with deliberate slowness. His smile didn’t falter, “I won’t do anything stupid,” he repeated, “We will.”

Silence thickened, punctuated only by the faint drip of water from somewhere deep within the mine. Jorn stared at his friend, torn between fury and resignation.

“…No,” he muttered, his voice cracking.

Cal’s smile remained.

“No,” Jorn repeated, louder now, fists clenching.

Cal’s grin widened imperceptibly, maddeningly.

“NO!”

---

The flickering lanterns cast twisted shadows as they reached Shaft Nine’s entrance. Jorn glared at the dark maw ahead, his expression screaming, ’I hate everything about this.’

"So, let me get this straight." Jorn said, deadpan, "You think the shaft holds 'opportunities' because the foreman and elders don’t want anyone going in there?"

"Exactly!" Cal’s enthusiasm was blinding, his ignorance of Jorn’s death stare absolute.

Jorn groaned, “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

“You’re a good friend,” Cal said, chuckling as they entered the shaft.

The air grew colder, sharper, as though regret itself hung in the tunnels. Strange markings etched the walls, their meanings unclear. Jorn stopped, unease prickling at his skin.

“What… what are these?” Jorn asked.

Cal examined them, frowning, “Warnings, maybe? Or doodles from bored miners. Hard to tell.”

A soft, flowing sound rippled through the air. Jorn stiffened.

"Tell me you hear that."

“Yeah,” Cal replied, his tone casual. “Probably just my stomach. Haven’t had a decent meal in days.”

“Great,” Jorn muttered. “A haunted mine and a comedian. My favorite kind of death.”

---

Deeper inside, past a canopy of routes with strange markings written in the common language everyone knows. Each marking seemingly telling a story but mismatched wildly preventing it from being read..

The tunnel widened into a cavern. At its heart lay a pristine, impossibly clear lake. Lantern light reflected off its surface, painting the walls with an eerie glow.

“Cal,” Jorn said, voice tight. “This is a bad idea. Something isn't right here.” Jorn seemed to notice that, even in the tunnel or near by the water, the air lacked any form of moisture.

Cal grinned, mocking his friend’s tone, “Cal, this is a bad idea. Cal, don’t touch the shiny, ominous thing. Cal, don’t eat rocks. You’re like a broken record, Jorn.”

Ignoring the protests, Cal stepped closer. As he neared the water, the rippling sound grew louder. A strange pathway of obsidian emerged, strangely not visible from the distance but clear up close

The path lead to the shadowy unknown up ahead.

Cal’s mischievous grin returned. He turned to Jorn, eyes alight with adventure, “It seems there’s more.”

Jorn’s heart sank. Tears threatened as he clenched his fists, willing his voice not to crack, “Please… no.”

But the grin said it all. The journey had already begun.

I'm creating a short story fantasy novel and I want to know if anyone would be interested (at least) to pick up my series narrated by a sword's point of view, sounds lame but I thought it would be a cool concept. I hope to at least try and achieve to peak a reader's interest in such a short story telling. Here's a blurp I created to help give you guys an idea what you will be reading.

A weapon, forged in the heart of divinity, was cast out from the heavens. It drifted into the realm of Edtria, where mortals, ever hungry for power, wove tales around it. They spoke of glory and ruin, of a blade that could grant its wielder power beyond measure—a gift for the bold, or a curse for the damned.

“Ah, mortals, how small your lives, and yet how vast your desires. What is it you truly seek? Gold to weigh down your coffers? Power to bend nations to your will? Eternal life to escape the slow decay of time? No… your dreams are far darker, your hungers far deeper. I see them, raw and unguarded, buried beneath your trembling hearts.

Take me, and I shall make you mighty. Together, we will raise empires and shatter thrones. Together, we will challenge the heavens themselves and watch the gods cower. Whatever you crave, I shall deliver. Whatever you fear, I shall destroy. Wield me, and I will make your name legendary.”

Hello,

I am writing my first story and have a question. As I'm writing and finding my "voice", I am noticing my sentences tend to have two different "styles" to them. Maybe "prose" is the correct term for what I'm describing?

One seems more past tense while the other feels more present tense. Is there a preference for readers? A sentence structure I should follow more often?

Option 1:

Kael stopped for a moment and rested against a tree while he let the weight of his pack ease from his shoulders.

Option 2:

Kael stopped for a moment, resting against a tree and letting the weight of his pack ease from his shoulders.

I have tried to research the above, but I'm not exactly sure what to look for and where to find good, credible resources.

I'm new to writing fantasy. I'm trying to study and apply what I learn as I write. Any feedback on the above would be helpful, and I am always open to suggestions of resources to check out for more learning.

(This is all very much as work in progress world, any and all support and criticism is much appreciated! This is the origin story for one of the protagnists of the world.)

An elf of dark skin, bright red eyes, long white dreads, and pointed ears steps off a cart and finds herself in the midst of the largest city in the continent. She grabs her shotgun off the cart and looks around. Ita had never been in a place like this before; all her past jobs have just been simple mercenary work around the continent, just trying to get by really. She never saw herself as a hero or some sort of warrior of justice yet here she is, a Private in the Mercenaries Guild. Honestly, she just wanted to make it to the next day so she could enjoy her next drink in peace.

"Bernalejo… it's a lot more… cramped than I imagined," she says to herself.

"Who 'ya talking to?" Says the driver.

"Oh, sorry, just thinkin' out loud." Ita says as she grabs the rest of her gear from the cart and makes her way to the guild hall, the city seems different from what she heard growing up. Here she sees these giant walls throughout the city, and even around the pyramid. While she's not religious herself she remembers back home the pyramid was something to be open to the public but this one is just locked up, abandoned.

"Hey, you the new girl." a distant voice says.

"Yes, I am." Ita says in the general direction, not exactly sure who said it.

A serpentine Ācõātl man says walking up to her reaching his scaly hand out for a hand shake. She returns the greeting and they both make their way to a tent where there are various cots and fellow members doing simple tasks such as cleaning their weapons or organizing their sections of the tent.

"This is where you'll be staying, just pick a cot and call it your new home." The man says waving his arm across the room showing it to her like it's something to be awed at.

"Really, this is the Bernalejo, I assumed I'd be staying in something… you know a bit more… um sturdy, I mean we're soldiers." Ita says with a slight disappointed tone.

"All the other barracks are packed, we gotta move everybody else out here."

Ita looked around once more, noticing that this place was barely filled, unless everyone else was out eating or working she couldn't believe that this is the place where she'll stay. She makes her way to a cot in the corner where she takes her shotgun off of her back and lays it on the side of the cot, and her bag with extra clothes and ammo, she plops right next to it.

"Well, home sweet home I guess." She then lays down and rests her eyes, hoping that maybe she'll wake up in a bed better for her back.

Once woken up she realizes the tent is now empty, the sun is setting, and a small fire pit is set up outside. She makes her way outside, she sees that the man that greeted her is standing on a small box and giving orders to the rest of the members and she makes her way towards the center to hear what he was saying.

"Good you're awake, just in time for your job." He says to her as he looked down on the parchment in his hand. "You'll be guarding a treasury uptown, they got some valuable items in and that makes them a target for break in, so you'll go with Mahpiya, she'll help guide you.

Suddenly a Mixtitlan woman walks up to her with a smile on her face. She was an Avian women with a body of white feathers and a golden beak.

"Don't worry, it's slow in these parts of the city so it should be an easy night." She says to Ita, trying to make her less stressed out about her first shift.

While walking to the treasury the Mixtitlan women introduces herself. "Hey, I'm Mahpiya," she says in a soft tone and a gentle look in her eyes.

"I'm Ita." She responds, as she looks towards Mahpiya she notices that her outfit is different, not like hers. It seemed to be more built for colder climates, not at all a place like this, she had on a thick leather jacket, with fur around the collar, she also has a small automatic rifle hanging from her shoulder, a type of weapon Ita wasn't used to despite her admiration for firearms.

"Hey, are you a mercenary member? You just seemed to be dressed differently, no offense." Ita asked

"Ah, none taken." Mahpiya says with a playful punch to the shoulder. "I'm a part of the Wótʼááh Naabaahiis. While we aren't a part of the guild officially we're the only ones who know how to use air ships and planes properly and fix them up. So we help them, and they stay away from our people, simple as that."

"Huh, I never knew that. But why did they send you to help me. This is just guard duty." Ita asks.

"Well I'm the only one nice enough to help the new people. Everyone else up there is just a bunch of brain-dead killer; all they do is hear orders and act upon them. No sense of emotion up there ya know?" Mahpiya says

"Damn, you actually got some personality, I think this job isn't going to be as boring as I thought." Ita says back with a chuckle

They soon make it to the treasury, a building just sitting in a quiet neighborhood no movement or noises at all. Just the sound of distant vehicles and the night breeze. So they both do what they must and stand by the front door with nothing else to do but make small-talk.

"What about you?" Mahpiya says to break the quiet.

'What?" Ita responds with.

"I mean I gave you a bit of of myself, what should I know about you?"

"Umm well I wouldn't say my life story is something worth bragging about." Ita says with a deep breath.

"It's alright I'm not just asking to just to be nice, I ain't like that." Mahpiya says in assurance "Plus we got nothing else to do, these streets are empty."

"Alright… well..." Ita finally says

It was a dark night and Ita and her little step sister Luysa peer through the bushes as they see the Kanaval Dye Yo in front of them. Floats, lights, and new forms of music are being thrown around as they are both being bombarded with new forms of simulation never before sensed.

"Are you sure we should be here, papa says we aren't allowed outside the village." says with a sense of fear in her voice.

"Who cares what he says, look at this, Agüeybaná has been keeping us from this for our whole lives." Ita says waving her arm showcasing the scene in front of them.

"Alright, if you say so." Luysa says in a calmer voice.

They both make their way out of the bushes and onto the streets where they are met with crowds of drunken dancers in outfits of bright colors. Making sure her little sister's hand is in hers they make their way to a crowded bar where there is music and dancers all around. Finding a seat at the bar, Ita is excited to try these colorful beverages she always heard about. Not knowing what to ask for and assaulting the bartender in vague descriptions of multiple drinks and cocktails she finally gets a bottle of something, probably just to get her to stop talking, she wasn't sure what it was but she felt free holding the dark brown bottle in her hands. Taking a sip she has this feeling of bitter and gross slop ruining her taste buds, but she stubbornly drinks it and forces a smile.

"This is so good!" she says waving it in the air as she leads a cheer in the room as the attendees applaud this simple yet daring act.

"Um… Ita, can we go somewhere else, it's just too loud in here." Luysa says tugging on her sister's shirt.

"Huh, yeah let's head outside, that's where all the music is coming from!" Ita yells tugging her sister out the door and out towards the floats and dancers.

"C'mon let's try to get one to one!" Ita tells her sister, racing towards a float ignoring her sisters tugs against it.

They both get on a large float where other members were partying on top of. Ita heads towards the center and does her best to match their dances, enjoying these new sounds of brass, percussion, and loud vocals singing not of the gods of simple joys of life. As Ita flails around in joy she suddenly feels pressure hit against her hands, as she turns she sees that she hits another person near by her. In anger the man hits back only to strike another party goer, this quickly ends up as a drunken float brawl. Ita soon notices that she doesn't have a grasp on her sister only to see that in the moving bodies she is crawling underneath them all back towards the bayou. During this a fist swings into Ita's face causing her to instinctively punch back.

"Luysa wait!" Ita yells as she continues to defend herself. She finds time to push herself through the crowd and follows her sisters trail leading right back to the center of the village, back to the council's chamber. Making her way towards it she peeks only to see that Luysa is in tears in the arms of her father.

"Ita!" A voice booms.

She slowly walks in, clutching her own forearm and looking down.

"Yes… Agüeybaná" Ita says quietly.

"That is father to you… How could you do this, my one rule is to stay in the village it is not safe for you out there not with all those transgressors. And to think you had to drag my youngest daughter into this." Agüeybaná says looking down at Luysa.

"She's your only daughter!" Ita yells quickly. "I'm am not your child, my parents are dead-."

"And I made an effort to take you in, all I want to do is to keep you safe. And yes that means staying here in the village with me and in my sight."

"So that just means I'm going to live here all my life living a worthless life under these stupid rules!" Ita yells back.

"We live under the rules of the gods, and it is because of these rules we can be safe, and live the lives we are meant to-." Agüeybaná explains before being cut off.

"Nan lanfè with the gods!" Ita yells at Agüeybaná. "They killed my parents, you speak like you're my father but you aren't… and you'll never be!"

With this final statement and a look of shock on Agüeybaná's face Ita runs out of the village without giving anyone time to react to what was just stated.

"Gods… I'm sorry I had no idea that-" Mahpiya says

"No don't worry about it, I was young and it was stupid of me to react that way." Ita says looking down

"Well did you ever go back?" asks Mahpiya

"No, and honestly I'm not sure whether I will or not." Ita explains.

Just then there is a crash as a figure from the inside of the treasury breaks out from the front window, glass and broken bits of jewelry flail out. A red and black serpentine man with a singular mini treasure box runs out into the street.

"What the-!" Ita yells. Then in that split second Ita races towards the figure pulling out her shotgun.

"Look it's not worth it Ita." Mahpiya tried to yell out.

Ita shoots towards the racing man but misses as she shoots with anger at the man and he wisps past each shot. Realizing she uses every shell she has in anger she chucks her gun at the man hoping to do something but it misses as well and the man runs out into the darkness.

"Fuck!" Ita yells

As Mahpiya reaches her she puts her hand on her shoulder in assurance. "Look, it was only one thing, lets head back and check if anything else was taken."

After the search and explaining the events to their boss the two decide to go to a bar and spend the rest of their night there.

"I'll take the strongest thing you got." Ita orders the bartender.

"Not sure if an elf like you can handle it." The bartender says with a chuckle.

"Just give it to me!" Ita says in frustration as she yanks the bottle from the man's hands.

"Don't worry about him, he's just an asshole." Mahpiya explains. "C'mon, lets celebrate."

"Celebrate what? I botched my first job, and all I had to do was watch some shiny shit."

"Well, you got some baggage off your chest, that's gotta count for something?" Mahpiya says with a soft smile on her face.

"You know what.. fuck it. I'll drink to it." Ita says in a sarcastic but happy tone as she pours Mahpiya a glass and she drinks straight from the bottle of moonshine.

The two spend the rest of the night, boozed up and enjoying this small moment sitting in a small dingy bar as the moonlight shines inside the bar, giving the room a dreamlike scene.

Hey guys! I'm currently working on my very first ever book (fantasy) and am having a bit of trouble coming up with some last names.

For context, the characters are merfolk (mermaids, sirens, selkies, etc.) and they're a part of the Royal family (ruling family...still figuring it all out). They're not "good" merfolk, more of the trickster type who makes treaties and vows but breaks them and lies all the time.

I've tried using websites like Fantasy Name Generators but all of them keep coming up with last names like "Leafheart" and "Seadust". These sound a bit too "first-time author" to me, and I don't want it to sound like 2010 fantasy surnames that try too hard to be creative. I want the last names to sound more regal but I'm having trouble finding prompts or ideas.

Is anyone else struggling with a similar issue, or is there anyone that has ideas to help??