So i am writing a book where 1 of the characters is magic. Magic being both spell casting and imagination across the multiverse. The character becomes magic over time and training so I am working on magic systems they adapt to. I have tried to add about 4 for them as a general basis for power. The main reason for this post is words.

Normal rune magic but what words would be needed for it? I have unlock/open, lock/close, loosen/weaken, bond/strengthen, up, down, side, power, and circle/return. I'm looking for general words that can be used like this.

For instance to unlock someone's magical abilities it would be lock loosen power. Unlock power could mean let the power leave them. Circle power loosen could be a temporary binding of power. If there is any confusion please let me know. It's supposed to be translating something that really shouldn't be translated. Intentionally.

Made some changes based on feedback. I wonder if I have improved.

Prologue:

Rain poured from the heavens, its relentless drumming, rhythmic and loud. Puddles rapidly formed in every gap and crevice, reflecting the light of street signs and lampposts. A howling wind picked up, scattering crumpled newspapers across the side of a rundown building, adorned with graffiti and decay.

A light as bright as the sun engulfed an alleyway and the figure of a man materialised from dust and smoke. Straining to breathe, his muscles ached from the sudden shift to form. He released an exhausted breath, keeling over in pain. Not just his body protested, but his soul, it felt like it was dragged through the eye of a needle and poured out the other side.

He felt the world lurch, shaky beneath him, he rose, pain shooting up his knees. Cracking his neck with a satisfied pop, he looked down at a puddle of water. Reflected in the pool, his mismatched eyes glared back at him, green and blue.

The oddity still sent shivers down his spine, tiny needles prickling his skin. Slowly the world came into focus. By reflex, he assumed a seated position, cross-legged, and the world went dark, his eyes giving way to weariness. He muttered in a strange language and felt the ground vibrate beneath him, every chant it rose like a pulse.

An intricate diagram manifested below him, sparing a peek, he could barely keep track of the glowing symbols constantly shifting in and out of phase. Pain lanced through his body and blinding light engulfed his vision.

Gritting his teeth, he felt a slight give, something unlatched within. Objects poured from his chest, arms and legs, clattering to the floor. They consisted of a curved silver dagger, a glowing wand, rune-etched pendants and medallions. Despite the cornucopia of items, he felt his gaze drawn to a single item.

A leather-bound grimoire, held closed by a latch. He felt the intricate design, the soft thrum of power vibrating through his palm. Memories came to the forefront of his mind, the adrenaline of flight, a stolen book.

"You better be worth all the trouble." He muttered to himself.

In the periphery, he noticed a wisp of plastic. Garbage bags were strewn about. Gathering them up, he placed the artefacts within, tying them off and slinging them over his shoulder.

What remained was a small pendant, he froze, and his grip tightened around the article. He could feel his eyes growing moist, with a great force of will, he held back the tide of raw emotion.

He opened the latch, revealing the portrait of a woman. His gaze lost on the image, he released a wary breath and closed the latch. He felt the sensation of cold metal as the chain adorned his neck. Rising to his feet, he turned to the exit.

With a sense of his environment reclaimed, he could now fathom the world around him. Not the mundane senses, but something more instinctual. It was a feeling he had ever since he cast his first spell and branded his first rune. The feeling of power, a sublime connection to an ever-present energy that pervaded the entire world.  

Standing at the entrance of a filthy alley, the sights and sounds were familiar, lampposts, darkened streets and parked cars. With all the trappings of modern life, this was earth, it felt like home. 

Despite returning to his mother-world, there was immediate repulsion. Going stiff, his senses desperately tried to locate the familiar sensation. But in the end, he felt nothing, this world was void of a precious gift.  

“This world is dead." He felt compelled to speak, trying to reach out with his mind, receiving nothing in return.

He recalled the feeling, the pulse, the thrum of power. He felt sick, not a physical sensation, his soul cried out for sustenance. Receiving not a sliver, he imagined it cannibalising itself just to keep satisfied. Shivering at the thought of the day it would run out.

His mind raced over ideas, he had prepared, but no preparation was perfect. Feeling for a tether, something to hold on to. The sensation of warmth and life poured over him, the moment his soul made contact.

A sense of a sphere, not physical anymore. He could feel neither form nor matter. It dwelled within, a store of power, a reservoir of hope. He shivered, the sensation overwhelmed him and he was content. But he knew it wouldn't last, nothing lasts forever.

Taking his first steps in this known yet unknown land. His fists clenched, and he shrugged away the tension in his shoulders. Keeping the feeling of raw power, his steps were resolute and final.

So, I've been writing this book for a while and was just hoping to get some kind of critique for my current WIP. I am new-ish to the writing community so I hope you like it.

^(“Through the darkest nights, I will be your light. When the snow thickens, I will be your warmth. And in the summer’s brief bloom, I will rejoice by your side.” Before them all present stood the couple, their voices and hands intertwined, as they spoke in perfect harmony. Keevan occupied the front row, his feet fidgeting restlessly beneath the seat, a silent dance of impatience.)

^(The night was bitterly cold, as was customary in the shadowed expanse of The Northern Ridge. Flickering flames danced atop the towering pyres that lined the winding paths, casting a feeble glow upon the ancient stone walkways. Atop the towering heights of Mount Taecelyx, where the winds whispered prayers of the mountain gods, the grand wedding of Alyria Norridge was unfolding.)

^(She, the cherished sister of Keevan’s, had reached the tender age of seventeen winters, and now stood poised to unite her fate with that of Elrin Myridge. He was the son of Jamie Myridge, the master-at-arms in service to Keevan’s father, a burly man of strength and honour. The invitation had spread like wildfire among their kin and acquaintances, drawing all who knew them to witness this sacred union amidst the clouds.)

^(“Together, by the ridge that protects us, and as the sky watches, we pledge ourselves to one another. In every winter and storm, we are bound.” Alyria and Elrin continued in unison.)

^(“I am his. And he is mine. From this day, until my last.” Alyria said, her blue eyes gazing into the man’s who stood opposite her.)

^(“I am hers. And she is mine. From this day, until my last.” Elrin echoed, a smile gracing his lips.)

^(The minister, a stout fellow with a round belly that jiggled around like jelly, beamed as he addressed the gathered souls. “By the grace of the Father, the River-Mother, and the Huntress who watches over us, I stand before you, and with the authority bestowed upon me, I declare you bound as husband and wife.”)

^(The youthful pair then leaned in, their lips meeting in a tender embrace that marked their union, while Keevan's stomach twisted in turmoil at the sight. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if to block out the world. Kissing had never been his inclination; he had long thought it a mere folly of youth. Yet here he stood, on the brink of his fourteenth winter, and still the very notion of it stirred a deep-seated revulsion within him.)

^(A sound of retching pierced the air beside him, drawing Keevan from the depths of his thoughts. He blinked open his eyes to find Jacharys, his younger brother, barely six winters old, contorted in a mask of disgust. The boy’s tiny face was a portrait of horror, his crimson brows knitted tightly together. Keevan couldn’t help but think it was a touch overdramatic. With an exasperated roll of his eyes, he sighed heavily. Jacharys had an uncanny knack for riling him up, a talent that left Keevan pondering the very nature of his brother’s mischief.)

^("Jacharys, mind your manners," came a voice from the shadows. The brothers, as if bound by an unseen thread, turned their gazes in unison. It was their mother, Lady Elara, the graceful Lady of Farrenfall, her presence commanding yet gentle.)

^(Keevan felt a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he pivoted to face the front once more. In stark contrast, Jacharys emitted a low growl of frustration. His baby brother was a greater nuisance than a stubborn pebble lodged in the gap of one’s boot, he always thought.)

^(At long last, the ceremony drew to a close, much to the relief of all present. The newlyweds had exchanged their peculiar ‘mountain vows,’ a ritual that Keevan had never fully grasped. He was aware, however, that the couple partook of a bowl filled with melted snow, a gesture steeped in some kind of ancient significance, though he had never found the courage to inquire further.)

^(As they descended the hallowed slopes of the sacred mountain, Keevan quickened his pace to match that of his father, Lord Nathar Norridge. With a furrowed brow, he inquired, “Father, what purpose does this ritual of drinking from the bowl of melted snow serve?”)

^(His father let out a hearty laugh, “Boy. I find it hard to believe you remain in the dark, given the countless tomes you devour.” He ran his fingers through his dark brown beard, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “My own father once imparted to me that it represents both purity and resilience, yet the meaning of such an age-old custom eludes me still…”)

^(Keevan clenched his jaw, a wave of irritation washing over him. It was undeniable that he was an avid reader, finding solace in the pages of countless books. Yet, the ancient tales of The Old Gods of The Mountain eluded his interest. Instead, he found himself drawn to the fanciful narratives spun by Corren, the bookkeeper of Farrenfall, whose stories danced with imagination and whimsy.)

^(He descended the mountain with a quiet grace, his hands buried deep within the folds of his pockets, seeking warmth against the biting chill. As he approached, the gates of Farrenfall swung wide, welcoming him and his father into its embrace. Farrenfall had always held a special place in his heart, a bastion of his lineage. Whether it was the sense of belonging or the kindness of its people that thawed the frost beneath his boots, he could not say. Home. It was the singular word that described all he felt.)

^(He was ushered into the dining hall of the stronghold, a lofty chamber where the walls were draped in the hides of beasts and adorned with the gleaming blades of his forebears. Each sword bore a name, steeped in tales as rich and intricate as the lives of those who had once wielded them. There hung Fylian the Tall’s longsword, known as Khaos, its sharp, dark edge whispering of ancient battles. Nearby, the fabled Dark Sister, once gripped by Lady Irene, a figure from nearly three centuries past, seemed to shimmer with the weight of her legacy.)

^(Keevan cast his gaze upon the weapon sheathed in the scabbard shaped like a phoenix's tail. With deliberate care, he drew the blade from its resting place. Crafted from Ridged Steel, it was not overly long, matching the length of his own torso. Among the Norridges, a blade held a significance akin to that of blood itself. Whispers echoed that the worth of a blade's steel mirrored the worth of its wielder, yet Keevan had always dismissed such foolishness with a wave of his hand.)

^(“Keevan, come along now! The feast will vanish before you can even blink.” His father’s voice echoed from the far side of the room. “Jacharys may well devour the entirety of it, if you’re not careful, boy.”)

^(Keevan settled into his place at the lengthy dining table, the wood polished to a sheen that caught the flickering candlelight. At the head of the table, his father loomed like a great bear, his jaws working through a hearty mouthful of venison, the rich aroma filling the air. Beside him sat Fylian, his elder brother, a man of twenty winters whose silence spoke volumes. To Keevan, Fylian always bore the weight of unspoken thoughts, as if the burdens of the realm rested heavily upon his brow. He was the commander of the Northern Birds, the kingdom's fierce army, and whispers of his prowess had reached Keevan's ears, painting a picture of a man skilled in the art of war.) 

^(Father raised his voice, “Lian, report on the condition of our troops. How do they hold up? Do they require additional reinforcements, boy?”)

^(“Not at the moment, Father.” Fylian said.)

^(Their father let out a hearty laugh, “Ah, those were the days. I recall when your uncle Eddard was at the helm. What a cock–up that turned out to be. We were on the brink of a rebellion, I tell you.”)

^(Keevan's lips curled into a faint smile as he recalled the memory of his late uncle. Though not the wisest of men, he had managed to navigate the treacherous waters of life for four decades, which spoke volumes. Eddard had a remarkable talent for drinking, often besting even the most seasoned of revellers. His mother would often chide, declaring that had he not held the title of Commander of The Northern Birds, he could have easily found a place as the family’s official wine–maker.)

^(Mother hastily said, “My dear, please. I doubt that Alyria and Jacharys wish to endure another tale of your brother.”)

^(Their father inclined his head once more, casting a glance at his littlest son. “Your mother speaks wisely, lad. Eat up all of your meals. We require strength and courage… One day, you shall be the Lord of Farrenfall. A worthy lord must possess a keen mind, my boy.”)

^(Those words. A worthy lord must possess a keen mind. Keevan had heard that one phrase repeated to him countless times, as if it were a sacred incantation whispered by his father. Whenever he faltered in his aim during archery lessons with Ser Myridge, those words would strike his mind with the swiftness of a thunderclap, urging him to take up his bow once more and strive for perfection.)

^(He could not fathom why his father held those words in such reverence. It had been many years since the lord had tasted the bitterness of battle. Long before any of his offspring drew breath, and well before he had laid eyes upon the woman who would become his heart's desire, he had stood amidst the chaos of yet another uprising. Raiders from a far-off realm had sought to breach the thick woods that shielded Farrenfall, intent on claiming it as their own. They named it the Battle of The Phoenixfyre Grove, a title that belied the carnage that had unfolded.)

^(In that very battle, his father had met with a grim fate, the left hand severed in a single, brutal stroke, now a mere wooden stub in its place. This was a story Keevan had heard recounted countless times, each retelling steeped in the weight of memory. His father spoke of the moment with a fierce pride, claiming that after the hand was lost, Nathar had seized the bloody stub and used it to smash the face of the man who had wrought such a cruel deed.)

^(The revelry continued unabated, with guests rising from their seats to partake in lively jigs and join in the chorus of timeworn sea shanties. Keevan surveyed the scene, noting the merriment that enveloped the hall; laughter echoed, and joy reigned supreme, save for Fylian, whose rare smiles were as elusive as a clear sky in the shadow of the great peaks. While the rest of Calyndor basked in sunlight almost year round, it seemed the imposing mountains that cradled their lands conspired to keep the warmth at bay, casting a perpetual gloom over their festivities.)

^(As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the stone walls, Keevan retreated to his chambers, his stomach content with the rich fare of the evening's feast, accompanied by a fine goblet of wine, while the echoes of laughter and music danced in his ears, leaving behind a dull but mild throb in his temples. His eyes, heavy with fatigue, surrendered to the embrace of slumber the moment he sank into the soft embrace of his bed, drifting into dreams as if pulled by the very tides of the night.)

This is the start of a 105k-word novel. I've already had critique partners and beta readers look at it and received encouraging feedback. I've also gotten some helpful insight from this sub concerning the first paragraph. I'd appreciate your constructive comments on the opening three pages. Thank you!

1 – The Jizyah

The last time they sent a force this size, they took my sister. I bolted home through the muddy village streets as soon as I saw them on the horizon. There were at least thirty goblin warriors–an entire mounted platoon armed with war scythes and crossbows. They’d come a week early, and the jizyah payment wasn’t ready.

My father waited outside to meet them, sitting atop Thunder, his ash-colored stallion. His sun-darkened face looked grim behind his graying beard. Deep wrinkles and a jagged scar down his cheek made him appear much older than forty-six, evidence of a hard life.

I watched the goblins descend on the village square from the second-floor window of our house. My older brother, Jacob, stood beside me, along with our mother.

“Why so many?” I asked, trying to hide my nerves.

“It must be the war, Maximus,” Jacob said in a grave tone. “It’s gone on too long, and they need more conscripts.”

My heart pounded, and an icy jolt shot through my body at the mention of conscripts. Mother wrapped her calloused hands around Jacob and stroked his raven black hair. He was twenty-two now, the ideal age for conscription. His tall, muscular build made him perfect for the infantry, fodder for the goblin war machine.

I was only seventeen, so this conscription might pass me over, even if I was almost identical to my brother. Strangers often mistook us for twins, although Jacob was an inch taller and had our mother’s long face. The notion of either of us fighting in the western marshlands made bile rise in my throat. Why should we give our lives so that Zalam’s armies could oppress another helpless region of Terra Doloris?

Two goblin warriors rode ahead of the column into the village center. Red officer’s tassels dangled from their helmets. Dark steel armor covered their stocky bodies, and swords hung from their waists. A human translator rode beside them, clad in a black azzerim uniform. The outline of a pig’s face had been seared into his neck, the branding that identified him as a Gaelech worshipper and a traitor to the faith of our druim people.

A cold breeze carried the musky stench of the approaching party. Their armored horses huffed plumes of white into the crisp winter air. The goblins’ slit eyes scanned the village square before locking on my father. The larger goblin grunted in the harsh Durus language. The clacking of the hideous words made me shiver.

 “Lord Zalam sends a message to the village of Parvos,” the azzerim called out. The man looked the same age as my father but fatter and darker around the eyes.

“I’m the regent of Parvos,” Father answered. “What’s Lord Zalam’s bidding today?”

“You’ve not paid your jizyah,” the azzerim translated. “We’ve come to enlist soldiers into his majesty’s army.”

“We’ve handed over our jizyah each season,” Father said. “They have no right to conscript our young men.”

The lead goblin grunted.

“Are you accusing Captain Azelbub of lying?” the azzerim asked.

A baseless accusation. It was clear the goblins weren’t leaving until they’d pressed half the village into service. They’d probably make off with most of the food supplies as well. Mother’s dirty blond hair matted against her face as she fought back tears. Jacob’s gray eyes held back any sign of emotion. We’d decided to go stoically if a day like this ever came. That would make it easier on our parents.

“I accuse no one,” Father replied, “but we have documents to prove we paid.”

The translator interpreted another series of grunts. “But now your payments are behind. Your protection is at risk. Captain Azelbub cannot be held responsible if someone were to attack this village.”

A threat if I ever heard one.

 “If the captain believes our jizyah payments are behind,” Father said, “I appeal to the courts.”

Azelbub dismounted and howled in the brutal Durus language. The translator swallowed hard, concern in his eyes for my father’s well-being.

“What’s he doing?” Jacob whispered. “The courts will never give us a fair judgment.”

“They might if we pay them enough,” I said.

“Yeah, but it’s cheaper to pay the jizyah.”

The translator relayed Azelbub’s words before I could argue against permitting the goblins to extort us, not that bribing a judge was better.

“Captain Azelbub is offended you don’t trust him,” the translator said. “He believes you are lying because you’ve squandered the payment.”

“That’s not true,” Father replied. “I’m an honest man. Come back next week, and you’ll get your jizyah.”

“In that case, the captain proposes a test of your honesty.”

Father tilted his head to one side and eyed the captain. “What does he have in mind?”

Azelbub grunted out a lengthy statement in Durus. The other goblin officer cackled. The translator’s face turned stony, and a muscle twitched in his jaw.

I gulped. I only understood a little Durus, but I recognized the word katali. Kill him.

The translator cleared his throat. “The captain challenges you to answer one question. If you lie, Lord Azelbub will burn your village and impale you in the square.”

Mother gasped. Terror flashed in Jacob’s eyes. Loathing crept into my bones.

Father met Azelbub’s gaze. “And when I answer truthfully?”

“If you tell the truth, Captain Azelbub agrees to leave your village and return next week for the jizyah.”

I clenched my fist until my knuckles turned white. I detested Azelbub and his obvious ploy to entrap my father, but there wasn’t a thing I could do.

My father took a breath of cold air. “What’s your question?”

I have tried many things already but I simply can't make some surprise appear surprising or make a fight scene feel quick.

I don't feel any difficulty when I'm describing the scenes but they don't have the quickness or surprise I try to make.

I won't describe much about what it is because it isn't necessarily important.

It's basically about a guy who is in the middle of a bunch of schemes and he takes a while to figure it out. When he discovers what things actually are he is supposed to be surprised but the reader is too.

I simply can't make that atmosphere. I tried making some fight scenes too and I have no problem creating the scene in my mind and describing it but attacks that are supposed to feel quick or sudden don't feel that way...

I tried using smaller words and writing less words per line to make reading quicker but I just can't do it.

What do I do? How am I supposed to make these scenes feel surprising or make the quickness apparent?

There was also a scene where the main character is supposed to feel scared about a cat in the start when he hasn't realized anything but I just can't describe he taking a step back and the cat attacking his face...

Also,it may seem like it's not fantasy but it DOES have fantasy in the story. The thing is that magic or similar things are supposed to be hidden in the start so I didn't describe it here.

I just need some judgment about this opening passage. A sample of my current writing ability and criticism is welcome.

Darren never met his mother. The woman who hangs in the attic, her photo trapped in a rusted frame, forgotten. Pieces of her life scattered around the house: a lost earring he found under a divan, a wedding gift never opened—the ribbon frayed; and a ring smothered in cloth hoarded in the back of a cellar closet, lest it remind his father that she ever existed. The heartless bastard.

He stood before that very closet, his hand clutched around the splintered wooden knob. A decrepit lightbulb stained the cellar in harsh yellow cast odd shadows on stacks of dusty boxes. A wet, moldy musk invaded his nose at every breath.

For weeks, something had been calling him here. A drum that beat throughout the house only he could hear. The one time he saw the ring was when his father tried to offer it to Vernica, his stepmother. Of course, the uppity bitch rejected anything that wasn't new.

(Note: I'm french so please excuse my terrible english, i'll do my best)

Hi everyone, i had a very hard time figuring out what was considered a " EVENT " in a story but i think i finally managed to at least understand two of the common use of the word, and then later on i'll have to also figure out what is considered a " BEAT " but that's for another post.

-1. The school definition of event: is everything that happen in the story encompassing character actions but also everything else such as any sort of occurence: rain, a volcanic eruption, rocks detaching themselves from a bigger rock and falling on the ground, lightbulbs exploding (hello horror movies), a car engine failure, a neighbor knocking on your door asking for salt, or even someone accidentaly breaking his neck EVERYTHING THAT HAPPEN IN A STORY OR MORE PRECISELY EVERYTHING THAT CHARACTER DOES, THAT HAPPEN TO THEM OR AROUND THEM all those are events by the school definition of an event in a story but .... and this is where my brain was braining .. They are also " NOT " event at all from this other definition

-2. The novelist definition of event is use as: Something meaningful that CHANGE de course of the story, the key word here is CHANGE Jack open the door is an event from the school definition which mean it is something that happen in the story which also happen to be something a character does but it doesn't have to be if they were a thunderstorm and a cut in power it wouldn't be a character action yet still something that happen in the story therefore an event but from the novelist perspective it would not be an event UNLESS the " what happened " CHANGE the course of the story for example Jack open the door would not be an (from the novelist pov) event if it didn't have any sort of repercution or if it didn't change the direction of the story but the same Jack open the door would be an (novelist event) if Jack were made prisoner and he was trying to escape, him opening that damn door would then be an event since it would change the direction of the story!

HOPEFULLY i get all this (above) right and hopefully there is only two use for the word event ...

Also i now have two more questions from that understanding:

Let's say i wanted my character to steal something from some place but a guard that was not suppose to work that night was actually, from where i am with my understanding of stories (noobie) this would be a " complication/obstacle " preventing my character to reach his goal (steal the thing), since a story event is " something that change the direction of a/the story " my question then is:

-1. Is this an event in the sense that it change the course of my character actions or is it just complication/obstacle of the scene ?

Which then lead to my second question

-2. " what's the difference with a MINOR event and a MAJOR one "

Thanks to anyone who will try to help me

I am thinking about writing my fantasy series as the memoirs of the MC. However, since he dies in the very end, the story isn’t complete in his writings. Additionally, I need to have chapters with POVs for different characters throughout the series and the MC doesn’t even know some of them.

So I was thinking to write the chapters with my MC’s POV and present them as his personal diary. Then I’ll add the chapters with all the other characters told by a third person narrator.

My idea is that the book series I write are actually an in-world history book. The scholars and historians wanted to tell the whole story of all the events in my books so they gathered everything the MC has written about his journeys and added every other information they could gather from the participants in the events and then compiled it in a single work. They wanted to keep the original feel and first-hand experience from the MC diaries so they decided not to retell them but to include them unchanged.

What so you think about that? Do you think it is a good idea to have the chapters with the main character as a first person POV and then the rest of the chapters as third person POV?

I like action movies, and one of my favourite things in fantasy fiction is cool fantasy powers being used in clever ways (Stormlight Archive, Attack on Titan, JoJo's).

But I have a nitpick that a lot of anti-war media (especially mecha like Gundam and Attack on Titan) will in its form as action fiction make war seem super cool and badass, even if it's brutal or sad.

My work is a space opera where the main characters are trying to stop a senseless war from killing more people, but I also think space battles and hard magic combining with military tactics are pretty cool in concept. Is there a way around this dilemma? Action as thriller/horror? Focus away from the tactical minutia of the action and onto civilian reactions (like in Gundam Hathaway)? Just do whatever I feel like since it's a hobby novel and it's not that serious?

Any thoughts would be nice

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy. Really, I'm just looking to see if this excerpt flows well, and if it would hook you as a reader. Thanks again!

The young man prepared to sit in the Chair.

The other knights looked on with the air of men attending an execution. There was a silence - the foreboding kind, a silence like a crystal vase as it falls from a shelf towards the unforgiving floor.

This Chair (capital C, you’ll notice) was one of many in the room, but it stood unique. The rest of these were lowercase chairs, and wooden - the Chair was cream-colored marble, and legless, almost crude - merely a indent hewn into a single boulder. No one had sat in it yet… at least, no one who hadn’t been carried away to his grave immediately thereafter. The Chair was drawn up to a Table, as were the unexceptional others.

If the Chair seemed immovable, the Table was continental. It was a single trunk, massive in diameter, stretching away across the floor like a dark and frozen sea. The rings of the face of the trunk, which was the top of the Table, were thicker than a man’s thumb. Arthur, in his first days as king, had employed three great mathematicians to count the rings and thus calculate the age of the Tree when it had been felled. After several sleep-deprived weeks, they’d worked their way back to 322 BC… and then in the midst of an argument about which Egyptian dynasty had ruled then, they’d lost their place and given up. They couldn’t begin to guess what had felled the primordial plant, but they said it must’ve been God himself - who else had even a hope?

The castle had been built around the Table, and it was said that Camelot owed her infallibility to the behemoth root system which bound her unshakeably to the Earth. This, Dear Reader, was the Round Table of King Arthur.

Alcoves were cut into the trunk at regular intervals, providing places for the chairs to be pushed, or for the armored legs of knights when they were seated. The face of the Table danced with multicolored lights, cast by the stained glass windows which graced the domed stone ceiling. These depicted many scenes from the Scriptures, but focused especially on imaging the tales of David and Solomon. Tapestries hung from the walls like robes off the shoulders of a king. These were emblazoned with tales of knighthood and chivalry - often representing an escapade of one of the silent knights who was now huddled within this very hall.

Fire crackled in golden braziers along the dark stone walls. The embers, as they popped and jumped, were the solitary defiant sound among the stillness.

The young man paused. He was nervous - that in itself wasn’t unusual for him, but it was irregular for him to let his hesitation show. He was the best knight in the land, and he never let anyone see his nerves - but this Chair had taken lives.

It was known that only the knight who was worthy to seek the Holy Grail could sit down and survive. Seventeen men had sat down before him, and none of them had risen again.

He took a deep breath.

“Remember, Galahad,” he thought to himself, “you’ve spent your whole life training for this. This - and only this - is the path to redemption.”

He steadied his resolve, and took another breath.

In…

Out…

Every muscle in the Great Hall was tensed. Every eye was unblinking.

The young knight began to sit-

Ah - just a moment. Perhaps it would be helpful if I could give a brief history of the Chair.

They called it the Siege Perilous. Siege, you see, is an old word meaning seat, and perilous is an old word meaning perilous. After Arthur had established Camelot and the Table, it had just appeared one day - there was no flash of light, no burst of fire. At 2:12 on a fine Wednesday afternoon it wasn’t there, and then at 2:13, it was. Merlin, of course, had known it was coming, and had delivered a prophecy the very same day (at about 3:30).

“One will sit the Siege,” he’d said “and so, the time for the Quest shall come. Three will go and achieve this thing, three white bulls of noble bearing. One shall walk with a broken leg, the next shall have his horns cut off, and the last shall go up in smoke on the altar. One of these shall exceed his father like the lion exceeds the leopard. They shall go forth into fallen and forlorn lands, and retrieve the Cup of Christ, and with it they shall establish a kingdom of heaven, a kingdom of righteousness, right here on the face of the earth.”

As you can see, it was quite mysterious and vague, as all good prophecies should be. Merlin had been quite proud of it. Despite the fogginess, the Knights of the Table had gotten quite excited. Things had become rather boring, you see, since the Romans had been cowed and the Northern rebels had submitted. The Knights were hungry for a quest, and this seemed the Quest to end all others. What trophy could outrank the Grail? Especially if it’s achievement was prophesied to transform Camelot into heaven on earth…

True, the excitement waned a little after the first few to sit the Siege met their unfortunate ends. The Knights sensed a deadly pattern, and none of them was quite confident enough to assume they’d be the one to break it.

Except Galahad.

He drew one more deep breath (potentially the last he would ever draw.) There was a fire of determination in his eyes.

He sat.

The air went out of the room. One icy eternity passed, and then another… and the young knight continued not to die.

They waited a few more seconds, just to be sure (this would certainly be an awkward occasion on which to celebrate too early) - and then, once danger had surely passed, the hall erupted.

Cheers arose like a roaring geyser. Knights leapt up onto the table, whooping and hollering, clapping each other on the back and scooping each other up in bear hugs, no regard for the usual standards of noble dignity. Galahad was clapped on the shoulder until his skin bruised, and then he was hoisted up above the other knight’s heads and paraded around the hall as they bellowed out battle hymns.

The merry band called for bread and wine, and roasted meats, cakes and pies and fruits and cheese, and the courses kept coming late into the night. Arthur himself led the men in an old Welsh drinking song, which started unified and then collapsed into disparate harmonies and regional verses. The wine, surely, did not help.

There were bards present, and later, they wrote songs. What subject could be more exciting than the consummation of the Quest for the Holy Grail? Of course, the bards had to fill in a few blank spots - their memories were as hazy and wine-soaked as anyone elses.

It was the grandest feast the halls of Camelot would ever hold.

Arthur assembled his Knights early the next morning. They were tired and ragged, blinking sleep out of their eyes, but as excited as they had been the night before. He gave a mighty and rousing speech, (he was good at those), and sent them all out before noon. He knew it was best to begin while the expectation of the moment was still high - and high it was. He would think back to that morning on the day he died. His second-greatest regret in life was that he couldn’t go with them.

Arthur watched them leave from the castle wall above the gate - a proud stream of silver armor flashing in the midday sun, riding forth under the shade of their pennants and banners which flapped happily in the breeze. Like a river, they flowed strong and unified from the castle gate, but as they got further down the road, they branched off into little tributaries.

Arthur smiled. He was proud of all of them, but there was only one he watched like a hawk.

Galahad…

At the end of the riotous stupor of the previous evening, there were only two men who could walk a straight line. There were only two who smiled and talked, but never guffawed or shouted. There were only two who didn’t abandon themselves to the revelry.

Arthur himself…

And Galahad.

“There’s a fire in that boy…”, Arthur thought to himself. “A fire you’ve seen once before…”.

The lonely king lost himself in thought. The day whiled away, and the silver stream turned into a trickle, which eventually dried up. Arthur didn’t move. In his mind, he was in a field, back-to-back with a tall, dark-haired, ugly man who was the best swordsman Arthur had ever known. Their enemies fell - or more often fled - before him. Then they were in a castle gate, turning back a besieging army. Then they were on horseback, tilting in a royal tournament.

Finally, there was a torchlit room and a bed, and Arthur wasn’t supposed to be there…

He was only shaken out of his musing by a soft tug on his tunic sleeve. It was a young page, no older than ten or twelve. She looked nervous.

“M’lord?” she said, shakily. “The queen requests your presence.”

Arthur, shaking himself out of a daze, did his best to look kingly and kindly.

“Of course. Thank you for retrieving me.”

The page nodded, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.

“It’s… Reyna, isn’t it?” The king asked. He wouldn’t have believed it possible, but her eyes opened even wider.

“Y-yes, m’lord!” she stammered, amazed that he knew.

“Before we go and see the good lady Guinevere, Reyna, I have a question for you.” He said. He saw fear rise in her eyes, and then a wave of determination wash it away.

“I’ll do my best, m’lord.”

He chuckled.

“What, do you think, makes a man a good knight?”

She thought for a second.

“I think a good knight rescues damsels, slays dragons, and fights for the people of the land.”

He chuckled again.

“Oh? For the people, not for their king?”

Her face, which had returned to its usual color, was red in an instant, and he laughed out loud.

“M-m’lord, I didn’t… I didn’t mean…”

He knelt down and patted her shoulder. “I tease, Reyna, I tease. A king has to keep himself entertained somehow. I hope you’ll forgive me?”

She grinned, and nodded ever so slightly.

“Good. Then let’s be off.”

The king and the page turned, heading towards cold reality and away from the foggy warmth of memories and dreams.

This could be considered brainstorming or a question that I am seeking answer and help to.

I have two worlds. Two story ideas. And though I've thought about combining them I have yet to decide on doing so.

Currently, I am trying to decide which magic system works better in which world, but doing so changes the story and scenarios quite considerably and so I am in the process of shifting backstories and plot arcs around.

World One

A world that is low magic. Magic used to be the stereotypical magical world, until a series of wars which saw magic depleted like a battery. Basically, loss of magic kickstarted the industrial revolution. Backstory explained in one line. semi immortal woman seeks to return to her home and children after being forcefully brought to a new world, proceeded to turn everyone against her race in order to get her hands on the portal making device. Does not turn out so well.

There is a group that now spends their time executing anyone with suspected "race" blood using Obsidian Blades.

There is another group opposed to this.

This portal making device is a crystal and now serves as the prison for the semi immortal woman, hidden as a falselife on an abandoned island.

The main magic system as it is, revolves around mask magic. People wearing these masks can use magic far beyond their natural ability. (less likely to die from magic use)

World Two

A world that has magic in abundance. Magic system is based around Songmancery and crystal magic. Songmagery is where the person can weave a spell or a ward with a song or music, but ultimately now is used primarily for telling stories like VR. Crystal magic is based around sentient gems. These gems are kept in line by their Keepers. Backstory in one line. Woman got annoyed at a 'god' using their magic to save their own child and not her own, so she killed them.

Person/group/individual seek this magic mirror said to control the secret of controlling the sentient crystals, or at least making their own. Mirror contains a mysterious child who may or may not be involved with the backstory.

I am trying to figure out if one would be better served in the other. Would world one be better served by having the crystal magic of world two? Would world two be served better by having the backstory of one and visa versa.

Problems compounded by people travelling to an island in each world but for different yet similar reason and outcome.

I brainstormed this endlessly.

I've been writing sword and sorcery short stories about the adventures of an adventuring party, who are also the protagonists of my WIP. Occasionally, I'll try and get some of them published. Currently, I'm writing an email to Sword and Sorcery Magazine to submit one of them. I've been thinking of mentioning that I've posted another short story on Reddit, also about the adventuring party. But I'm scared that'll look like I'm trying to promote my story on Reddit, which I obviously don't want to do. Google isn't telling me anything helpful.

Help me out here? What's the etiquette in mentioning a story previously published on Reddit?

Hi all, I've recently joined the long lists of those attempting to tranform internal ideas into an external narrative. If possible, an entertaining one.

I'm hoping to craft a story that blends a fantasy world with subtle SciFi, and elements of Lovecraftian horror. I figured it was time I did a bit of a litmus test on whether I've got the prose chops to do it justice as a novel(s), or if I should consider another medium.

I devoured Tolkien as a teenager, along with several other speculative writers in my 20s (Lovecraft, Fiest, Martin). But with work and kids my fiction reading evaporated to the point where I feel out of touch with modern fantasy literature. I've got a daunting TBR list.

I do a great deal of technical writing through my work as an intelligence analyst, but this is my first attempt at any kind of prose. In this prologue I'm attempting to establish some mystery, my original magic system (Syntropy) and the cosmic horror tone. I'm mostly concerned about:

• Purple prose/density
• Dialogue
• overdoing the Lovecraft tone
• info dumping not feeling organic
• would you continue reading?

But of course any feedback at all is very much appreciated.

A Storm Off The Coast (working title) - Prologue: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1sMb4tJT3WfkuLfD7y5u1wDgq7t-1ZAYm/view?usp=drivesdk

NEVER written anything before, woke up and started writing a fantasy novel and I am 15,000 words deep. Hopefully this works out, I am very bad with grammer so if you see massive grammer issues feel free to tell me, I am mostly hoping word fixes it for me.

Sylias stood perched above a camp of reavers, above him lies a sky with a thin purple barrier. The snow hid him and masked his presence as their scout lies dead behind him. His death didn’t faze Sylias. Death itself was like the cold—ever present, something he had grown used to, and much like the snow fell, bodes would drop. This was the state of life in Warrin, Sylias had grown up in a small town distant from the big cities. However, information of the veil had leaked and now these bastards had come to take every resource they could get their hands on. 

Sylias brushed past his light grey cloak, brushing off some of the falling snow. He grabbed a torch from his back. He only wore a glove on his left hand and the right had burn marks all over with spots of pink on his dark brown flesh. He rubbed his index and middle finger together and created a small fire and lit the torch. After the torch was lit Sylias pushed the flaming scorching fire into his hands, he bit his lips as the fire roared and screamed before dying out. He now exuded a light heat, and he felt renewed. Sylias stood up uncaring if the reavers could see him as he jumped into the base landing safely in the middle as if he was invincible easily dusting off the 15 feet fall.  

The reavers with a look of shock on their faces and quickly scooped up their weapons. Sylias was faster however, spraying flames out of his two hands shooting 2 of them into the wall. The flames were like an unrelenting stream with extreme force as their bodies cracked on the wall. There was only 11 men in the crew, one of them which Sylias had scouted to be the leader, was a man nearly 12 feet tall. His droopy grey skin was covered by a massive cloak and a yellow mask as he grabbed a sword and shield. The other members were covered with masks, heavy coats and a mix of crossbows and daggers. 

Sylias rushed over to 3 that had aimed their crossbows and sent fire out of his two hands sending two of them into the wall. Before shooting fire out of his arm and spinning, the reaver who wore a black mask put up his hands to defend himself, but the raw speed and force of Sylias sent him flying into a wall devoid of life. The Giant had now caught up to Sylias swinging his sword. However, Sylias ducked the blow and shot fire out of his hands to make space between him and the giant. He then used his left arm to spray fire, and the giant used his shield to defend himself but was still being pushed back. Sylias used his right arm to set a nearby stack of crates on fire before he was stuck in the shoulder by a crossbow. However, the bolt was too weak for serious damage as it barely pierced his skin before it fell out of its own volition. Sylias realized he should save the giant for last and focused on the Reaver who had made it to one of the crossbows. He launched fire from both his arms and launched into a punch. However, the reaver who wore a bunny mask ducked it and pushed Sylias away before swinging his sword as if to split Sylias down the middle. Sylias jumped to the side and tried to shoot another stream of fire, however only a slight puff of flames came out.  

Luckily the reaver jumped to the side out of habit, leaving Sylias the opportunity to run over to the crates he had previously set on fire, he reached the burning crates, and he only realized now that the other reavers had fled. Once he reached the burning crates, he used his right hand to calm and absorb the flames as the left shot a ball of fire at the giant who successfully blocked it and continued moving towards Sylias. Sylias smiled, he had won, he felt fresh power coursing through his veins. He took the last of the flames as half the crates had been burned to bits. He ran over to the giant and jumped into the air and came down with the fresh power of the flames. The giant raised his shield, but Sylias came down with so much force that the shield shattered. He then grabbed the foot of the giant with a smile on his face, he swung him straight at the reaver with the bunny mask. Sending him back before throwing the giant at him as the giant landed on top of him. He then opened his mouth breathing fire that was a mix of blue and orange. The giant and reaver screamed as they were turned to ash. “Were you planning on letting those other guy's escape” Sylias looked over to see a tall man with moonlit silver skin and piercing pink eyes. Sylias said, “I knew you were out here why would I bother chasing after them as he smiled.” Aren't you supposed to be the “man dragon?” How can such a divine being make a mistake? He says with a grin. “I think those were the only ones today.” 
 
Sylias quickly returned to his usual frown and spoke “I think I was done anyway; we should look through their stuff before we leave.” The tall man said, ya know Sylias I think the mayor would appreciate it if you didn't burn half the resources.” Sylias said, “I was low on fire I just set the nearest thing on fire, as he knocks over the crates from earlier.” The tall man said, “Can't you just? Use less? Like I have seen you fight you just spew fire repeatedly even though you always complain it hurts so much to absorb fire.” “If you just used a normal weapon you wouldn't need to use the flames so much, your already faster and stronger than every man in the village even though your untrained.” These fools wouldn't stand a chance” 

This is the prologue of my planned long series. Let me know what you think.

Rain fell like an unending geyser, threatening to flood the world. The silent streets were drenched in the night skies' perspiration. The faint flickering of lights from stop signs and lampposts pervaded the realm. Not a single car could be seen traversing the dark, only the silence of a deserted world.

Within a narrow alley, by the side of a rundown restaurant, plastered with graffiti and decay, a scene ominous and silent. A howling wind picked up, scattering stray newspapers.

Suddenly a light flashed within a moment and the figure of a kneeling man materialised. He released a raspy, exhausted breath, keeling over with a pained yelp.

He floundered for a time, only rising with great effort. He wore a simple pair of blue jeans, a buttoned-up white t-shirt and a dark blue blazer. Rising to his feet and cracking his neck, his eyes shifted to the sky. Glazed over and staring into space, rain fell, yet he barely acknowledged it.

A glimmer of recognition flashed before his eyes, waking him from a dream and back to reality. Renewed with life; the figure looked to the sky. His hair was dirty blonde and short, with heterochromatic eyes, one green and one blue. His face had sharp, narrow features and a tanned complexion.

His pulse slowed, and the situation dawned on him. Realising where he was, he assumed a seated position. Cross-legged and his eyes closed, he began muttering in a strange language. Time ticked by and the ground below began to shake.

A transparent pentagram manifested, sprawling beneath him. Its glowing symbols constantly shifted in and out of phase. The muttering ended with a grunt of pain, his whole body glowed with an ethereal light, becoming transparent.

Letting out a pained shout, objects poured from his chest, arms and legs. Clattering on the floor, they solidified into reality. The man rolled over, panting all the while, he raised his head, taking stock.

Caressing each item, almost lovingly, he noted the inventory. They consisted of a curved silver dagger, with a ruby hilt, and a wand made of ash, pulsating with an emerald light. Several pendants and medallions, etched with runes. Many other artefacts were scattered around, each exotic and unique.

One was a brown and leather-bound grimoire, held closed by a small latch. Picking up the book, he caressed the intricate cover design, feeling the soft thrum of power, hidden within. This grimoire was his salvation, stolen from the very wizards that brought him to their world. What lay within the pages were complex spells, designed and used for a single purpose, to summon heroes.

Shifting his gaze to his immediate periphery, he noted garbage bags floating around him. Gathering them up, he placed the artefacts within, tying them off and slinging them over his shoulder. The last remaining object was a small pendant, leaving it out, he cradled it carefully. His gaze was soft and sombre, a small tear fell down his cheek.

He opened the small latch, revealing the portrait of a woman. The image was from the shoulders. Her majestic form, adorned in finery, and a jewelled crown tilted to the side, completed the majestic look. The face was painted and lifelike, accentuating the exotic features of a mocha-skinned woman. Her sharp, piercing grey eyes, absent a smile, radiated a distant and yet pensive air.

Her dark hair flowed down to her shoulders and perhaps to her waist, suggesting a long and lustrous style. The man closed the latch and draped the pendant around his neck. Rising to his feet, he turned to the exit. Slowly, he walked into the distance and out of the alley.

With a sense of his environment reclaimed, he could now fathom the world around him. Not the mundane senses, but something more instinctual. It was a feeling he had ever since he cast his first spell and branded his first rune. The feeling of power, a sublime connection to an ever-present energy that pervaded the entire world.

Standing at the entrance of a filthy alley, the world he was in came into focus. The sights and sounds were familiar, lampposts, darkened streets and parked cars. All the trappings of modern life, this was earth, his home.

Despite returning to his mother-world, he felt immediate repulsion. Going stiff, his senses desperately tried to locate the familiar sensation. But in the end, he felt nothing, this world was void of a precious gift.

“This world is dead, a wasteland without safety, a desert without an oasis.” He muttered under his breath, being his dramatic self.

This was a world absent of magic, without the vital energy field to sustain and replenish his spells, runes and even the body itself. He couldn’t fathom how he was able to stomach this world before now.

He was akin to a heroin addict, fresh off a bender and finding the world absent dealers. He doubted there was rehab for magic addicts.

What will I do? My magic will fade, I can already feel a slow trickle. Every time I use magic it will drain even more. He desperately thought, coming to only a single conclusion.

It was obvious and his course was set. He would find a way back, out of this oppressive world, away from the suffocation and back to a place where he could breathe again.

The preparations he put in place were limited, he hadn’t the time to truly harness the power of the orb. The magical item he obtained after a bloody battle with a lich. It was all that kept him going, the well of mana that dwelled within was all he had. But soon that will drain away and he would be left with nothing.

It was time to prepare, I will find a way back, no matter what method or sacrifice. Alistair declared, his gaze resolute and determined.

Hello all. I am writing another excerpt so y'all can critique my writing skills, as I have noticed a ton of glaring flaws in my writing as I looked at my last post. Namely being monotonous in paragraph openings, names being similar and pov's switching too much.

THIS POST IS KINDA LONG, APOLOGIES.

Thaane stood atop the central battlement, glaring down at the battle happening below. Beneath him, he watched as the warriors of man collided with his defenders within the trench system. He couldn't believe the humans had breached this far into his fortress. He cursed under his breath, allying with those hedonistic dark elves was a terrible idea. They had no idea of the art of war, their arrogance grated on him terribly and they always underestimated the humans.

Despite his disdain for the humans, he did respect their ability to plan. He thought back to their rebellion and how they took Mount Ferros. He thought how they built armor and weapons from their supposed trash and scraps. How they utilized their own magical techniques to build their own combat automata's. And how they managed to conceal a massive rebellion underneath their noses until the time was right. His mind wandered back to how rapidly the dwarves were defeated, how the humans rebelled during a celebration, how they immediately took and secured their manufactorums and how they rapidly produced a fully equipped army to hurl them from the walls of Mount Ferros. How they declared themselves the Iron Legion as the last dwarf was tossed from the battlements.

The humans knew they were no match for a dwarf in melee, so in their ingenuity, they used their inability to close the distance to their advantage. Maximizing their ability for ranged warfare, the humans crafted new weapons. It looked crude, but was compact, portable and packed devastating power. Able to punch a hole through a shield and still kill the warrior on the other side. The humans would bait the dwarves into a charge, pull back into their own defenses and rain down projectiles into their ranks, devastating them.

Not to mention their armor. Produced after the capture of the manufactorums, despite looking crude and unwieldy, it was sturdy and worked incredibly well. Engraved with a series of magic runes, implanted with various wires and servos and powered by a magic stone. Able to lift heavy weights, provide them incredible strength and defend their owners, their armor was a masterful combination of magic and science.

An explosion brought Thaane back to reality, as he watched both dwarves and dark elves alike engaged their armored adversaries, dying as a flash of light burst from their weapons and the defenders would crumple. A dark elf flesh-golem emerged from a trench and charged the armored warriors, bursts of light flashed and holes appeared on the creature. Unabated, the creature smashed into them, ripping one in two while bony tendrils flung the rest aside. Thaane watched in amazement as an armored vehicle of sorts rumbled over the trenches, crushing the dead into red paste, engage the abomination in battle. The flesh-golem thundered towards the vehicle, tendrils whipping and writhing. A pipe atop of the vehicle swiveled to face the creature. A massive burst of light and smoke erupted from the pipe, punching a massive hole through the creature. It crumpled as smoke and gore poured from its wound.

His nose wrinkled as a sickeningly sweet smell announced the arrival of the dark elf autarch. Im-Kah-Keres, autarch of the dark elf forces stepped towards Thaane, the smell becoming more unpleasant by the second.

"Thaane." A voice dripping with arrogance greeted him. Thaane responded with a curt nod. "The humans have breached rather far through your perfect little fortress, I thought you said it was supposed to be impenetrable?" A vein in Thaane's face twitched as he replied, "The forces of the Iron Legion WOULD have been halved had your general not been a cocky little rat. He claimed his flesh-golems were "unbreakable", and now he lies out there, fertilizing the Snowberries." The dark elf opened her mouth, but Thaane cut her off, "The plan was to cause an avalanche to slow the Iron Legion's advance, hampering their advance and making them vulnerable to ambushes and raids, your general did not adhere, making them avoid our trap completely and now here we are."

An explosion rocked the battlement as Thaane reamed the elf, "Not to mention, your recently liberated "test subjects" have been seen aiding the Iron Legion. Your little alchemical subjects have been using your own knowledge against us. Horrific burns, flesh sloughing off of bones, metal rusting and corroding at abnormal rates, sicknesses and plague have been spreading through our trenches. After being freed by the Iron Legion your lab rats now go by a new name, The Stygian Knights. Their alchemical weapons has been tearing through our forces, knowledge you cannot even stop, so do not come to me whining about victory. Victory you promised me in one solar week, it has now been one month and our defeat is knocking at our doors."

The Stygian Knights, Im-Kah-Keres knew them well. Formerly test subjects for the dark elves alchemical experiments. Originally meant for the construction of flesh-abominations, alchemical experiments meant for enhancing the abominations were first tested on the captives. The ones who died were disposed, but the ones who lived were made insanely resilient to any damage. Gaining the ability to heal severe wounds and natural resilience enhanced hundred fold, a fact she used to prolong their torture. She remembered their screams of agony and silently relished them.

An cloud of emerald green gas came from the south. The two looked towards the southern trenches, a roiling green smog rolling towards the defenders. The elf's sharp vision allowed her to see the troops within. Rusted weapons and armor, flies the size of grapes feasted upon the dead and alchemical afflictions rotted the troops morale beyond reckoning. She watched as knights in bone white armor, tainted and stained by their alchemy, stormed towards the trench, the smog not even slowing them down. The defenders counter charged, but their afflictions slowed them. The attackers hurled flasks and containers at the defenders, having them shatter and explode on the defenders. Screams erupted as various poisons seeped through their skin, blisters and boils erupted from mere contact, steel rusted and corroded, acids ate away at flesh and armor alike and insects crawled their way through the gaps of armor biting and stinging away at flesh.

The defenders cut them down and charged towards the southern gate as archers rained arrows on them, some of them landing through chinks of their plate armor. The warriors wrenched them out, the wounds closing almost instantly as they continued their pace.

Caiaphax charged fowards, toxins and poisons getting absorbed through his skin as his body dispelled them almost instantly. A dark elf, doubled over, retching, tried to pick up his sword to resist. Caiphax's warscythe cleaved him in two. A dwarf, covered in painful, pus filled sores lifted her hammer and charged him. Caiaphax grabbed a flask from his belt and hurled it, shattering it against the dwarf's helmet, liquid seeping through her face plate. Smoke erupted from the helmet as the acid dissolved the dwarf's face, she died before she could even scream.

He watched as his warriors put explosive charges, supplied by their Iron Legion allies on the gate. For unknown reasons Caiaphax's mind had wandered, he thought back to the dark days before their freedom. The dank, mold ridden alcoves the slaves slept in. The lightless rooms they were forced to inhabit, never seeing the sun and slowly breaking their spirits. Often the dark elves would take and experiment on them. Forcing them to drink foul concoctions, needles injecting a alchemical formulas into their veins, the horror would go on until they tired of the torture. He remembered his sister, a young girl of twelve, being thrown into the room by the foul knife ears, convulsions ran through her as her eyes and ears bled a black liquid. He tried to comfort her as she screamed her throat raw, unable to handle the pain, their wardens laughing as she trembled and shook, no longer able to scream. Unable to stand it any longer, he ended her pain by stabbing her through the chest, apologizing profusely to her as she slowly faded in his arms. He was only fourteen years of age at that time.

He snapped back to reality, as Sergeant Malikkas, a dour man, prepared the explosives. Caiaphax readied his warscythe as the gate was blown off of its hinges.

Im-Ka-Keres readied her forces. The enemies were at the gates, ready for death. Her sword, ready at her side. She smirked, these arrogant fools were no match for her skills, trained by the greatest sword masters of the dark elves, her sword has defeated any foe she came across. She drew her sword, blade honed to the finest point and readied a stance, ready to cut down these impudent apes.

The gate exploded, flying past her and squashing an unfortunate warrior. She expected the foolish humans to charge through but instead, metal canisters bounced off of the cobblestone towards them. Before they could react, they exploded, at their feet. Elves screamed as poisonous needles were lodged in their flesh, acid chewed through their skin and their heightened senses made useless as the poisons dulled them.

Senses dulled by pain, the autarch watched with clouded vision as the knights burst through the breach, tearing through the court yard as they cut their way through.

Caiaphax charged through the gate, immediately identifying the autarch from her exotic armor and readied his warscythe. She recovered and readied her sword in a fighting stance. She mocked him, saying the typical dark elf jabs and insults. He ignored her as she continued to goad him as he silently took a clay jar from his belt, readying it to use at a moments notice. He watched her legs tense, and with a lunge, arced her sword as his neck. Stepping back, he threw the jar at her legs, the clay shattered as the alchemical solution expanded, exposed to oxygen. The elf looked stunned as she was frozen, the solution quickly hardening around her legs as she struggled. She slashed through it, but the second of delay was enough. Swinging his warscythe in an upward arc, it hooked under her breastplate. Pushing deeper, he pushed it through her stomach, cutting through her guts, cutting into her chest, cutting through her ribs as it burst her heart, the tip coming out of her neck, killing her instantly.

Thaane readied his warriors as the gate shook. The trenches had failed, the dark elves were either massacred or fled and he was cornered. He cursed and readied his hammer, ready to meet his end.

Commander Vexarkh readied his pistol as the dwarves gate shook. His armor making it seem nearly effortless as the servos whirred. Around him, his warriors readied their rifles, affixed with bayonets in case of a close combat scenario. He tightened his grip on his maul Tyrantbreaker, as the battering ram hammered into the gate again. His helmet, implanted with a Cortica Automatox, activated his automata. Behind him, his combat automata body guard, the Ironwing, readied their hammers, shields raised and shoulder weapons activated, waiting for the enemy to register on their scanner.

Legionaries raised their rifles, transport vehicles opened doors and more stepped out readying their rifles. Tabnks rumbled as the crews inside reloaded shells and auxiliary weapons. heavy weapons crews reloaded their weapons as breachers readied their shields. Automara stood at attention ready to deliver a hail of bullets when their commanders allowed it.

The gate crumbled as the battering ram broke through. Throwing canisters provided by the Styigian Knights, a cloud of smoke erupted as they obscured the defenders vision. Orders came through on the radio, commanders ordering all of their troops to fire through the breach.

As hundreds of warriors, tanks and automata fired their weapons. Bullets, grenades, shells and missiles were sent through the smoke and tore the defenders apart. The shield line of the dwarves instantly as they were unable to defend against the overwhelming difference between fire power. Dwarven warriors were destroyed as heavy weapons squads walked through the smoke, autocannons, machine guns and rocket launchers tearing them to shreds.

Thaane got up, bellowing an order for the automata to get in front, providing cover for the warriors to engage the attackers in melee combat. He grabbed a young dwarf, ordering her to charge to engage combat. She complied and a bullet tore through her skull, blowing her brains onto his faceplate. He dropped her corpse and charged, his warriors bellowing war cries as the attacks were tanked by the automata in front.

Thaane reached the front lines, he swung his axe, chopping the first warrior in half. He charged a second, who was fiddling with their weapon, his axe slammed into their helmet, killing them. A third, drew and knife and a pointed their weapon at him and clicked. A light flashed as the projectile pinged off of his axe. The warrior charged, knife at the ready and firing their weapon, Thaane dodged, and smashed his axe through their skull.

He watched a dwarven automata clobber a group of armored warriors sending their broken bodies flying. An explosion came from the breach sent him flying back.

Thaane shook and cleared his head. He watched as a warrior stepped through the ruins surrounded by four hulking automata. Instinct told him this warrior was their leader, and that this was an opportunity to reclaim his lost glory. Pride and delusion empowering him, he charged them, brandishing his axe.

Vexarkh watched as the dwarven leader charged. Ordering the automata to stand down, he allowed Thaane to close the distance. Smirking under his helmet as he remembered the prideful dwarf. Always satisfying his pride with duels where he would fight the weak, malnourished laborers, obviously winning as he gloated his victory. Brutally beating the laborers as they couldn't fight back. Remembering that honor and dying in a duel was the greatest thing a dwarf could do, he shot the dwarf in the knees. He watched as he fell into the dirt screaming. He watched the old dwarf cursed him, calling him dishonorable and spitting at him. His protests were silenced by a bullet going through his skull.

(sorry about the meh ending i was running on fumes and my eyes were starting to burn)

What do you think of this passage? (This is only the sneak peak of the characters backstory)

At just seven years old, Ichiban Hachizen lost everything when debris from the invasion killed his parents, leaving him to fend for himself in a broken world. Alone and helpless, he was eventually captured by soldiers and transported far from his home, ending up in a brutal concentration camp. Here, there was no room for hope or empathy—only the harsh law of survival.

Hachizen quickly learned the rules of this hell. Food was so scarce that children would kill each other over a scrap of rotten cornmeal, while the starving rats in the camp resorted to cannibalism. Desperation forced him to do the same, scavenging whatever he could to stay alive, even if it meant eating the very rats that roamed the camp.

The air reeked of decay and desperation as the flickering torches cast long shadows across the walls of the dungeon. The stench of rotting flesh and human waste hung heavy in the air like a palpable fog. Water dripped from rusty pipes above, echoing off the cold stone floor.

A shower curtain made of tattered plastic sheets hung limply from a rusted rod, flapping weakly in the draft that circulated through the cell. It was stained with dark brown streaks that seemed to pulse with an otherworldly life.

In one corner, a toilet overflowed with filth, its porcelain surface cracked and worn smooth by years of neglect. A rusty chain dangled from its lid, ending in a grimy bucket filled to overflowing with excrement.

A narrow bed frame, its wooden slats worn smooth by the weight of countless prisoners, stood against one wall. A stained and tattered blanket lay crumpled on top, as if abandoned in a hurry.

The woman's body was spread-eagled across the bed, her limbs splayed out like a broken doll. Her skin was deathly pale, with dark bruises marring every inch of her flesh. Her eyes were sewn shut with coarse rope, trapping her in eternal darkness.

"Hey kid! Come join us for some fun!"

One guard turned to Hachizen, his face twisted into a grotesque grin as he motioned for him to approach. For the first time in his life, Hachizen felt a surge of conflicting emotions—disgust and something darker, a strange and unwanted lust that seemed to writhe within him like a living thing.

The next morning, the camp guards discovered the woman’s body. Her autopsy revealed horrifying injuries: a grotesque amount of damage, a nightmarish twisting of her spine, and evidence of brutal abuse.

Practicing exaggerated tropes is very fun for me. Part of me loves poking fun at the genre I love so much. I have devoted my life to fantasy so it’s fun to let go a bit ~ I mean no offense. Here are three short scenes for your critique.

The dark castle before her has never looked so forlorn. In all her 23 years living in the village surrounding Haerdon Castle, she never paid it much attention what with hunting for survival, grueling chores, chaotic emotional unintelligent family members, hot stranger sex, long nights of secret ninja karate training, and other horrible burdens engaging her every waking moment. But today is different. Today she is drawn towards the foreboding spiraled gates of the cold-hearted king’s castle by one thing— revenge. The brooding and terrible King Pynus believed his call for all the eligible women of the village would win him a beautiful wife, but Gingivitis knew what no one else approaching the castle does… how to defeat him.

—— 2. Ferrimone closed her eyes and took a deep breath as she drew her bow. Her flawless archery reputation came from a place of pride today. The twinge of her past rippled through her but her hand was stayed with expert determination. This bow hadn’t always been her pride. For many years before it was a tool for survival. One she fumbled over with starving hands until finally she made her first kill. It was brutal. She nearly missed that first rabbit. But from that day on, she promised herself to become the best archer in all of Bhedsheit. Today, she would aim the arrow directly for the princes heart.

He was laying in the field of flowers, picking at a particular fluffy one. He gazed at it dreamily, breathing in its scent.

“That’s right. Breathe your last, Prince,” she chuckled quietly to herself. She was completely alone, but the pounding in her ears replaced the companionless silence. The rushing adrenaline had become her sole friend these months past.

On the exhale, Ferrimone’s blood pumped and she loosed the ibis-fletched arrow. A small smile graced her lips as the arrow rocketed through the foggy air straight towards the prince.

In the final moment before the arrow pierced his evil chest, the prince’s inhale was cut short by a large sneeze that ducked his head low. The arrow flew over the top of his head and into the patch of dandelions behind him.

Ferrimone moaned internally, “By the sons-damned allergies!”

———

Lytbuhlb came upon her with a growl. He moved with lightning quickness from the doorway to the bed where I perched. Leaned over with his face so near mine, I could see the sharp tips of his pointed canines glistening with angry slobbery spit. The left point nuzzled up against a bit of today’s salad.

His smoldering angry gaze burned hotter than the seventy suns of Firth. For a moment, I wondered what it would feel like for them to scrape across my throat. My core heated, betraying me, just thinking of his warm breath against my cool dewy skin, so cold from the long night locked in his chamber. I shook my head. No. He was my cruel captor not some male from back home. He was dangerously Fae with a sure plan for destruction, as he has repeatedly told me that he was going to kill all of my friends and family if I do not comply with his desires. And yet, the chuff of his hot breath on my perfectly high cheekbones may be too much to resist. My soak betrayed me as he scented the air.

Lytbuhlb upturned lip and barred teeth melted into his signature arrogant smirk. “Oh Sawket, care to share where your thoughts have led you this time?”

——- 4.

“You should stay far away from me, Leinahwaqa.” He turned his gaze to me, after so long of looking away. Pain covered his blood-stained face. I knew from the way his eyes dragged along my silhouette that the pain was not from the oozing sword wound in his side, but a pain much deeper. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Then finally, “Run. Run far away from me. If this battle has shown you nothing else, let it show you what rests for you on the other side of this bond. The darkness that awaits you. I am chaos. I am ruin. I am flesh ripped from tendon and blood wreaked from the battle field to battle field. I am hot puss from an infected wound after days on uncarterized skin pealed back from a rusted sword. But you,” he breathes deeply staring right into my seven souls. All pain subsided from my body — the arrow shard shoved brutally into my shoulder was nothing compared to the pain in my heart from his own disparagement. “You,” he continued, “are the fresh tap under a horses mouth. You leave me at the mercy of your rainfall every time we touch. I thirst for you — if only to take what you so freely give to me. I will be your darkest demise. I—”

But it was my turn now, “No. I can’t take it anymore. I love you… I love you gaping holes and all.” My eyes skip to his oozing side that he seemed completely obvious of, “Especially in the darkness — I invite darkness willingly into this bond,” a chocked laugh escaped my lips, thinking of the last time we were alone in the darkness together only a few nights ago in that thread-bare tent. It had been the best night of my life. The scabs from the rocks and sticks shoved under my back were finally beginning to truly heal, but my heart was forever beholden to this male. I neared his prostrate form and wiped the blood of our enemies from his face. “You don’t scare me.”

Hello!

I'm sure the word count listed is very high. I have struggled with this question for a while and figured maybe one or two people may be interested in reading this and giving me their thoughts. Or, at the very least, a few browse it.

I'm not sure if my prologue is ACTUALLY my first chapter? In my (current) prologue, our MC is 6 and meets his parent figures. In my (current) chap 1, he is 12 and has been training as an assassin.

Would love to hear any thoughts should anyone want to take the time to read and contemplate on what you, as a reader, would like to be chapter one. Would either make for a stronger chapter 1?

I've tried contemplating for some time now and still can't come to a decision.

Thank you in advance!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Yb_h2BY149vPFJbemNDQRxuxVfEWaaOWNyJrU2fnvwA/edit?usp=sharing

Michael coughed and pulled his wild rag to his nose. The wind had kicked up, and with it, the fine clay dust of the dry lake. The kind of dust that catches in a man’s throat and coats the nostrils. Damned horrible. He felt most sorry for his mare, he’d tried to cover her nose, but the horse was young, and as his grand dad would say, “owl headed”. Oh well. He could only hope she’d make it through alright. She had to. In this place, a man on foot might find his pistol becomes a means of escape instead of survival.

He had enough water in the skins for them both, for two more days. Two and a half if he gave it all to the mare. In this heat, they’d both be dead in a day and a half after that. That left Michael with three and a half days to make it to the other side, and find water once he got there. But, he couldn’t afford think of that now. Getting across, surviving one more day, that’s what mattered.

After another mile, or three, Michael had lost the ability to tell at this point, the mare’s breathing became heavier, and her withers started to draw in. Time for a rest. He stepped out of the saddle, loosened the flank and girth straps, and untied one of the water skins.

Walking around to her front, Michael gently presented her with the water skin opening. At first the mare jerked her head and stamped , but as she had for the last two days, once she smelled the water inside, she pushed her muzzle inside and began to drink.

“There’s a girl.”, Michael said softly, patting her cheek. She was a good horse; sure-footed and smart, if not more than a little stubborn. He'd purchased her just before leaving Thaud, the last real city before the frontier. Sired from two pedigreed mountain horses, muscles and life rippling under the most beautiful mottled blue roan coat you ever saw, and freshly shod.

Since then, her mottled blue roan coat had lost some of its luster, and after two days without food, her ribs were starting to show. Some horseman you are, Michael Vanderland, he thought. Reproaching himself for letting his horse get into such a state, Michael resolved that as soon as they’d finished their business here, if they finished their business, and made out of this forsaken place, he’d make sure she never looked so poor again.

He'd forgone naming her, for now. In his line of work, getting attached was never a good idea, but this mottled, ornery little mare had proven herself time and again, if only she could prove herself once more.

Michael looked about himself. The folks at the old fort on the lake’s “shoreline” told him that centuries ago, before what the locals here called The Drought, and what educated people called The Calamity, this place had been a lake so large, the earliest settlers to the region had mistaken it for the ocean. The idea struck the young man as ridiculous at first, but after two days of riding across the seemingly endless plain of the lake bed, he’d begun to understand, how, if there had ever been water here, it would have indeed seemed an ocean to a man who didn’t know better.

The lakebed stretched endlessly in all directions, its ashen white clay baked hard by centuries of brutal sun. There were no landmarks —only a vast, blinding expanse. With another fruitless look at the non-existent horizon, Michael began to regret not taking the advice of the sergeant he’d met at the fort four days prior.

“No sense in crossing the lake, friend…” the aging, barrel-chested sergeant at the fort told Michael as they sat in the dim, fire lit mess hall the night before he had set out.

“Nothin’ that way ‘cept outlaws, and the bones of some damn fools that figured they could map it and explore, rediscover lost cities and all”, The Sergeant took a long swig of beer, “….only one of those poor bastards came back that I ever saw… had a wild look in his eyes when he came back through the fort gate... no horse, no pack mule, no pistol… half starved and more than half-crazy… carryin’ on about giants and dragons… had to send him to an asylum out east… never heard what became of ‘im.”

The man’s eyes suddenly became distant, and for a moment it seemed like he'd forgotten Michael was sitting across the table, as though the whole expanse of the desert had suddenly come between them, “No… no sense in anyone being here any more, not since the lake dried. They say it had water in it once, not sure if I’d believe it if I didn’t have the old officers’ logs to read. ‘Bout all there is to read around here. Got records goin’ all the way back to before The Drought… Anyhow, you’d do better goin’ the long way, yonder through the pass. Longer, but you won’t go half-crazy and your horse won’t die of thirst… not that there’s anything on the other side worth seein’… You spend enough time out there, you’ll start seein' things that ain’t real, leastways, things that ain’t supposed to be."

“I’m short on time.”, Michael explained, “I know Caine came through here, and he either crossed the lake bed, or went through the mountains. If he crossed the lake bed, going through the mountain pass would put me behind. If he used the pass, I can catch him up crossing the lake bed.”

“Must be a helluva price on the man…”, the old soldier half-grumbled and half-laughed as he said it. “I've seen your kind come through before, bounty hunters, gold prospectors, treasure hunters… it all ends the same. You don’t take anything out of that desert. It either sends ya right back here, all the worse for havin’ gone in, or, it keeps you, and you’ll just be a body who’s canteen might get the next man a little further.”

“A high price indeed, a man might say the highest… but you’ve got me wrong Sergeant,” Michael said, pulling back the lapel on his duster to reveal a badge, a circle of brass with a copper coyote track in the middle. “I’m no ordinary bounty hunter, and old Caine isn’t some common murderer or horse thief.”

The Sergeant stiffened in his seat at the sight of the badge. He may have been a soldier, but he was still a frontier man, and disliked government agents as much as anyone else in those parts. “Who is he then?”, the Sergeant asked, his manner becoming less friendly. “Must’ve gotten awful cross with the wrong folks at the Capital for the federal boys to send one of you all the way out here.”

“Caine was one of us.”, Michael replied as a shadow of anger tinged with sadness crossed his young, but hardened features, “A Scout. One the best.”

The Scouts were lawmen for places outside the law. Born from the chaos of The Calamity, these frontiersmen, bounty hunters, and gunfighters were first a temporary measure, tasked with gathering intelligence and putting down the warlords, revolutionaries, and outlaws plaguing the country. But when order was restored, those in power found that order needed to be kept.

And so, with the help of some legislative ambiguity and a compliant public, as one often finds after a disaster, the Company of Scouts was made an official part of the government in A.C (After Calamity) 32.

In the those days, the Scouts were looked upon by the citizens of the restored nation of Altavia as heroes, the fearless men who would do whatever was necessary to protect the Republic and its people.

Michael continued, “I know you're trying to do right by me Sergeant, and I appreciate it. But if Caine's crossed the mountains, or the lake, so must I.”

The Sergeant looked at Michael with a mix of apprehension, concern, and pity. “Why? What’s so important that you’d go off and die chasin’ some deserter?”

Michael paused, he had to be careful here. It was a fair question, and deserved an honest answer. But, an answer too honest could spell trouble for himself and the kindly old soldier. “You see… Caine took something. Documents that the Capital is very desperate to get back. Trouble is, Caine is one of, if not the best Scout that ever lived. He’s not an easy man to track, or to catch once you’ve found him. But, Caine was my commanding officer, and mentor...so they sent me. I’m best suited to the job. I suppose if someone has to put a bullet in him… it ought to be me.”

Truth be told, it had to be him. The Council had made it clear: return with the stolen documents, Caine’s head, or both, or don’t come back at all. The Sergeant shook his head mournfully, “Federal bastards. Turnin’ men on one another, all for what? To keep their damn secrets?”

END

I'm anxious to get feedback and see if other people think this idea is worth pursuing further.

I need feedback on this

sigh I was afraid to upload this and face criticism as I like this idea but it has to be done

So there is the Monarch and its Inner Circle. What makes them above everyone and give their right to rule is their shared black blood which grants abilities exclusive to them. I do have a name for them which they take as their new last name but for the sake of simplicity, let’s call these people… “Overlords” for now. So that means Overlords would be their last name and Overlords come from any tribe. The Inner Circle is above everyone and saying it’s an Inner Circle is the equivalent of calling them a royal family but none of most of them aren’t related as family members but they do like to think of each other (the Overlords) as family.

There are three blood types to refer to an Overlord respectively: pureblood, halfblood, and comblood.

Pureblood: An Overlord whose parents are BOTH black blood

Halfblood: An Overlord who has only ONE parent with blackblood.

Comblood: An Overlord who has NO blackblooded parents.

Here’s the thing, the blackblood isn’t inherited genetically. It is transfused into you and it is agonizing and could lead to death. There’s a religious order that worships and creates the black blood and is sort of responsible for raising and training overlords. I don’t have a name for them but let’s call these religious people “Disciples”. I’ll have it be where passing the transfusion depends entirely on the recipient’s mind and body discipline, restraint, and their magic, or something like that. I think that maybe purebloods and half-bloods have a better chance of passing the test because of their parentage. Even more so for a pureblood (because they have two blackblooded parents) and purebloods are held in a more favorable light. However, those with no black-blooded parents can still very much earn the blackblood. Hence, combloods. I even thought of reversing it where combloods would have a safe chance of passing because they’re newcomers and purebloods and half-bloods may have it rough for the transfusion because of the black blood. Or maybe it’s a lie that only certain people (who became blackbloods that is) can successfully pass the test. Maybe the truth is anyone can take the transfusion test and pass so the disciples made this lie up so that way everyone can’t demand it and cause unnecessary problems. The reason I bring that up is because I thought if this truth gets leaked it may start a war with tribes over the throne to which what my story is about. In order to seize the throne you must have black blood inside you. And maybe the Disciples whenever there’s a power struggle amongst over black blood, they stay the heck out of it and believe the victorious faction deserves to have an Overlord of their own it out of superstitions.

I should say that black blood does grants awesome abilities but there are also drawbacks into it which I’ve been working on. One drawback in particular to relate to this post is I have been thinking about is that Overlords reproducing is a little dangerous. A risk on either the father, the mother, the baby, or two out of the three, or all of them.

The Monarch (who would be an overlord and leader of the Inner Circle) would take another overlord within their inner circle as consort and together they must produce a heir (regardless of the consort’s blood status of being either pure, half, or comblood). A pureblood one at that. If they fail to deliver a child, then maybe the monarch can adopt and appoint a different (maybe a young one) pureblood overlord within the Inner Circle as heir. Another idea would be that the pureblood children of the Conclave (future children overlords who are in training by the religious disciples) partake in a battle royale where the winner would be the strongest and is appointed as heir. Maybe under the belief that the Monarch’s lineage must be strong which is why the winner would be seen as the strongest. If there are no purebloods to appoint as heir then that’s when halfbloods can be appointed and if there are no purebloods AND halfbloods, then a comblood could inherit. A pureblood always come before a halfblood and comblood. It’s sort of like how a king’s first born son comes first.

There is one exception for the Monarch with its heir. They can have a child with a woman from this Sisterhood in my world and have their child be the heir, even though it will be a halfblood. The Sisters of this organization are trained in combat, espionage, seduction, have an eye ability of vigilance. They are then sent off as wives to the nobles of the world. They are also sought after because of their supposed ability to produce children with great vitality and potential. So the Monarch can take a sister as their consort and their halfblood child can be heir because of the potential and great health the child would have. Overlords marrying these Sisters are very common. This may also lead to debates if a halfblood fathered by a blackblooded father and sisterly mother are perhaps stronger than a pureblood. Though I do want there to be times where the monarch can take normal person has consort as polygamy is practiced. Perhaps tribes are ambitious to be apart of the inner circle and do what they can to get one of their own to become an overlord,

So yeah that’s it. I didn’t want to upload this and face plot holes or criticism because this is my favorite monarchy and succession I thought of so far as I kept scrapping ideas. So yes, as afraid as I am to face the problems and hear criticisms about this, it has to be done. What do you think?

I'm working on a project with this premise and I'm wondering what kind of questions other people would ask these potential deities given the chance? So I would love to know if you questions that would end up on your list. There will be a selection of different deities that will be interviewed, each representing a ideology and/or philosophical idea or argument. I plan for this to be a visual novel so the player will have the chance to interact with all of the potential gods and ask them branching question trees, so I don't plan for them to be too extensive. I'm just struggling with coming up with good questions, I've tried taking some job interview questions that I found online and giving them a more fantastic on specific spin to the particular situation but they're also service level that it doesn't feel like they actually analyzed the character.

So I thought that the best way to get something of substance would be to see how actual people would question the situation. I know how I would but how I would shouldn't be the only option.

Here is part 2 of my fantasy romance. I tried to really build up the tension between Diana and Finnian, but I feel like the end is a little bit rushed. I'm a bit stuck on the end part right now, actually. Any suggestions about pacing there would be greatly appreciated!!

For some background, I posted Pt 1 yesterday. This is a story about Diana, who is captured by an evil sorceress, Belladonna. Belladonna is terrorizing the local magical community, and needs Diana's help to maintain her strength & magical abilities. Finnian shows up one day, and they start to form a plan to free Diana and defeat Belladonna.

Here's the link to Part 2 for anyone to critique! Finnian & Diana Part 2

First, I'll start off with struggles I have with writing my story "Higginson Archives". So, I feel like this story is messy and rushed. I did rush a few chapters and didn't think my story out well. Brainstorming is fun, but when actually writing down it sucks so bad. I have to make sure I don't copy other shows, I have to make sure characters get developed, and I have to make sure the plot moves on in a reasonable pace. So far I have five full chapters finished.

I've been writing my story since 2022 (October 30th) is when the first chapter came out. For years I wanted to write my story (since 2019) and this is my first time writing my own original plot. (I wrote a lot of fanfictions as a kid.) My story aims to have the same vibe as Teen Wolf, Sabrina, Stranger Things, and Supernatural. Those shows inspired me to write and to continue writing, but now I feel like my story doesn't have a good plot and its uncreative.

Now, I have gotten advice to do bullet points and characterize my characters better which I will do. But, how do you guys do it? How do you write original stories that seem to do so great and post chapters constantly? I'm in college and I procrastinated a lot with work and writing.

On a positive note, I want to improve my past chapters and instead of rewriting I want to refine and make the past chapters better. If you want the link to my stories to give me feedback DM me please!

When you think about basically any book the main character is almost always special or/and the hero. Katniss is the rebellion starter and she's special couse she's super good with a bow. David in edgerunners had super high resistance to cybertech (even tho the whole story is basically noone Is special). I want to make a story about a normal person. Who cannot change fate or isn't the best at their jobs. Just yk your average john who falls in love and watches the love of their life die. But I feel like it's so hard to do that without the story being boring af until the end. So my question is, how do I make a story about an average john in an average world and still make it engaging. Is that even possible? I have tried making the whole "they're so different from eachother" trope but that on it's own doesn't work.

Fip pushed his back against the oak tree's trunk, soaking in the late summer sun filtering through the canopy. He blew away a stray lock of sandy-colored hair obstructing his vision.

Fip closed his eyes and considered the world. There were generally two groups of people: those who saw the world in black and white and those who were inclined toward shades of gray and more lateral solutions. His twin brother, Roderick, was definitely in the former camp while Fip himself leaned towards the latter. Sometimes he even envied his brother's clear-cut view of morality—not his good looks, muscular frame, or curly blond hair, but his easy conviction of what was right and what was wrong. The reason for his deep thoughts was staring him right in the eyes, the ram.  

A farm has a certain hierarchy, just like a kingdom in miniature size, not only among people but also animals. When everyone understands their place, everything works smoothly, but one troublemaker can tip the balance. The current issue was a young upstart dog that kept harassing the ram through the paddock's fence. The stupid mutt didn't seem to understand that while it may herd the sheep on a field, the undisputed king of the flock was the ram. And now the ram was giving Fip pained looks as the dog kept yipping away next to it.  

Fip stood up with a sigh and walked up to the ram, patting it on the head. "I'll let the mutt in there soon, and you can make your case personally. Try not to kill the daft beast. I know he's annoying, but with age and experience comes wisdom." Fip said and dug out some oats from his pocket that he fed to the ram. "Ok, Barky, come here, boy! I'll let you in now so you can learn the error of your ways." Fip gestured for the dog while opening the paddock's gate and added under his breath, "Try not to die."  

The scene played out pretty much as Fip had anticipated. The dog started toward the old ram, barking furiously. The ram regarded the dog's approach nonchalantly while preparing its strike. Just at the right moment, the ram took one step forward and head-bashed the dog on its side with an enviable economy of movement. The young dog let out a surprised yelp and flew over the paddock's fence in an arc.   

Fip looked at the immensely satisfied-looking ram, who gave him a small nod and padded towards his flock. He then turned towards the dog that was lying on the ground, wheezing softly. He kneeled to examine the dog's side and was relieved to find out that nothing was broken, adding aloud, "Except your pride, which was more or less the point of this otherwise rather pointless exercise." He patted the dog on the head, "No worries, I'll carry you inside and patch you up. You'll be up and about in no time. Perhaps next time you can challenge the bull!" he added cheerily.

—-

Thank you for reading. I’m fairly new to writing so I feel like I’m still searching for my own style. Any feedback is greatly appreciated.

I was thinking of making a story that involves a tavern. I was thinking of going for a slice of life which could give snippets of the one of the workers life in and out of the tavern. But I'm not to sure how interesting of a story that would be though. I had thought that the main character could be a woman who used to be an traveling apothecary but decided that she enjoyed the atmosphere of taverns and hearing peoples stories instead so she settled down and took a job at a cozy tavern.

I was thinking that the story could have recurring adventurers and locals hanging out at the tavern telling stories about there adventures and even maybe giving little hints at what the world is like outside of the town.
Something I want to go for is creating a cozy environment of being in the tavern and even when the main character is outside of the tavern like being home or camping and stuff like that.
I like using humor in my stories because I've always found that more entertaining.

Another thing I was planning to do with my story is make it into a webcomic out of it. My artstyle is mostly stick figures. I tend to have a general idea of what I want to go for with my stories but I usually make it up as I go.

Any ideas or suggestions on how I could go about my story?

Why there are very few fantasy with original creatures like in Avatar or Star Wars? I'm creating a story inspired by Harry Potter, Games of Thrones, Star Wars, Tim Burton and i'm thinking about that idea. I have researched creatures and most universes rich in original creatures that are not copies of mythological creatures are in the games like Warcraft or Pokemon. Do you think it's about inspiration of authors or maybe they prefer creatures they know already with readaders? Do you think my original universe can know a success or it can be a default to have too much imagination? I'm waiting your answers.

So, I'm in te middle of editing my story. I'm in a part where character A has to convince character B to join their group/organization.

What I found out is that the reason for them to be convinced is too superficial.

Character B was supposed to be a good person in this part. They would want justice and make the world a better place. So character A was supposed to promise them that, but I think this wouldn't actually convince them.

Saying that you would make true justice with your own rules is what character A is supposed to say but it feels strange.

For context, these two characters are supposed to become bad people as the story goes on. So in this part, it's important that I make them seem like good people while also not making them feel like idiots by trusting a stranger saying something like "Trust me bro"

I have tried everything I could think of... Could you guys help me? Because in the end it just feels superficial no matter what I try.

What would you say to someone like this so you can gain their trust?

In the libraries of the tower, a few surviving scholars spoke of a book that tries to convince you to kill yourself. They say it would mask itself as exactly the book that you are looking for. It could be any of the infinite books in this never ending tower. It could be this very book that I am writing in right now.

Because of our fears, we never touched any of the books from the shelves. If any of them were on the ground, open, one of us would close it with a long stick to avoid even catching a glimpse of the pages. Some were written in strange languages none of us spoke, but we did not take any risks.

Our group just walked through the empty echoey halls, looking for the stairs or a ladder that will take us to a level above. Each level of the tower was a size of a city, or even a country. There was no end to it. The libraries and the palaces. Storage rooms full of paintings and silk robes. Rooms with sculptures and gardens with tropical birds. Kitchens with meat from animals and creatures we didn't recognize. Torture rooms and prisons. It would take a lifetime to explore only one of the levels.

But we had no time for exploration. Not even time for proper rest. As soon as we reached the level above, we could see the water rising and filling the rooms of the previous level. Of course there might be some room that remained untouched. Maybe somebody managed to barricade the doors before the water got to them, but they will not survive for long. The only way is to go up.

When we found ourselves at the outer walls of the tower, we looked outside from a window and saw it. The endless ocean. There was nothing. Only the blue sky and the dark blue water. Water that covered everything. All of the villages and kingdoms, empires I didn't even know existed, so deep under water that the sunlight will never reach them again.

The ones who built this tower, whether they were gods or humans with the help of gods, I wonder if they knew that the tower would be all that is left of humanity. Maybe that is why they built it. But even the tower is slowly absorbed by the water.

One time (I have never told this to anyone in our group) as the water got up to our knees and we thought we will never find staircase up, in front of me, I saw a book floating. "The history of the great flood and how to stop it." I started laughing hysterically. Is this it? Is this the book that is trying to kill me? It seemed so obvious, almost like a joke. If so, are the other books safe to read? Can we finally tap into the infinite knowledge that was tempting us this whole time? Or is this book the answer, and the other ones are still dangerous.

We have seen unimaginable horrors in this tower, yet it is a simple book that scares us the most. Why is that? Are we all so close to giving up that we are worried that one right sentence could push us over the edge? Are we scared that the book would be only a justification?

One of our members, a priest, sacrificed himself to save the rest of us. He was taken into the jaws of an animated bronze bull that boiled him alive, and then dropped his silent corpse on the ground. Some nights, I dream that I took his place. That it was me who was at peace.

I still have the book with me. Every day, I am getting closer to opening it.

Thanks for reading.

While writing this, I tried to balance my strengths and avoid the weaknesses. It is less of an improvement in writing and more the best I could do with my writing skill now.

Open to any feedback. What do you think is good? What do you think is bad?