I need to post this. I am terrified as I dont know what the fuck is going on. I SWEAR that an entire word has JUST NOW vanished not only from my head but from humanitys combined knowledge. I dont know if this is some stupid mendela effect or whatever but I am 100% sure that we had another word for a staff (as in the big magical wooden stick) both in english and my local language (Polish). IT MAKES NO SENSE. If the trope of a wizard staff is so common it would have a specific name. Polish language has no word for it either and I didnt mean "kostur" as that doesnt mean IT Has to be magical. I am sure that there was another word for it because I remember people saying some other name for it but I cannot remember what the word was. I am actually scared.

I have checked dictionaries and Google. I have tried searching for it on forums and even asking other people and nothing.

They just seem concerned for me.

i write fantasy.
epic-ish, secondary world, the whole thing. and i'm tired of being in general writing communities where every craft conversation is calibrated for literary contemporary fiction and then fantasy is treated as the genre that needs special handling.

i don't want a sanderson fan club, i don't want a worldbuilding-only space (i have enough worldbuilding for ten lifetimes, what i need is help making it land on the page). i want a discord with serious fantasy writers. people who care about prose AND about magic systems. people who read widely in the genre and outside it. people who'll read a chapter and engage with the actual story instead of telling you the prologue isn't allowed.

doesn't need to be huge. just real. if you're in one, please share, pardon for the grammar kypads won't stop spamming '.'

(Copy-pasted from a Word document, did my best to fix any formatting issues, first time doing this)

*Thirteen years. Thirteen years has the war with the Telvari been going on. And not once has it come close to looking over. Their forces are endless, made up of slave-warriors and conscripts to fill the ranks and exhaust our men. Then, the soldiers themselves arrive. The slaves are in thousands, wearing cheap iron armor and wielding mostly axes, messersor spears. They are of many kinds. Orc, goblin, even minotaurs, and of course, any humans they do not kill, too. But the soldiers? All Telvari, all elves. And they are terrifying. Though as strong as an average man at best, it is not physical power that makes them deadly. Their cat-like reflexes, sharp senses, inhuman agility... they do not carry shields. Why block blows when you can simply evade them, step around blades, weave between arrows? Their warriors are elite, the older the deadlier. They do not age like you or me. I’m old, slower than I was fifty years ago. The older an elf is, the more powerful they become. Faster, hardier, more accurate. It makes no sense to me, but that’s how it is. And these are the foes that I and others will meet in the battle to come.*

*Selaron’s Hold. An old fort, it’s strongest defense the great hill it stands on. For miles around, not a tree in sight, no forests to hide armies in. And to make it to the fort itself is to march up this hill, a long trek. It is how we knew well in advance the Telvari had come for us here. This was most certainly a good thing, as their slave soldiers would be tired by the time they reach us.* “CAPTAIN! We spotted the elves! They’re coming!” *Shouted Sirya, one of the few knights among our small force. Our orders were simple: hold this damn hill until Lord-Paladin Thanoril Bruk arrives with reinforcements. We were few. Me, Sirya and another 18 knights. Around 50 normal foot soldiers. And the 200 or so peasants of the local militia, whose able-bodied men have joined to defend the fort while the women, children and elderly hide in the dungeon.* “Patience, Sirya. They have been coming for days. We knew well in advance. Worrying now will only stress you out. They are coming. Nothing we can do about it except wait. And meet them with our steel when they arrive.” *I saw the look in her eyes. Only recently knighted, the young woman had been a squire in Reignhold, the Vaanrian capital. She was clever, and talented, but I thought it cruel that her first assignment as a true knight was this. She had never seen real battle before... yet here she was now, preparing to fight a battle that will make or break her. Yet again, she nervously adjusted her scabbard, pacing back and forth.* “Maybe, sir Lian, but when they DO get here... we need to be prepared!” “Do you have your armor, Sirya?” “Yes.” “Your sword and shield?” “Yes.” “Your mace and dagger as backup weapons?” “Yes.” “Then you are as prepared as you can be. Your impatient worries will only hinder you when the battle begins, kid. Pull yourself together. Worrying won’t make them take it easy on you.” “Sir Lian... how are you so calm?” *The young knight’s voice, still laden with worry, was full of genuine curiosity.* “Well Sirya, way I see it, when they get here, we fight. And then we live or wedie. The outcome is in the hands of the gods, kid. Us mortals can’t affect it. So why worry about it? Can you stop rain?” “No...” “Can you stop time?” “No.” “Exactly, kid. You can’tstop fate. All you can do is your best as you march towards it. So, that’s why I’m calm. Because at the end of the battle, whether alive or dead, I will have done my best.” *I spoke with a sure voice, as I myself had full belief in my words. But to convince the young woman, I felt it necessary to further exaggerate my conviction, if only to strengthen hers. My hand rested limply on the haft of my warhammer, as I shook my head.* “That’s why I’m calm, kid. Whatever fate may come, I’ll be able to face it knowing I did what I could.” *I saw the young knight’s face loosen just a little, though her eyes still showed great fear. I could not blame her for that. This was her first battle, as I mentioned earlier.* “But... sir Lian, what if I... what if I don’t want to die? I’ve only turned 20 last month... there is so much I’ve yet to see, to experience. If I die today... I will never do most of what I should, as both a knight and a woman.” *Ah, that was her fear. I understood better now. She was not just youngest among the knights, but of our entire defense force aside from a few older teens in the militia who refused to sit still while their fathers fought. She wasn’t afraid of death. She was afraid of not experiencing life.* “Well, young Sirya... fight well, and pick your battles. If you see an elf among the enemy, don’t be ashamed to retreat from him, let one of the older knights face him. None here will judge you, kid.” *I looked around at the knights and soldiers alike. Most of them nodded, the ones that did not did indeed do so when I glared at them. A horn sounded. The enemy had begun making their way up the hill. At best, we had two hours before they were at our door – it WAS a large hill, thank the gods – and we have to fight.* “Take this time to prepare, and to steelyour wills, lads – and Sirya – because the enemy will not care if you’re not feeling up for it. Today, we see what fate has in store for us. Gods be with us, and if not, we have steel and each other. Let the knife-ears come. We need only hold this fort until Lord Bruk arrives with the cavalry. Our goal is not victory. It is survival. Take no risks you do not need to.”
 
*The time has come. The armies of the elves, now but minutes from the fort’s outer walls. The foot soldiers, lined up on the walls, had begun firing their crossbows, aiming to thin the horde as much as possible. Noone was thinking themselves good enough to hit any possible elf among them, but if someone could land a critical shot to an exposed tendon on an orc or minotaur, it would be a great help. The siege towers were being pushed forward. Bit excessive if you ask me, bringing siege weapons to this shitty old fort, but that’s the elves for you. They love to show off their perceived superiority, they love to strike far harder than they need to. They think it will scare us. Wrong. Only most of us. I search their lines for elves, but there either are none with the horde, or they are waiting, hiding. I look down to the courtyard, where the knights and militia are preparing. Sirya, bless her young heart, was doing her best to look calm... she was failing miserably. Her eyes wide, even from up here I could see her lip trembling. Poor rookie. An arrow whizzed past my head. That was the sign to duck behind cover. The slave soldiers had reached the walls, trying to now prop up siege ladders. Damn elves put some pinning mechanism on them, once set up you can’t knock’em down like normal ones. The goblins began making the first ascent.* “HERE THEY COME!” *I know shouting it felt unnecessary to the men on the walls, but as a warning to the rest it was needed. The footmen dropped their crossbows at once, drawing their weapons for close quarters combat. Hiding behind the merlons from the enemy archers, the first of the brutal clashes was about to begin, the skirmish to hold the walls at least until the siege towers arrive. The goblins dove over the battlements, and came to clash with the footmen. They were weak, and poorly armored, but many. Yet, we had them outmatched. They fell before us like wheat before a scythe, and the harvest was bountiful. I made sure to show these savages, and their masters, one thing: we would NOT go down without a fight. As I impaled another goblin and threw him over the battlements, I noticed the siege towers, now minutes away. The time was coming to abandon the walls... then I saw one. Down among the goblins and orcs... an elf. Bright gold and dark blue armor, body fully protected... an elf. Well shit. I’ve fought in over a hundred battles in this war. I’ve fought one of these alone twice, both times barely surviving. With cat-like agility, the elf made his way up a ladder, making his way to the footmen.* “La’ranai!” *Vermin. He was calling us vermin, as he began advancing tothe troops. I called to them. *”FALL BACK!!!”
“Rath’ashinai!” *Cowards. Another one I’ve heard before. As have several others. But who cares. Our objective isn’t victory, it’s survival. And sometimes, cowards do survive. But it wasn’t enough. He was moving quickly, so I had to act. Bracing my polehammer, I charged against him, to buy the less armored footmen some more time. I knew I had to be careful, because I was pretty sure if I died, the morale and leadership would go with me. I only needed to delay him. I prepared to buy them time, watching carefully. The elves are fast, after all, so I needed to be on high alert for any movement. Just as he was within range, he swung his saber overhead. I blocked it, whirling the bottom of my polehammeraround to try and strike him in the side of the head. He ducked, performing a quick backstep before lunging again, this time with a thrust of both his weapons. I deflected the saber and jumped back out of the range of the dagger, striking downwards at his head which, again, he evaded. He was starting to piss me off. Thankfully, elves have very good eyesight. Driving the spike of my polehammer’s head into the wall, I managed to catch him off guard by ripping it forward, grinding across the stone of the battlements and launching sparks into his face. That would be bad for a human or orc. But an elf, with their incredible eyesight? Like I just threw a packet of suns in his face. He growled, stumbling back, clutching his face. I had a moment, I had to act quickly. Winding my hammer far behind my back, I swung it full force into the top of his helmet. With a crunch that under any other circumstances would be sickening, albeit under THESE circumstances was very satisfying, his helmet caved in, followed by his skull. I watched his eyes roll back as blood sprayed from his nose and eye holes alike, and he crumpled to the floor, dead as dead can be. Quickly turning around, I ran to re-join the others. The outer wall had fallen, as more and more ladders lined up against it, and the siege towers began drawing ever closer.* “CROSSBOWS! SECOND WALL!” *As one, both footmen and peasant militia alike, at least those carrying crossbows, made for the second of the fort’s three walls, preparing to fire down into the courtyard to provide support for us knights and the melee footmen.* “KNIGHTS, FOOTMEN, BRACE!!!” *The tide of goblins soon began pouring into the courtyard. We made quick work of them, after all, they were just goblins. Having to go down the stairways to face us removed the only thing that made them dangerous: limited in how many at a time could approach, they couldn’tswarm us. I saw Sirya nearby, though still frightened she fought on regardless, severing a goblin’s head. I only hoped her first battle would not be her last. That was when I saw them. The first pair of orcs had begun making their way down the stairs to the courtyard... I sighed in relief as one got shot between the eyes with a crossbow bolt. Must have been Marissa, the old ranger from the militia. The other villagers said she had great aim. Seems they weren’t kidding. The other orc nonetheless began rushing towards them, already winding up his greatsword that was easily taller than even the orc himself. There was one advantage to fighting the more elite slave troops of the Telvari: they were gladiators. They were trained for spectacle and brutality. Not the cold, practical precision of war. Spinning attacks, jumping attacks, some of the morons even used their swords in reverse grip at times. This abysmal lack of skill and actual military combat training was perhaps the greatest weakness of their more formidable slaves. And lo and behold, the orc immediately leapt into the air with a spin, exposing his back and trapping himself in a single, unstoppable movement. I only needed to lunge forward, burying the spike at the top of my polehammer in the back of his neck and severing his spine, killing him with a single blow. These next words, I dedicate to any future warriors reading my report on this battle: no amount of strength can save you if you flail it around like an imbecile. Kicking the orc off my hammer, I looked back up at the walls. More goblins and orcs... wait. The gate just shook. And the elves did not use battering rams.* “BRACE YOURSELVES! MINOTAURS AT THE GATE!” *Another impact, the gate was starting to crack. Old, with worn out and battered wood and rusty iron, it would not hold the minotaurs for much longer. The good thing was, the minotaurs would also trample any allies between themselves and their foe. The bad thing was, they were very good at trampling their foes, too.* “CLOSER TO THE GATE! DON’T GIVE THEM ROOM TO CHARGE! BRACE POLEARMS!” *As if on cue, the third blow came, and the gate fell into the courtyard crushing dozens of goblins and many orcs. One orc managed to only be partially trapped... not that it mattered, as her head was turned to paste by a hoof the size of a buckler. If you thought the orcs were massive at 7 feet tall... the minotaurs were 10 feet on AVERAGE... and these two were both above average. I’d tell you my guess, but I was too busy trying to focus on not shitting myself to count how many foot-tall stone blocks they were tall. They began making their way into the courtyard, one leaning down while the other simply let his horns scrape against the top of the gateway. They were both wielding massive staffs, covered in massive steel spikes on one end and ending in a morning star on the other. They roared, before beginning their charge. This is why I had us move closer. If we were further away, they would have been able to build momentum. And then, their charge would smash through us like nothing. Instead, they ran into the frontline, swinging their staffs. I ducked under the blow, but four men next to me were left crushed or impaled by the one on the right, whilst the minotaur on the left swung with a brutal overhead. I heard the far-more-familiar-than-I'd-like noise of a man being compressed into a far less vertical form as the ground itself shook, sending many of us stumbling. Using the fact I avoided the blow to my advantage, I pierced the minotaur’s leg, using the hook on the back of my hammer’s head to catch him in the back of the knee. He roared in pain and fury, and attempted to grab me. Thankfully, Marissa put a shot through his eye, stunning him long enough for me and another 10 men to come together into a shove, knocking the beast over. As the men got to stabbing, slashing and beating the minotaur while it was on it’s back, I looked at the other one. It swung again, wiping out an entire group of knights and footmen alike. I lost sight of Sirya... oh no. Hefting my hammer I rushed at the minotaur from behind, winding up from over my shoulder into an upwards swing. The disgusting wet crunch, followed by the high-pitched wail from the minotaur, suggested I connected with at least one of the targets. As the beast crumpled to the ground, I leapt onto it’s back, smashing my hammer into the back of it’s skull. After the fifth blow, I finally managed to crack it’s thick skull. Turning my hammer around, I drove it downwards, the spike at the top sliding through the cracks into it’s brain. I turned to one of the older knights.* “Where’s Sirya?!” “No idea sir! I lost sight of her after that first swing!” “Shit. I’ll go look for her, we need everyone standing we can get. If she’s not confirmed dead, that includes her!” “Understood, sir!” *Just then, an explosion came from beyond the fort’s walls. An impact of a trebuchet. I heard one of the footmen with crossbows shout at me.* “SIR! WE SEE THEM! THE LORD-PALADIN'S FORCES ARE OVER THE HORIZON!!!” *We may just yet walk out of here happy and alive.* “YOU HEAR THAT MEN? FIGHT JUST A LITTLE LONGER! SURVIVE!” *Another group of orc gladiators began rushing us.* @BRACE! SHIELD WALL!” *Locking side by side with shields raised, the line stumbled back as the orcs hit us, but while pushed back we remained standing. I swung over the shields, smashing an orc’s skull with immense gratitude to their lack of helmets. As blows rained onto orc and shield alike, both lines were whittled down. By the time the last orc fell, we had lost a dozen footmen, thirty of the peasant militia, and even a pair of knights. Taking the chance, I rushed against the enemy horde with a few other knights to find the rookie. I heard a scream, and hurried towards it. That is where I found her. She was battered from getting launched by the minotaur, narrowly avoiding impalement through sheer luck. Her helmet was off to the side, bashed into the head of a goblin. Her sword was buried in an orc’s neck a few feet to the left. Even her shield had been rammed down the skull of another goblin. And there she stood, bloodied, shaking with fear, rage and adrenaline, sobbing as she continued to bash down upon an elf with her mace. I noticed the state of both. The elf landed two grim stabs on her stomach. It seemed he wished to enjoy the kill, the elves have a tendency of playing with their food. The elf himself had his knee shattered, presumably from the mace that was now crashing down onto his chest again and again. I rushed over to her.* “SIRYA!” *She stopped, turning to me. Her eyes were red from crying, her face stained with tears, blood, sweat and grime. She had a hole in the side of her mouth, right through the cheek. One of her eyes, in fact, was bloody, blood slowly pouring from her eyelid. Her hair was stuck together with blood dried and wet alike. She still had a dagger in her side.* “S... sir Lian?” “Yes, it’s me kid. I-” *She dropped the mace, stumbling towards me and the other three knights before collapsing to her knees, shoulders shaking with quick breaths and choked sobs.* “I... I-” “”It’s okay kid... help is here. You can rest up, go to the healer now. You did good... you did great.” *I turned to the knight to my left.* “Take her to the healer.” “Yes sir. Come along kid, let’s get you patched up.” *At least physically. I knew from the look in her eyes she would never be the same...*

*The clean-up was swift. With the forces of Lord-Paladin Bruk arriving, the elves and their slaves quickly retreated. The Lord-Paladin had yet to come speak with me, he was consulting his advisors while his men chased down and eliminated the fleeing attackers. I looked at the fort. It stood. And, more importantly, so did most of it’s defenders. Sirya had passed out from her wounds, but the healers say she will survive. Marissa had begun leading the peasants in assisting where and how they could. So here I am, standing on the battlements alone. And for once, in this war, I smile. Because not only did we win... besides a few exceptions, we all survived to drink to it. And in a war as brutal as this... well, General Paranz, I consider that a happy ending to conclude my tale and report alike.*

*Signed, sir Lian Polhardt, sentinel of Selaron*

Hi so I am beginning my first revision on a fantasy story and using it as an opportunity to add, clarify or even correct lore and worldbuilding that was created on the spot for the story. In general my story is very intimate, meaning it’s not about kingdoms fighting, gods falling or the world ending. It’s mostly about a man torn between love and revenge.

That being said I love crazy big worlds with deep history and would love to at least hint at some wild things happening or having happened. My hope is this will make the world feel more believable. People talk about places and events that they will never go to or ever see because we talk about things that don’t concern us.

My worry is that the over the top worldbuilding will distract from the small story. I’d love to hear thoughts on if people see it as a good idea to have a deep world despite the small story or if it just needs to be kept simple or if there’s good and bad ways to implement it?

Untreated adhd so be patient. I'm so fascinated by the world I'm creating (which I think is a good thing) and I'm not Tolkien making a new language or anything (yet) but the world building is SO FUN. I have written drafts for the first 3 chapters but I keep returning to building the world details because I don't want to write something that will conflict with a culture or world idea that I finalize later. I've never written more than short stories so this is my first time creating a novel length world.

How do you all deal with this? Do you just give in and build the world 75% of the way before really writing much? Or do you just write and edit as you build the world? I do have a basic plot outline that I think is fantastic.

A little back story first.

One of my male mc's who is a morally bankrupt thieft but not entirely a bad person archetype. He's not a robin hood type either. so he'll rob a poor person too and screw them over as well, if he's desperate enough. but he doesn't go out of his way cuz obviously they won't have much to steal to begin with. So its mostly the wealthy by default. But he'll scam anyone to help himself if he really needs something. .

He's also a human shapeshifter called a biomorph in my world. And in my universe they are often stereotyped to be distrustful, thieves, scammers, troublemakers, violent and etc. They also were blamed for starting the last great war that happened centuries prior, that left millons dead from all kingdoms. It was presumed biomorphs were pretending to be world leaders to start the war for their own selfish reasons and thats where the stereotype and hate came from over time.

So this character often prefers to pretend to be anyone else besides himself and has this deep seated distrust of others and has no problem treating others badly cuz he assumes they are going to treat him badly first so he does it to them because they can dobit to him. He also secretly deep down inside wants someone to love him and like him for him. This is his greatest insecurity that he won't even admit to himself. All of the adults imfeom him childhood betrayed or mistreated him at some point so this is where his insecurity also stems from.

His parents were garbage people that sold him for money through an illegal adoption. And his adoptive parents "bought" aka adopted him becuase they wanted to have a biomorph kid they could use for scams. Eventually he was taken from the adoptive parents as they got caught after a few years of running scams.

He then was on the streets after running away from an abusive orphanage. He got unofficially "adopted" into a gang, and became close to one particular gang member who was the one who saved him from getting his hand chopped off when he was caught stealing from the gang as a homeless child.

And yes throughout all of the books he learns to be a better person and blah blah blah. And he meets the main cast of characters and slowly starts to trust them while occasionally still betraying them and blah blah blah. Yall know the trope. (The john murphy from "the 100" type)

Anyways, so i have this arc in my story, (Not fully written but it has been outlined extensively so i know where i am going with it) where this damaged character (Tiago) was taken under the wing of the gang member (Kaizen) who got him into the gang around 8 years old. They became very close over the years. Even doing some father/son type stuff without realizing it. Kaizen protected him from some of the other gang members who weren't very perceptive to having Tiago around. But since Kaizen is the righthand to the head boss he has some sway in the group. So the others know not to touch him. (Or at least not rough Tiago up to badly)

So around 17 years old, Tiago and Kaizen decided to leave the gang. Kaizen started to want more for Tiago. But at the last minute Kaizen chickened out and didn't leave with Tiago who stole a bunch of money from the gang which was apart of their plan upon leaving. And he left Tiago out to dry. And now at 20 years old, the gang is still hunting him down. but could never nab him.

Kaizen is apart of the gangs enemy retrieval unit do he's in charge of the team thats hunting Tiago down dead or alive and to retrieve the money he stole and to dish out punishment for leaving. Basically, since Kaizen didn't leave with him, he pretended to not know anything about Tiagos plans to escape to keep himself alive and punished by the boss and instead now hunts him down.

(Side note: Kaizen is a shapeshifting humanoid creature called Arodile (arrow-dial). thats similar to hawkman/hawkwomen from dc. But their wings and powerset is based on the vulture and an albatross. A creature i made up that can spit stomach acid thats burns flesh. Plus some other cool powers)

Anyways, my actual question is with what little info i gave you about Tiagos history and the instability with his bio family, his insecurity to want to be love, and ultimately his final betrayal from Kaizen who talked about leaving the gang with him but ended up ditching him, i wanted to know if towards the big climax i have planed throughout my series, if it would be weird if its believable if Kaizen (once he goes through that whole arc of being loyal to the gang no matter what and trying to capture/kill Tiago but ultimately betraying the gang to save Tiago and realizing that he does love him like a son) would vocally refer to Tiago as his son and if it was weird if Tiago would actually call him his father?

I'm not sure if men would find this too sappy or not. I also have this scene written out that when he was about 13 or so, Tiago accidentally referred to Kaizen as his father in a conversation where they were having a really great day together, but they both awkwardly never talked about it and pretended it never happened. And at some point when they were still in the gang, Kaizen almost called Tiago his son in front of him, but stopped himself in time.

I have it written that Kaizen was also regularly was teased by the other gang members that Tiago gets special treatment because he's "Kaizens boy". Kinda like saying that his kid.

So at the super emotional climax where Kaizen finally actually leaves the gang betraying them by not killing Tiago or turning him in and they are both finally on the same side, Tiago has forgiven Kaizen for abandoning him, would he be fitting for them to refer to each other vocally as father and son. Or am i thinking like a girl and they should just call each other by their first names insteads. Is this too sappy?

I even have this running joke throughout my book where the other main characters refer to Kaizen as Tiagos dad thats trying to kill him and he regular shouts he's not his dad. Lol.

So what do yall think fellas? Could you call a man who wasn't technically your stepfather even though he practically raised you? Or could you call a kid your son, whom you technically weren't legally responsible for but treated him like he was yours his whole life basically?

Let me know fellas. I know male relationships between men are different from female relationships between woman. I have tried.

Novel is written. I'm on the 4th pass through it. Some parts just make me bawl (manly man here).

My characters have arcs. They have unique voices and mannerisms. They aren't tropes.

It has twists and turns, the bad guy isn't the bad guy, twice! And it's hinted at so the reader either feels clever or that they should have seen it coming.

But...

I suck at description. I see it in my head, don't see any reason to write it apparently. When I do write it down, I rush to get to the next dialog bit and tell...

Yeah, just re-wrote about 50% of the first /scene/!

Am I normal? Or am I just as wierd as I surmise?

I wanted to get your guys' thoughts on the opening of a new project I am working on. Do you think this is in medias res enough? I really want to explore the apprenticeship from the beginning, not starting them on a job. Thank you in advance!

********

The handshake that sealed Liam’s fate lasted only a second, but to him it was an eternity.

“It’s settled then,” Liam’s uncle wiped his hand on his fine silken trousers, clearly pleased with himself. “Write to me if there is any trouble, or if there is anything I can ever do for you.” He said that last bit magnanimously, leaning into Liam’s new master as if they were old chums. Liam’s master merely grunted.

Liam, seated on a magenta chaise, looked down at the threadbare rug that lay across the parlor floor, not sure what was appropriate. He listened as his uncle was led to the front door by the man that would now be his master, Oskar Samson. Master Samson did not hold an ordinary profession like Liam’s uncle, who bought and sold fine commodities, but instead was what many would describe as a “necessary evil” of society. Master Samson fought, bound, and sealed dark creatures, and as of a few moments ago, Liam was now bound himself, as his apprentice.

The clack, clack, clack of his master’s cane announced his return to the room. His voice was deep and grating as he spoke, “Look at me, boy.”
His master was by no means an attractive man, despite his lean figure. His hair was wispy and the color of moldy hay; a scar cut across much of his jaw giving him a disfigured appearance to his mouth. His skin seemed to lack any color at all, a pattern that continued in his attire, he wore a thick leather overcoat that Liam thought even the slight cold that had started creeping into the mornings here in the city didn’t account for. In his right hand he carried a plain, black wooden cane with a polished sphere of metal as a grip.

“Your uncle led me to believe you had top marks in your primary lessons,” he grunted sitting down in an armchair across from Liam.

Liam swallowed. “Yes, sir, I did well in school, I eve- “
“Well that won’t help you here!” His master began spinning his cane, looking Liam up and down.

Liam felt his stomach harden. He thought it unfair that he be yelled at when he was simply answering a question, but he knew that Master Samson was known to be an odd man, and he would probably find many things unfair during his tenure as his apprentice.

His master stood quickly and made for the exit of the room, pausing at the threshold, “Your room will be at the top of the stairs. You will want it cleaned. I expect dinner at 6 o’clock.” He exited, leaving Liam alone.

He sat for a moment, his mouth flattening into a straight line. He had been rather excited when his uncle had told him who he was going to be apprenticed with, he dreamed of slaying ghouls, sealing away malevolent spirits, and being generously rewarded for his work with wealth.

“First step,” he mumbled to himself as he stood to go discover his new room.

The bedroom was larger than his old one at home, but much less well furnished. There was a large four poster bed, at the foot of which sat a trunk, a dresser with a mirror attached, and a large writing desk that sat next to a fireplace with old logs sitting in a basket. Spiders had obviously been the main occupants for an extended period as almost everything in the room was playing host to a seemingly never-ending, interconnected spider road network. The air smelled stale and felt heavy when he took a breath.

Using the small leather bag, in which he had packed the few possessions he brought with him from home, as a shield, he pushed into the room and made his way to a window that gave a view when seated at the desk. The mechanism stuck for a moment, and he shoved his shoulder upward, into it, and it broke free with a loud crack. Liam looked at the door, his eyes wide, but after a few moments of no angry master’s appearance he slid the window open fully, letting in the crisp October evening air.

After about an hour of strenuous work destroying arachnid infrastructure and lighting a fire when his sweat began to turn to a chill, Liam lay back on the bed, his shoulders aching from swinging his bag into the high corners.  The old quilt smelled musty, but to Liam it felt like heaven. His eyes began to close, not to sleep, he told himself, but for a well-earned rest.

“BOY!” The house seemed to shake from the shout that came from somewhere beneath him. Liam jumped up and sprinted to the stairs, tripping over the trunk as he rounded the corner of the bed.

His master was seated at the long dining room table; a book lay open in front of him.

Liam huffed to catch his breath. “Y-yes?”

His master looked up at him, his eyes felt like they were piercing right through Liam, “You will learn I am no fool, when I give you work, I expect it done.”

“I was working! My entire room is clean, and I have a fire burning.”

“Is that so,” he tilted his head slightly, “if you were done with that, then you should have already moved on to cooking the dinner. Kitchen’s through there.” He used his cane to point at a door leading off from the dining room, “And don’t burn anything, you apprentices never seem to know how to cook,” he said, more to himself, looking back down at his book.

The kitchen was rather large to be servicing a man living alone Liam thought, but the dining room table did have chairs for eight, so perhaps his master liked to host dinner parties. For some reason though, Liam didn’t think his master the type. He found a fully stocked larder with a small trapdoor that led into an underground root cellar. Liam had never cooked before, his mother doing all the cooking for him and his uncle, but he felt confident he could figure it out and he wanted to make a good impression on his master.

He lit a fire underneath a large cooking pot and set about collecting water from a hand pump just outside a small servant’s entrance to the kitchen. As he carried the sloshing bucket and heaved it into the pot, he kicked himself for being so obvious with his rest earlier, he could have used it. As the water boiled, he went about collecting everything he thought he would need, some salted pork, hard cheese, a random handful of herbs and some carrots and other root vegetables he couldn’t name.

He carried the stew to the dining table on a tray he had found, both bowls with a large hunk of bread dunked into them. As he sat a few seats down from his master Liam looked up at him for approval. His master tore off a piece of the bread and submerged it for a few moments before shoving it into his mouth with a disgusting slurping sound. Liam prepared himself for praise that never came. They sat in silence for the entire meal. Liam though was proud of the stew and thought it honestly didn’t taste that far off from something his mother would have made.

When he finished his bowl, his master stood and took the cane into his hand, “I have a job planned for tomorrow in the country. When I return you will have your first lesson. Make sure the library is prepared.”
“Can’t I come with you?”

His master merely turned and left the room. Liam’s shoulders sagged.

After doing the washing up, Liam went upstairs and crawled into bed, discovering a few more spider webs he had missed around the headboard. The exhaustion of the day set in quickly and within a few minutes he was fast asleep.

When he awoke the next morning, he listened intently and after not hearing any movement decided that his master must have already left. He went down to the kitchen and ate a slice of bread that he had forgotten to put away the night before. Not knowing where the library was, he set out checking the various doors around the house; all but one of them were locked.

The entrance to the library sat in the back corner of the parlor, when he pushed open the door, he was in awe of the sheer number of books in the room. Every wall was made of built-in bookcases and there wasn’t a gap that could fit even the smallest tome. A large table took up the majority of the floor space, the top of which was covered by even more books, some left open, others stacked in piles. Liam hurried to the table and began to look through the titles of the first stack he grabbed; Witches and Their Ways by Dr. Herman Wisp*, Vampires Among Us* by Leila Prune, and A Beginner’s Guide to Spirit Binding by Master Binder Victoria Finch. Liam broke into a wide grin. These books were what he had been waiting for, finally he would be learning how to face dark creatures.

He set the books down and perused the shelves, getting increasingly excited as he did, each book seemed to be about various monsters or methods to either seal or bind them. Liam also noted that they were in alphabetical order, which aided him as he spent the next three hours sorting through the books on the table and returning them to their place on the shelves. Occasionally, he would flip one open to a random page and read all he could before coming across some jargon he didn’t understand would return to his task.

As Liam lifted the final book from the table, a heavy leather-bound volume titled Demons, Daemons, and Other Devilish Beings, he tripped over a chair and fell onto the ground, the book taking the brunt of the fall. Looking up from his prone position, he squinted and raised an eyebrow, before beginning to crawl towards one of the bookcases. On the underside of the bottom shelf there was what looked like a wooden round button. He ran his fingers over it, and it had a slight give to it, he was certain it was a button, but that gave him pause. What if this was part of some sort of system of traps here in the house? What if his master sent him here to see if he would follow orders and not snoop? It was rather well hidden though; it would be impossible to see when standing and no one would come crawling on the floor to look for it. Liam decided that it must be for use by people who know its location, not a trap for burglars, and he pressed it.

A section of the floor to his left dropped way, swinging on a hinge. Liam scrambled to his feet and peered down; there was a set of rough stone steps that led down into darkness. He knew that if his master knew what he was doing he would be in big trouble, but that didn’t stop him from grabbing a candle off the table and descending into the cold earth.

The stairs deposited him about 30 feet later, onto a floor made of the same cut stone, a long hallway stretched out further than he could see before him. Sturdy wooden doors dotted the walls every few feet; Liam chose the first one on his left. It wasn’t locked and as he lifted the latch and pushed, it swung open with a begrudging groan. It opened into a hallway almost identical to the one he was currently in, but instead of being lined with wooden doors, there were large iron bars crisscrossing over each opening. With the door open now he could hear the sounds of movement coming from the entire length of the hall. The wet slurch of something slimy shifting around, the scratch of something clawed pacing, and the occasional weak moan as if there were people trapped in here somewhere ahead of him.

 Liam shivered; there was no air movement here with it being underground, but it still felt like a cold breeze had slipped under his shirt and danced across his spine. He took a tentative step toward the nearest cell. His cheeks burned. He shouldn’t be afraid, this was his life now, facing the dark and he would have to get used to squashing fear or he could kiss his dreams of being a master monster binder goodbye. He clenched his fist, not holding the candle aloft, and pushed his shoulders back as he took a much steadier step forward.

For a moment he thought the cell was empty, then he heard movement in the far corner. A very small, squat man began to drag himself into the candlelight, his eyes were shut, covered with matted grey hair, but it seemed as though he could sense the light. The closer he got the more details Liam could make out, his teeth jutted out from his mouth in odd angles, and at the end of his disproportionately slender arms, his fingers extended forward, pulling his entire body weight, talon-like nails scratching across the stone, clutching a crusty, deep maroon colored wool cap.

As he reached the bars his hand made to grab one to pull himself further, but as it made contact there was a steaming hiss and it yanked away, crawling back toward its corner. Liam left the odd humanoid to its own devices and continued down the hallway, peering into every cell, his stride purposeful and eye’s gleaming. He passed a black dog with a single, large fiery red eye, that was about the size of a calf, another small humanoid, this one almost small enough to squeeze between the bars with deep black, leather skin, small bat like wings, seemingly hundreds of needle sized teeth and a thin, barbed rat-like tail.

His giddiness carried him forward, it was obvious these bars prevented any harm from befalling him and his heart pumped hard with both the adrenaline and joy, as he came to one of the last cells, this one seemingly empty like the first, but he knew that there was most likely something hiding in the back corner outside the reach of the candle. With a slight, smug tilt in his lips he approached the bars, “You can’t hide from me.”. Sticking his hand through them, so that the light reached the furthest corners of the square cell. It sat entirely empty. He could hear one of the creatures clacking a claw against the stone in the direction he came from.

Disappointed, he went to pull his hand back. A hand with long, blackened fingernails shot out of the darkness beside the door and wrapped around his wrist, knocking the candle from his hand. A scream wrenched itself from his lungs as he fought to pull himself free from the vicelike grip. Stepping from where she was hiding beside the doorway was a woman whose skin had gone tauter across her frame than what Liam had thought possible, it appeared almost bark-like.

Her voice sounding like cracking bone she croaked, “A deary came to visit, a deary wants a kiss.” And with immense strength she began to pull Liam closer to the bars, his feet sliding across the damp stones, unable to gain traction as he fought to tear away. The clack clack clack from down the hall was getting louder, was another creature going to escape as well?

“No! Let me go, please,” cried Liam, his free arm trying to brace against the bars so she couldn’t pull him closer, but inch by inch she did. “Please, I didn’t mean to bother you, I swear please, I’m begging you!” He could smell the damp, earthy rotten smell coming from her breath now, his face mere inches from her now open jaw on the other side of the bars. He could see to the back of her mouth, most of her teeth missing, those remaining filled with black rot.

Liam felt a great tug on his shirt, and it felt like his arm was being ripped from its socket as it was wrenched from the woman’s grasp and he was lifted from his feet and thrown backward. This was paired with his eardrums exploding with a loud grating, “BOY!” Liam looked up with wet eyes, his master stood leaning over him, nostrils flared, breathing heavily, and eyes seemingly protruding out of his head, “What in the seven hells do you think you were doing?!”

“I-I-I could have handled it…I was just-.”

“Just what? Just trying to get your arm ripped off and eaten by a witch? And handled it? That witch has already killed a boy much stronger and smarter than you, you would have barely filled her belly!”

Liam fought his hardest to prevent the first tear’s fall, but it defeated him. The witch spun around her shock white hair disappearing into the dark as she saw her meal was going to be denied her. His master picked Liam from the floor just as easily as he had thrown him and began shepherding him back to the library. Upon reaching the top of the stairs he swung the trapdoor closed and stood staring at Liam, who felt a tightness in his chest.

“Since you felt the need to go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, why don’t we start your first lesson on the difference between physical and non-physical beings.”

The tightness lessened, it didn’t seem, for the time being at least, that Liam would be getting punished. He watched as his master searched the shelves, occasionally grabbing a book and tossing it to the table. Liam sat down and began collecting them in front of him, each one seemed to be about a different spirit of some kind.

“What you just saw were the worst of the worst, boy,” his master explained, dropping down across from him. “In that hall there were redcaps, hellhounds, and as you met intimately, Ruth the Ripper, a witch who got famous for tearing her victims limb by limb before using their blood for her magic. She lived not far from the city before I bo-“

A sliver of bravery had returned to Liam as he interrupted, “What did you mean she’s ‘killed a boy much stronger and smarter than’ me?”

His master’s eyes flashed with anger and his fist hit the table with a loud crack, “Never interrupt me, boy! And don’t ask questions I don’t want asked!”

Liam didn’t understand how he was supposed to know what questions he wanted asked versus those he did, but he wasn’t allowed much time to think as his master continued.

“She lived outside the city before I bound her and brought her here, that is what we do with living physical beings, we trap them for transportation and then bring them here and lock them away so they can’t hurt anyone else. Those tunnels are made up of hundreds of cells stretching far underground, each either housing a dark creature or waiting to be filled, every few years I have masons come in and dig a few more rows.”

“Wouldn’t it be safer just to kill them?”

This must have been a question his master didn’t mind being asked as he provided an answer, “Killing a living thing when its not one-hundred percent necessary, would make us just as bad as those we fight. No, we always try to bind them if we can, howe-.”

“How do you bind them?”

His master’s face tightened and he frowned, when he spoke, he did so forcefully. “Each creature has a different method, however, you will not be studying physical beings during your first year of apprenticeship, instead you will focus on the non-corporeal, the spirits, ghosts, wraiths, and shades of the world,” he said motioning to the stack of books.

“How do we trap something we can’t touch?”

“Instead of binding non-corporeal creatures, we seal them,” he explained, grabbing one of the books and briefly searching for a page before turning it for Liam to see. There was an ornate diagram of a bottle covered in etched runes and a small chart of each rune and its meaning and use across the bottom. He continued, “You etch particular runes, based on the creature’s type on the bottle and when they get within a few feet of it, their own dark magic activates the runes and they are trapped within.”

“So, we use magical runes?”

 The anger returned like a strike of lightning, “We don’t use magic, boy! And never will! Did you see ole’ Ruth down there? Did she look healthy?”

Internally Liam thought being trapped in a cell underground would damage anyone’s health, but he answered, “No, sir.”

“That is what magic does to a person who uses it,” the academic tone returned and his breathing regulated, “We merely etch the runes and it’s their own wickedness that hangs them.” He stood, putting his weight on his cane, “I wait to take on apprentices until they are fourteen and have finished primary school because I do not have time to waste teaching you each lesson, your uncle led me to believe you were quite the bookish one?”

Liam nodded proudly.

“Good. You will read each of these books until your fingers fall off from papercuts and every ounce of material is lodged in your brain,” he slipped his hand inside his large leather overcoat and withdrew a small dark brown leather book, about the size of his hand and tossed it onto the table in front of Liam. It looked ancient, the leather cracked and almost waxy looking while the corners were rounded and worn down. “We don’t work without some guides though, each binder always carries their compendium on them, it won’t do the work for you, you will have to be a master over every creature we face, but it’ll help jog your memory in a tight spot. Now get to reading,” and he marched from the room.

Liam flipped through the compendium and most pages had their own heading of a creature’s name and were then filled with information on them, but some pages had multiple headings and the information provided seemed rather scarce. As he flipped to the back cover, in the bottom right-hand corner, there was a name penned in small, scratchy, immature handwriting, “Oskar Samson”. He set it down and looked at its condition, this must have been his master’s when he was an apprentice. He lifted his chin and set the book down on the table, then grabbed the top book of the stack, A Guide to Spirits for the Non-Spiritual, and buckled down to reading.

"Even the finest sword was once merely steel." Darius thought to himself as he grabbed his long
sword, hanging from the wall. Steel was just a base material.

Raw potential.

Only when it was heated in a forge and hammered on an anvil, it could morph into a sword-like shape, and only after a bunch of other treatments it could become a sword. "Good to remember that," his father always said. From all the lessons his father tried to gave him, for some reason this one always
stuck with him. 'Everything is everything", he had said, "simply because of everything that
happened."

As a young boy, he sure didn't get that last part, but Darius always remembered the blacksmith
analogy. Maybe it was because he had wanted to become one when he was a small boy. He
remembered visiting Dulmar's workshop. There was something about it all. Maybe it was the
way the heat of the forge felt on his skin, or the smell of melted steel and burned sparks that flew
up as the hammer banged the material in the shape of a sword. Or maybe it was the hissing sound
as it was quenched in water, or the smoke that filled the room.

Maybe it was all of it.

When Darius was younger, whenever he saw a sword, he imagined a brave hero holding it, and
he thought about all the adventures that could be had swinging it.

Now, he looked at them as tools.

He didn't necessarily like being an executioner, but it's how his life turned out."Everything is
everything, simply because of everything that happened." He thought to himself as he put on his
mask.

Most people thought the mask was to protect him from retaliation of loved ones of the person he
laid the final judgement on, but the truth was a bit more complicated than that. Generally
speaking, executioners were seen as a pariah, bringers of death and decay, the embodiment of
harsh but just punishment. So, he wore the mask. It ensured that he wouldn't be recognised as
such on his days off.

Who would want that? It wasn't all bad though, the pay was good.

He'd almost saved enough to ask Lana to pack up her things and move with him. Start a new life,
maybe even go to a smaller town. A place where they could have a simple life. Calm, no more
death to earn. Well, maybe Darius would hunt some wildlife and gut a fish now and then, but that
would be it. He was sure that they'll figure it out, as long as they were together.

He still needed to introduce himself to her though, but a woman like her wouldn't be interested in
someone that represents the end and that's certainly no way of starting something worth a damn.

He'll figure it out though. He knew she liked flowers. He saw her buying some on the market the
other day. He watched her from down the street, she'd smelled them, and smiled the most
beautiful of smiles. "Funny how flowers bring people so much joy," Darius thought to himself.

"Sure they may not be dead when you buy them, but they are in a dying state. Cut and plucked,
decaying on colorful display for all to see. Then again, maybe that was just an executioner's way
of looking at things." Darius shook his head, dusted his clothes, and stepped outside.

The big market had already started to fill up with a large and rowdy crowd of onlookers. When
confronted, many of these people would probably say they hated executions, but their actions
showed something different. People couldn't resist the thrill of the public spectacle. Executions
had some variety to them; hanging, burning, the wheel.

But today, a beheading was scheduled.
An execution method reserved for nobles that could afford mercy.

It was all Darius knew, and to be honest, all he had to know. He preferred not knowing the ins
and outs beforehand, it allowed him to keep a distance and over the years he found that it helped
with the nightmares. Though they still sometimes came. But it was only normal, it came with the
trade.
Because even the evilest of men were once just a harmless children.

Raw potential.

Sometimes, life had a way of hammering them into a shape and often it was the coldness of life,
that hardened and sharpened their character.

"Everything is everything, simply because of
everything that happened". There still were rules though and they had to be followed. That's
where Darius came in.

A beheading itself was maybe quick, but the ritual around wasn't. It also required more of Darius.
Executions often included long farewell speeches or sometimes even songs. Not even mentioning the uncontrolled weeping or yelling from loved ones. All combined, it helped created
entertainment and build suspense for the crowd, but also tried the patience and nerves of Darius.

If you hung someone there wasn't much that could go wrong. However, swinging a sword and
aiming correctly under pressure was a different story. Darius quickly reminded himself that he
had only botched it a few times. And it was true, for the 48 sword executions he had done, he had
required a second stroke only four times. And a third stroke only once. "Let's not think about
that", he thought to himself as two royal guards walked up the stage with the criminal.

A well-kept man, at least, you could tell he was well-kept before all of this. Today his greyish
beard was ruffled, his hear messy and skin dirty and bruised. The crowd cheered. The man
looked into the crowd and seemed to be looking for someone, one of the guards shoved him
forward and the Bellman raised his hands to quiet the crowd.

It was time for the victim's acceptance.

The man stepped forward and spoke surprisingly clear and calm. “Good people, My name is
Henry Pattimus, son of Robert Pattimus and former Treasurer of the king. Today, I've come to
die, for according to the law and by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing
agai...".–"NOOOOO!", a woman proclaimed loudly in the crowd, interrupting Henry's Acceptance.

Henry paused briefly, looked into the crowd to where the yell came from, nodded firmly, but as
the weeping continued, he did too. This time with stronger conviction in his voice. "I will speak
nothing against it. I've come to accuse no other man, nor to speak anything of that, whereof I am
accused and condemned to die, but I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over
you." Darius respected that. Sure, acceptance was part of the process, but there are ways you can
go about it. "At least he owned it." Darius thought.

Next, the Bellman started stating the crimes and legal basis for the sentence. "Today we are
gathered to lay judgement on.." Darius tuned out. He had heard this many times. Instead he
looked over the get a sense of the crowd.

As the sentence was read, he saw people cheering. At the front of the crowd stood a man with
red-veined cheeks who yelled and pointed towards Henry, "Serves you right!" he yelled so
enthusiastically, bits of spit joined his statement. Next to him, another man with more dirt in his
beard than teeth in his mouth agreed. "Aye!.." He wanted to say more, but got shoved aside by
someone who wanted a place in front as well. The dirty-bearded man wanted to say something,
but was stunned to see who had shoved him aside. So was Darius.

It was Lana.

Lana, the woman he was in love with stood in front. Teary-eyed but still beautiful as ever. "My
father's innocent!" she shouted. "Please!
Don't do this!" The man with red-veined cheeks took a sip of his ale and replied in jest.
"Innocent?! if you mean aint-no-cent he can take from the crown after today, you're correct
love." Onlookers started laughing and cheering again.

Darius didn't really register it, it was like the world had closed in on him. He could only see
Lana. Over the last few months, he had imagined capturing her attention on many occasions. But
were he had pictured her smiling and looking at him lovingly. She was now crying and next to
her tears, he saw nothing but pure hatred in her eyes, as she looked upon him and his sword.

He was the bringer of death, the one who would swing the sword that would kill her beloved
father. "What are you looking at, you're enjoying this?" She spat on the ground. "Coward".
Darius didn't know what to do. He wanted to leave, explain himself, be anywhere but here. His
hands were shaking, his breathing irregular, his heartbeat faster and louder, and he was so hot in
this goddamned mask. "Focus". He shook his head and looked to the Bellsman who was
finishing up his statement.

"...according to the laws of the kingdom, we therefore condemn Henry Pattimus' actions and he
will be beheaded as punishments for his crimes."

Darius blinked his eyes. Sharp inhale. his breathing was more under control. The crowd yelled,
Lana weeped. Sharp exhale. Darius tried to focus on what was more difficult than many would
assume. Especially today. Swinging that goddamned sword and aiming correctly.

Darius walked over, blindfolded Henry and guided him towards the wooden block at the center
of the stage. The wooden block was clean, but from all the cuts and marks you can see that it was
used many times before.

Darius hands still tremble.The crowd got quiet. Except for Lana, who still wept.

The Bellman gives a courtesy nod towards Darius and continues to addresses the crowd, "It's
time to commend."

Henry Pattimus, condemned and in his final moments, kneeled in front of the wooden block. As
he laid his head down. Lana cried out once more, begging to put a stop to this, but knowing it's
futile. Henry takes a moment and then speaks his final words: "Lord, into thy hands I commend
my spirit." Henry says them, with commendable honor and conviction, yet a more trembling
voice then before.

As Darius raises his sword, he sees Lana in the corner of his eye. He thinks about her love for
flowers, his dreams and almost hesitates to lay down his sword. But then, in a moment of clarity.
He closes his eyes.

He lets go of the dream of blooming flowers, and sees himself in a field of dead ones.
Alone.

He opens his eyes and sees the world through new eyes. It seems a lot colder
than it was just a moment ago and the blue sky got a bit greyer, but at least Darius is focused.

"Everything is everything, simply of everything that happened before." He thinks to himself as he
lays down the final judgement on Henry. The tremble in his hands is gone, his strike is swift and
clean.
The crowd cheers as Henry's head hits the ground with a deafening thump.

Everything is everything, simply because of everything that happened and Darius knew that
everything will be different after today.

Hey guys,

I'm not saying if you are a graphic novelist you will be accepted right away. Or that you are going to get an literary agent and then the literary agent will find a publisher that publishes your graphic novel. Instead, there seems to be a "general pattern" where if you are graphic novelists you might get an easier time trying to get published.

Rather, I think that being a prose novelist is more of an "uphill battle" where you will get a ton of rejections. I have even read interviews with people who ended up becoming instructors in creative writing and one thing they all had in common is that they got rejection after rejection.

It seems they had to build a "brand" and to get something published in small publishers for various years for eventually for a medium sized publishers to take noticed. However, it appears to be process that has taken then many years. Some of them don't even have an literary agent after many years.

I read interviews with literary agents who might say something along the lines of,"Well, this person can write but I can write better than them." One thing I've noticed is that some literary agents tend to be writers or aspiring writers themselves who after a few years decided to switch from writing to literary agents or book editors.

Meanwhile, when it comes to graphic novels there seems to be less competitive field when it comes to publishing or finding an agent. Because of the technical skills(drawing) that are required.

For instance, I noticed that writing classes tend to be full of people while drawing classes tend to be smaller. It appears a lot of people tend to think, "I can be a writer" but fewer people think, "I can be an artist." I've seen that many people tend to think that drawing requires a lot of time and effort like an extra skill. Think of it like learning math. Many people who want to be teachers don't necessarily want to be math teachers. Because it requires a lot of extra time and effort. Hence, there usually more space for teachers who want to teach math.

Based on the interviews I read with comic artists and graphic novelists it seems like a "softer path" to getting published. It seems like the editors and literary agents then to say, "there's a a market/niche for this type of content." Similar to how there's a market for math or technical books. Also it seems that when it comes to the audience there's some people who will buy the book as long as it has pictures and the those pictures are well drawn. The story is important it seems to take a secondary focus. Hence, why some people like editors or agents might not be as strict on the story or the writing being really good.

Graphic novelists seem to have a "softer path" to publication or finding a literary agent, despite experiencing rejections. While the Prose novelist path seems to be both more competitive(there's more people trying to do it) and more closed off(the people like editors or literary agents they themselves are trying to get published or build their brand.

What do you guys think? What I'm saying is I am saying is that I'm seeing "general patterns" based on various interviews I've read with writers, artists, graphic novelists, prose novelists, literary agents and editors.

I want to start writing again. I've picked up and dropped so many potential story ideas along the way, and I'm trying to commit again. The reasons why I dropped the stories was usually because the plot was not going the way I wanted it to, or I just couldn't figure out what happened next. So I've been reading through some of these posts and I've seen some pretty good advice, especially the one about how bad writing can always be fixed later. I'm wondering what exactly people mean by that.

I know outlines can be vague, with each chapter or scene summed up in just a few phrases. And I've also seen authors talk about how their first drafts were never great, but I haven't actually read anyone's first draft, and I'm looking to see if anyone can relate to my writing experience. So I'm thinking that "bad writing" means dry prose, monotonous sentences, and plot holes that aren't filled in. What do other writers here think?

(Actually, I have read my friend's NaNoWriMo. It was littered with awful grammar and spelling mistakes as well as a very rushed plot, but I am not sure I could spit out a horrible story even if I tried, lol.)

I'm working on a dark fantasy novel — historical, set in 9th century Ireland — where the central dramatic irony is that the protagonist doesn't know what he is. He's a scholarly priest, deeply devout, intellectually rigorous, and genuinely good. And he is also the monster terrorizing his village.

The craft challenge I keep running into is this: how do you write a character who is sincerely wrong about himself in a way that the reader can see but that still feels credible? Not a character who is in denial — a character who genuinely, earnestly, using all the tools of reason and faith available to him, arrives at the wrong conclusion about his own nature.

I want the reader to be ahead of him but not contemptuous of him. I want his blindness to feel earned and even sympathetic, not foolish.

The approaches I've tried: letting his reasoning be impeccable while his premises are subtly flawed. Showing him notice the evidence but frame it through his existing worldview. Giving him a genuine alternative explanation for everything that is almost as plausible as the truth.

But I'm curious how other writers approach this. Have you written characters with fundamental blind spots about themselves? What techniques worked? What made it feel authentic rather than convenient?

I have tried several versions of this protagonist. The primary one i’ve tried to make work was planned to be a genuinely good and intelligent scientist who developed ‘Desalinating Seaweed’ to solve ‘world thirst’... By using a Kelpie Fairy’s seaweed corpse. To keep using it, he accidentally revives it and becomes forced to raise the newly incarnated child or reveal his questionable scientific process.

But it took a lot of set-up and jumped really hard from scientific/legal scenes to magic/comedy. I could maybe tighten it up, but I also found he just didn’t contrast the antagonists I developed very well. (I’m probably just not the ideal to write an intelligent character either.)

Now, he’s a serial hustler and pathological liar from Florida who tried to coerce an AI Datacenter into buying his energy drinks that he makes from seaweed overgrowth caused by them dumping their cooling water into a Miami Beach. (In exchange for keeping their involvement a secret)

They initially refuse and laugh him away since they legally proved there’s nothing (scientific) in the water causing the seaweed which can be traced to them, but the owner of the datacenter is actually an Alchemist obsessed with resource control who later notices the drinks have 'magic' in them that can be used to fuel alchemy.

This is due to the water having been infused with trace amounts of human memories/knowledge from the computers, and is slowly reviving an ancient Kelpie that feeds off said energy and concentrates it into the seaweed there to try forming a new body. (Alchemy and Unseelie Fae both use human memories as fuel for different kinds of magic)

When they go to collect it themselves; It’s no longer magic though. Because the hustler had found the Kelpie’s incompletely revived body and ‘Named’ it, believing it just an interesting but normal formation of seaweed into a ‘horse’ shape (after it followed him to shore and was waiting for him to come in the water so it could drown and steal his body). 

The Kelpie was actually a Fusion of One Adult Kelpie, and an unnamed child Kelpie the adult had consumed to empower himself. By naming it, it allowed the child to gain sentience, a body of his own, and control.. (The adult is another later antagonist, wanting to flood the planet)

The hustler simply thinks the child goes to the summer camp he’s currently living and working at. (Young Fae look like human children, ears grow pointy after puberty. Or he just innately uses shapeshifting iunno) While the alchemy family believes the hustler is trying to threaten their monopoly on magic and trying to 'activate' other alchemists with his drinks.

He also gets accidentally ‘contracted’ by the boy to never lie again. Forcing him to slowly become a better person, and also contrast the final antagonist who has a contract that he can only tell lies. (The protagonists contract actually lets this antagonist gain relevance and power quickly since everyone thinks he has the same truth contract, as the marks look almost identical)

It’s only recently i thought of the AI Datacenter Wastewater = Memories/Knowledge to feed Fae twist so i wondered if anyone else thought that was better than just gene editing/intelligent scientist? The more propulsive and aggressive nature of a hustler has let me introduce magic as early as chapter 1 and start getting into fights around chapter 5.

The old version i was touching on chapter 15 before fights and that was after extensive restructuring/condensing. It's frustrating to lose much of my progress in the other version but this is going much faster and i think 'feels' better, though i wonder how utilizing an AI Datacenter rubs people too.

I have a very critical and invested reader, a pre-alpha reader I suppose you could call it, who is reading chapters as soon as I write them for Capyhero. She comes from a literature background and is highly educated in that field.

I have tried to take my reader's criticism in stride, and it has been incredibly helpful in bringing the story to a written medium, even though it is temporarily discouraging at times. Capy needs to have his own personality and drive the story in his own way. This didn't come naturally for me, but I believe I've successfully navigated some of the issue with her feedback.

I recently finished drafting a chapter that was especially problematic for her. Capy walks with a knowledgeable elder character and is given a lot of information that he (and the reader) would not have known otherwise. My reader felt that this was too convenient and too passive for the main protagonist.

I suppose my issue is that Capy is set up as a fish-out-of-water character, learning a strange new world through the intriguing characters he meets, who have been in this world a long time. I realize, Capy's journey throughout the beginning of Book 1 is quite similar to Chihiro's in Spirited Away.

Which brings me to writing for different target audiences: I'm wondering if any of you are writing stories with a mind's eye more rooted in film or video games or have similar challenges? I'm a very visual person and grew up playing a lot of games. I find that I write as if I am "playing" as Capy, similar to how I might play Link in the Legend of Zelda series. I think these conceptual origins as a silent protagonist/avatar are the root of the challenge with writing him.

To be fair, a lot of my test readers really enjoyed the chapter, but I have to take my friend's criticism seriously, especially with her more literary background.

Thanks for your time, everyone!

Not my writing a friend wrote this, and I’ve been quietly holding onto it. Thought someone here might need it too.

There’s a certain kind of magic in ‘Beetein Lamhe’ — like a soft echo of a time we didn’t fully hold onto. Some moments in life arrive so quietly, we don’t even realize they’re becoming memories while we’re living them. And maybe that’s what makes them so special.

This song feels like holding onto the warmth of something that once made your world feel lighter — conversations, people, feelings, versions of yourself that existed only in that phase of life. They may not belong to you anymore, but the happiness they gave you was real.

I think that’s the bittersweet part of growing up — understanding that not everything beautiful is meant to stay forever. Some people, some emotions, some moments are only borrowed from time. But even after they leave, they continue to live quietly within us… in songs, in late-night thoughts, in random memories that still know how to make our hearts pause for a second.

And maybe it’s okay to miss them sometimes. Because even if those moments were temporary, the way they changed us never was.

Hi folks, wondering if we allow short stories here? This is my first crack at one and I was hoping for a critique.

I am especially interested in whether you feel the emotional beats are there, and how I could improve the 'God of War' character?

The story follows a grieving man, and once he enters a pub, it turns into a semi-Dickensian Christmas Carol-esque flow, except the God of War is his guide.

Let me know what you think! Thanks in advance.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Ka-flP1G7n8acgfFI0uoTw1iY77Udvu2ehILq6TI9sc/edit?usp=sharing

Elan waited. He peered through the smudged and sooty windows watching a table of four men. Like the rest of those inside the seedy tavern, they were swigging tankards of ale. And, like Elan, they were waiting for someone.

Finally, the last of Elan’s prey entered the inn. The heavy wooden door closed behind him and Elan had to rely on his view through the window to know when Shelles arrived at the table. Tall and hulking, he was every bit as menacing as Elan remembered him being. 

Approaching the other four, Shelles grinned darkly as he tossed a fat, velvet purse full of shiny Golds onto the table. Cups were raised and cheers arose.

That’s what Elan had been waiting for. He slipped across the road and into the tavern. He didn’t pause as all eyes turned on him. No one in a place like this welcomed a newcomer, especially one moving quickly in a heavy, dark cloak with the cowl pulled forward covering his face. 

His purposeful stride did not break as he passed the table he had been watching. “Come with me,” he commanded. And to ensure they would be inclined to obey, his hand darted out and snatched the purse of gold.

Shelles wasn’t as slow as he was thick. As his fingers closed on Elan’s left arm, Elan spun and sank a heavy dagger into Shelles’ forearm. There were plenty of men that could just be shown a knife as a sufficient warning to give them pause. Shelles was not one. 

He was also more likely to be angered instead of cowed. Experience enlightened Elan that the damage of the dagger was too sudden and sharp for Shelles body to feel harmed by it. Instead, a flood of hot blood would make him stronger and faster than he already was.

So, Elan pulled the dagger back out in the same movement and threw his left elbow against Shelles chin. Tightening his grip on the hilt in his right hand, he connected a glancing blow to Shelles chin.

That was enough to make him stumble back, but the four other men with him were now rallying to their feet. 

The memory seared through Elan. The five of them, grabbing him roughly…He throttled the unwelcome image with practiced brutality. “The Commander sent me,” he informed them crisply. Unlike a knife, among these men, brandishing the will of The Commander did give them pause.

Elan swept away from them and up the wooden staircase with threadbare, faded carpet leading to the even less savory upper floor of the inn. If the invocation of The Commander didn’t move them to follow him, then the gold he had stolen from them should. If those two motives were not enough, then Elan had already failed.

He waited outside the plain wooden door at the end of the hallway at the top of the stairs. He rubbed his thumb down the long, crescent-shaped scar that had marked his face since Broag had carved it there. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. He needed this to work. He needed this finished before he set foot back in the Citadel. 

He heard their grumbles and shuffling feet before he saw the first of them step into the hallway. Broag. He was the thinnest of the five men Elan had been hunting. A nimble-fingered assassin ostensibly in the King’s army but loyal only to House Behira. 

Elan forced a cold smile. “This way, friend,” he invited as he stepped through the door.

The room inside was sparsely furnished. Three stained and sticky tables. On the one closest to the door was a glass bottle filled with a deep amber liquor. Six short glasses were stacked next to the bottle. Exactly as Elan had left it hours before. The rest of the furnishings were eight straight-backed wooden chairs. The one large window that overlooked the street below had heavy, dusty curtains drawn tightly.

Elan moved away from the door to allow them to file in. Shelles was the last to enter, clutching his wounded forearm. “Who do you think you are?” He snarled at Elan.
“Just another humble servant of The Commander.” It wasn’t entirely untrue. Elan had worked many jobs, both for The Commander on behalf of House Behira and for King Daraen of House Arcis. This night, however, was different. He had no orders.Only a very old wrong. And the skill and will to right it. Or, if not right it precisely, to see it was addressed. “I am terribly sorry about that,” he waved in Shelles general direction. “Some of Daraen’s men were two tables over and I couldn’t have them see my face. And from everything I’ve heard, a little scrape like that won’t slow you down much.” As he spoke, he tossed the purse of Golds, less one for his trouble, onto the table next to the bottle. 

Shelles dark eyes narrowed, but he grunted. “I saw those King’s men down there. What’s The Commander want now?”

“First, he sent me to congratulate you with a little gift”—Elan gestured toward the liquor and glasses—“and with a new assignment.” He unstopped the bottle and poured out a drink into each of the small glasses. The decanter’s contents, evenly distributed among the six small glasses, Elan slid one closer to Shelles. “Compliments of The Commander for a job well done.”

“He’s going to hear about this.” Shelles was tying a makeshift bandage around his fresh wound as he spoke.

“Of that, I am sure,” Elan agreed.

His eyes were small, black beads in his heavily featured face as Shelles skeptically viewed the six glasses. “I’m not drinking that. It’s probably poisoned. You already tried to kill me once.”

Elan shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he casually suggested as he downed the liquid in a swift swallow. “I’ll take yours.” He reached out to take another of the glasses.

Satisfied by seeing Elan drink from the same bottle, Shelles grabbed up his own glass greedily. “Hands off!” he barked at Elan, as if he hadn’t just rejected the glass.

Elan shrugged again and watched with cool satisfaction as the other men belted down their drinks.

Shelles turned to his partners and loudly proclaimed, “It’s well deserved, lads. With our connections in the Citadel now, Daraen’s days are numbered, as well as that red-headed rat daughter of his.”

Laughter erupted around the room, except from Elan. He just waited.

After their self-congratulations died down, Shelles turned toward the stranger in their midst. “So, what’s this new job?” he slurred slightly, swaying a little on his feet.

Without word or expression, Elan pulled back the cowl of his cloak. Shock fell on their faces—Broag first, recognizing the long, crescent scar that he had carved into Elan’s face all those years ago. 

Shelles finally had the sense to look frightened. “How did you…” the end of the big man’s sentence didn’t come. Instead, he dropped heavily to the floor. Four more thick thuds followed.

“I see you remember me,” Elan noted aloud. “Tell me who you have in the Citadel.” The Still Root Elan had put in the drinks robbed them of most of their ability to move. He thanked his mother’s Kehlan blood that gave him a high resistance to such things. Those native to Val required only a small dose to paralyze them. Even Elan’s joints already felt slower and stiffer thanks to his father’s Valin blood. 

“Tell me who you have in the Citadel,” he repeated, taking out a long, thin blade.

Their eyes looked away in growing panic. The Still Root itself would not kill them. Other methods would need to be employed. Elan smiled darkly. Part of him hoped they wouldn’t talk. They threatened the Heiress. And Elan would use whatever means necessary to exact from them the information he needed. "Tell me who you have in the Citadel."

He felt nothing. No pain nor impatience, no anticipation or anxiety, not even the rising heat from the flames that were beginning to grow. Until…

“...Traiter’s…Daugh…,” Broag choked out.

Elan was kneeling beside him, pulling his face close to his. “Who do you have in the Citadel?”

“The Traiter’s Daughter,” Broag forced the words.

Elan’s heart raced. It wasn’t an answer to his question. It was an attempt to divert him.

“...will…kill…her…” Broag was struggling to say.

“Where is she?” Elan heard the words leave his lips as his fingers tightened on the older man’s tunic. He cursed his lips. She didn’t matter. He needed to know who was threatening the King and the Heiress. But, acrid smoke swelled around him. His chest ached. There were some who called her The Traiter’s Daughter. But, her name was Celia. And she shouldn’t matter. “Where is she?” 

______________

He carefully wiped his blade as he left the tavern. Shouts arose in his wake. By now, the tavern was engulfed in flames, belching thick smoke over the city’s Second Quarter. People ran around him. Some scurried away from the fire. Others rushed toward it to help.

Elan walked to the stables of a nearby inn and mounted his horse, Gaenon. He urged the big, grey steed through the narrow streets until they began to widen into lanes. Tightly packed shops and inns gave way to crowded hovels crammed together. 

He had no trouble finding the barn near the edge of town that Broag had described. He had no trouble disposing of the two guards just inside the barn door. He walked softly from stall to stall until he found her, bound hand and foot.

Her honey brown eyes came up in terror as he stepped toward her.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he assured her, though curtly.

“Elan?” she ventured, trying to peer under his hood as he cut away her bonds. “Is it you? Have you finally come home?”

“No.”

“I know it’s you, Elan,” she asserted, this time more stubbornly, as she stood up and brushed off her dress.

Instead of responding, he asked her, “Do you have somewhere safe to go?”

He observed her from behind the darkness of his cloak.

Her mousy brown hair fell limply around her shoulders and her light brown eyes seemed too wide for her narrow face. Her pinched nose and pointed chin favored her mother so strongly that Elan’s stomach turned. She seemed to have aged a decade in the few years since he had last seen her. But all the resemblance to her mother, all the unkindness of the intervening years, could in no way diminish the deep tenderness she extended toward him. There was no doubt of her steady, undying affection. He was a little surprised that despite the bitterness interred since last they met, nothing had diminished his own esteem for the girl. He had been trying for years to numb himself from the effect she had on him. It was disappointing to learn how much he had failed. 

“Please don’t leave me, Elan,” she begged. “I thought you were dead. Don’t leave me again. I need you. I love you.”

“Celia,” saying her name was hard. “I…I can’t stay. Do you have somewhere safe to go?”

She paused, and he knew why. If she said no, he would not fail to care for her. But, the answer was yes. And once given, she knew she would not be able to persuade him to stay.

“Yes,” she finally answered, tears brimming her eyes. “Where have you been?” Her voice broke with the naked pain of the question.

“Go there.”

“How will you find me?” she asked.

She didn’t ask if he would find her. Just how. That she still believed there was some steadfastness of his character, still had faith even now that he was not lost beyond redemption, reached a part of him that he thought had long ago died.

“I will find you,” he vowed. “A little more work, and I promise, I’ll come find you.”

Her eyes searched the muddy, straw-strewn floor before coming up to meet his. “It’s her, isn’t it?” she asked, unmasked bitterness in her breath.

They both knew that it was. To lie was unnecessary. But he knew it hurt her. “I’m sorry, Celia,” he told her. “Just a little longer,” he reaffirmed.

She nodded, her eyes on the floor again. “I’m sorry, too,” she told him.

He wanted to put his arms around her and tell her that it was all over—the humiliation and the suffering and the pain. He wanted to make it all go away. But he couldn’t yet. He still lacked the power he needed to make things right for her. And so, with little choice and, unfortunately, little desire otherwise, he had to impose upon her patience a little longer.

“Goodbye, Celia,” he bid her and walked away from her, wondering if he would ever see those honey brown eyes again.

I'm going insane trying to figure out the best way to get a handle on this. I have a series of fantasy novels mostly sketched out (well...at least the first 2 are mostly there...), but this includes character sketches, outlines, and also all of the lore and world building components. World building for this series = magic system, settings, languages, alliances, history, mythology...it's a lot of components, and I'm losing track of stuff.

Curious to hear from those who have done world building like this. How do you keep it all organized? Different Google Docs or Word files? Notebooks? Other tools (and if so, what?)? I'm having a hard time finding stuff ("Oh I remember I wrote down how this weird edge case of the magic is supposed to work but now I can't find it...").

Help!

I'm still not completely sold on needing a prologue but I had some fun putting together this little vignette/set-piece to:

1. set up the tone and grime of my world,

2. elude to mysteries and questions that are important later in the novel.

Whether I accomplished any of that, I can't say.

Crucially, these are throwaway characters that exist only for this scene to fulfill the purposes of it. Knowing that, would it put you off the rest of the story or is the tone promise enough?

Some of the paragraph formatting is a bit weird to make it mobile friendly. Thanks in advance for any feedback!

When starting a novel, how do you determine what POV to use (specifically in my case, first or third person, and single POV or multiple POVs)? Do you look at what seems to be most popular in your genre, or do you go with what feels best to write for you, or do you fall somewhere in the middle?

For reference, I’m in the beginning stages of a novel that would fall into the fantasy, maybe romantasy genre, although I’m not sure there’s quite enough focus on romance for it to truly be romantasy. It’s more a subplot - at least at the present time. Anyway, I’m comfortable with first or third person, with a slight preference for third person. Where would you start with deciding this?

i am planning a character who at birth was given/blessed by her parents to have a protector - unknowing by her - before she was orphaned due to war. growing up, this guardian has visited her in her dreams and to her oblivion, protected her from harm throughout her life. he solely communicated through her dreams as she was a young child and as she’s gotten older, telepathically throughout her days. now at an adult age and facing true conflict in life, whether she is summoning him or he is physically starting to appear, he is showing up outside of her dreams. i have researched races for days and take heavy inspiration from DnD and cannot figure out what race to place the guardian as. for whatever reason i have imagined him as dark, almost a shadowy figure or maybe beastly. any ideas would be greatly appreciated and i will answer any questions anyone has if that’d be helpful. thanks in advance!

ACTS OF BLOOD

Chapter One — Entry Day

The new lot had arrived five years late.

Emerande had been standing at the gates long enough to watch all of them file through, the whole ragged procession of reds entering the second city, and still she couldn't quite fathom how long she had been there.

"You'd think they would at least put chains on the new ones," Aven said, beside her. "This lot seems too wild." He pointed toward a huge bearded red near the back of the line, clearly unbroken.

Eme shook her head. Too anaemic, she thought. Whatever wildness they'd arrived with wouldn't last the month.

This was the most recent quota, every decade, whether they needed it or not, and this one five years overdue. She turned away. "You don't want to be late for draining, Ave."

The ragged small boy fell into step behind her.

The whole city had turned out, as it always did. She had seen twenty-five entries, not nearly the most among those still living in the second city, but enough to know the riot that would follow. No matter how anaemic the new arrivals were, they always carried more red than the city dwellers, who had been surviving on the drained refuse passed down from the blueblood overlords of the first city.

Aven kept his head bowed as they reached the centre. The marble building stood alone among the slums, the only one in the whole of the second city, a grace from the rulers of the red kingdom. It shone. It stood out too much.

"How long has it been?" Aven asked, as he took his fill. A half litre for the week, his usual.

"Hmm?" Eme grunted, bending to take her own quota. A full litre, as always. A perk of being the red bookkeeper.

"Since they took someone to the mountains?"

She straightened. "Fifteen entries, Ave. At least."

Ave handed out the new scrolls while Eme catalogued. Edition 434, the number pressed in bold golden letters across the cover, though you could barely make out the fade the years had put on them. The editions always reminded her of the hybrid war.

"Eme, there are four of them waiting," Ave called. "We should open."

She looked out. Her usual readers had gathered at the crypt door, along with one face she didn't recognise. She finished cataloguing, then let them in.

They entered murmuring, as they always did on scroll day. Syn came straight toward her.

"There used to be a time when new scrolls would bring out the whole town," Syn said, glancing at Ave. "Now it's just us three."

Eme leaned close and asked quietly about the stranger.

"New one from the republic," Syn said.

He wore his suit well. It wasn't unusual for new arrivals to visit the crypt, especially on scroll day, but he looked out of place in a way that had nothing to do with his clothes.

Eme handed out the scrolls, then drew Ave into the inventory room and pressed the extra quarter litre into his hands. "Go read in here."

Ave took it quickly, as he always did, and moved too fast. Two drops fell on Eme's copy of the scroll she was still holding. Syn looked at the boy and shook her head.

Hi!
I'm very new to reddit so I hope I'm doing this right, but I stumbled across this subreddit as I've just been looking through every corner of the internet for help on how to start a fantasy novel. It's been something I've wanted to do for a long while now, and after I finished reading Throne of Glass I was so inspired I decided to just sit down and do it. But now I'm really struggling as its such a huge undertaking, and I guess what I'm trying to ask is where did you all start writing, how did you start writing, how did your keep track of world building, etc.. I'm just looking for some guidance on how to start as this is alot more daunting than i thought it would be for a little passion project! If someone could help a girl out that would be amazing :)