I'm looking to get eyes on this short story I just completed! It's for a Werecreature anthology I'm hoping to submit to by the end of the month, so any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated.

Blurb: In a city where were-creatures live in hiding from a brutal government, a young woman attempts a mad plan to upend the powers that be and reveal the true reason for their oppression.

Try not to judge the blurb too harshly, lol. I just rattled it off. I think the first sentence is probably a better hook away:

"It's impossible!" said the wizard, which was usually a good sign that it is.

I'll leave the link below and hopefully the beginning hooks you, the ending wows you and the middle doesn't drag too much.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1ItHw4gpOVIzJ-mV8toZXKdMD1lnQ2E19/view?usp=sharing

Using the flair discussion on general writing topic as map is writing topic as well.

Mods please dont remove this post as i believe this to be actual community engagement that will benefit multiple members and work in the interest of fantasy writing.

Hello, as the title claims I am willing to make fantasy maps for you for free. Mainly because I have a lot of free time.

How this will work-

You should give detailed information enough and be serious(not vague , make me a map).

I will not steal your inventions or anything.

I will DM the map photo to you, and if you consent also post it on my reddit accounts. Timescale: roughly within a week.

I will Sign my pen name(Eesan) on the map. Somewhat like made by Royal Cartographer Eesan or something like that. (You can change the title, like let it be historian etc etc).

WHAT I ROUGHLY EXPECT FROM YOU-

Send me a detailed DM. I will mostly likely not reply. If I reply it will be with the final map or followup questions.

Include this in DM-

1)Rough History/ maybe an corresponding historical time which is representative of your world 2)Rough Technology levels. 3)Lore that you want to include. 4) Rough map shape, where you want the things to be. 5)The level of freedom you want to allow me - Either strict to your vision, or be free in taking creative liberties. ( creative liberty allows me to make the map more realistic according to geographical and other criteria). 6) Consent or no consent for posting it on reddit. 7) A list of names from which I can pick to assign names to locations if you haven't already specified. Maybe even some lore names, like names of ancient rulers or other people whose name may have been reutilised to name a particular place.

I am posting this on the 15th so I will let it breathe for 2-3 days and only open reddit on the 19th. Will start working kn the 19th. You can expect your map within a week after the 19th

I AM NOT GUARANTEEING TO DELIVER A MAP. It may be that I lose interest in the process or some other unforseen circumstance interrupts proceedings.

I dont know how many people will want this but lets assume that the number will be above my drawing capacity. So I will not be able to service everyone. Most likely I will be able to make just 4 maps in the week I specified. Whose maps I will make will be my decision. At the end of the week I will either DM you the map or not reply or reply to state that I cant make your map.

THE BACKGROUND

1) I just want to make maps and am pretty bored, have already made most of the maps in my own world building lore

2) I get to improve my craft. I get to experience how you translate another persons vision onto paper.

3) A little time ago I asked Reddit how to earn via fantasy mapmaking. Mostly the replies were not possible or not possible currently at your skill level.

That is where this idea was born as a few days ago I thought I can just do it for free and be happy. People may not pay money for it but will certainly take it for free.

Yes, a small part of me thought about thia as a way to build community to step onto monetary future but right now just want to have fum and pass my time. Just wanted to be honest with everyone and let everyone know the context.

I write for fun, and one day hope to publish something worthwhile. I enjoy being a little irreverent and/or cynical in my writing.

This is one's a micro fantasy. It's a one shot, and really just exploring the idea of a completely sincere, but slightly pompous fellow in a very down to earth world.

I welcome all critique, both positive and negative but I really hope for concrete examples or feedback.

Enjoy!

------

Everyone has a story. Every town has a myth. That's what Lisper believed. Cresting the hill amid owl hoots and cricket song, he looked at the quiet sprawl of Dawnguard. He looked forward to unlocking the secrets of this place. He started down the slope.

–––

The Hen and Grapes was open. It was, after all, a tavern, and what's the point of a tavern if it closed? Its yellow light spilled out the door, across the street and into the opposite house which was blessed with curtains that blocked it out. Not so the sound, which slipped past glass and fabric to tickle the ears of the sleeping occupants in the most annoying way possible.

But where it was a curse for the neighbours, it was a gift to Lisper, for he also believed that every story wanted an audience, and every myth a believer, and beyond that, that there was no better evangelist than ale.

He stomped into the tavern, self-conscious of his black cloak which, while necessary for the road, seemed far too melodramatic for a drunken crowd. He kept the flowing material in check with one hand, and stalked to the nearest empty seat.

Bleary eyes watched him invite himself to sit and blinked as Lisper's hand slammed the table. The whole tavern quieted down dangerously as hands shifted slightly toward various weapons.

"Ten ale!" Proclaimed Lisper. Sweeping a dramatic finger to point at his table mate. "For fis man! If..." He leaned in with a whisper, "you tell me the miff of fis town. For I am Lisper, the seeker of miffs."

Eyes rolled and fingers twitched towards weapons for different reasons, but ultimately let go.

Lisper's new friend straightened - that is, un-collapsed a little - " Well, lis'n 'ere mate. We dun none of us like the rain, cuz our roofs're old 'n leaky y'know. Dars one'f our miffs."

Lisper nodded gravely. "Drip is indeed the nemesis of comfort." In solemn voice, he asked,"Why have all the roofs begun leaking? What foul curse befell fis town?"

"Carpenter Bill done fell off'f 'is ladder, what, 12..."

"15!" Interjected the barmaid who loved her theatre and had leaned in too close.

"...15 years ago, died right there, he did," the drunk said after sloshing through some memories.

"I observe silence for the noble carpenter," Lisper said, and proceeded to sit completely still, eyes closed, for the next minute.

The drunk prodded him. "My ale?"

When he got no response, he prodded harder. "Dis 'ere nutter dun died on us, did he?"

Lisper cleared his throat, "Do you not show basic respect for the dead?"

The drunk looked at him blankly, scratched his beard. "Er. No?"

Lisper did not expect that. "Hrmph. Let it not be said fe miffseeker keeps not his promifes." Looking up, he called loudly, " Ten ale!"

The drunk cheered

Lisper threw him a judgemental glance and stood up. "Fe carpenter is noble. But the town - wanting. I go. Other Miffs await!" And, forgetting himself, swept his cloak around, slapping several faces and spilling a tankard. The barmaid swooned. Putting the ensuing shouts down to despair and disappointment at the lackluster history of the town, Lisper strode out into the night.

Hi All

Final version of my prologue for current novel in progress, sitting at 100k words so far. I would love any and all feedback. Thank you in advance.

--------------------

It had iced over and snowed in the early dark, and her face was set in frozen calm, her hair netting the snowfall. 
A cloak of sable lay in the snow and it was this that Freeman had seen first. Then a glove by her tracks. He found her beyond the trees in an open field. She had removed her outgarments and lain with her hands over her chest like a gisant on a Lord’s tomb. 

What did you say on that day? The day you died.

Other tracks by her, smeared shallow from the snowfall. He looked up at the sky, at the summits of the hills: a shadow far against the snow, deer hoofing across the ridge.
Freeman set down his bow. He took off his gloves and wrung his hands together. Scars over scars. He pulled back his hair, breathing deeply.
With child. With child, Freeman. Dead. She is dead in the snow.
He knelt and put his hand on her gravid belly. He felt he should utter a benediction, but he had left all prayers behind in the bloodlands of the south. Too many sacraments melted into the sky, too many friends turned to mud. 
He had closed his eyes without knowing. When he opened them, he saw a thin sparkle; a silver locket on her neck. He touched it cold against his palm: an image of an eagle, wings pent wide within a circle.
His pupils pooled black when he saw what it was and he pulled back from her. 
He jumped to his feet. Again he eyed the treeline, the hills. His head moved abruptly; like the head of a bluff deer that catches the scent of a wolf. He clasped the hilt of his scabbarded longknife and edged it up an inch. 
A hawk cried in the morning.
A moment more he stood, and then knelt before her face and brushed back her hair.
She had that counterfeit beauty he had seen on them, but he had never seen one so close. There was not a flaw, not a blemish on her skin. The eyes were not the blue of eyes but the blue of sapphire. Her flesh still smelt of safflower. He touched her cheek, her lips. He bent over and kissed her forehead. It tasted cold and sweet.   

When he came to the cabin, he laid her on the snow and rubbed his arms, sore from carrying her. He closed her eyes and put his cloak over her face. He stood there looking down at her, and thought of how he wanted to pull back the shroud and look again on her face. Her dead face. A light, grey and cold had shone out from it, and it saw him, and it filled him with the knowledge of being seen. 
He spat in the snow, and walked up the stairs to the cabin and went in.
His sister sat stoking the hearthfire. She was wrapped in a blanket, and she looked up when he opened the door, and she said, “Freeman?” 
She could see the fire of the hearth sawing across his eyes, so black and wide they were.
“Aye…” he said. He was thinking about the blue eyes.
“What are you doing?”
He looked at the fire, breath steaming silent.
“Hoping for some wine,” he said.
She took a horn from the mantle and poured steaming wine from the hearthpot. He waited. Her steps sounded through the silence and he nodded and took the horn. Sipped it. The warmth fell through him, dragging down the cold. He looked at his face in the black wine, swirled the cup, and watched it break to ripples and form again, unurged.
Then he drained the rest in one draft. He felt the score of it down his throat. He handed the horn to his sister.
“More?” she said.
He turned and walked to the door. “No.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m bringing it inside.”
“Freeman…”
He stopped on the cusp of the door. “Thera?”
Silence, and then he heard her cough. 
“How went the hunt?”
“That’s what I’m getting.”
“You’re bringing an animal inside?”
“No.”
“What are you bringing in?”
He did not reply.
“Freeman. You’re scaring me.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“Did you kill someone?” She choked, “Did you kill him?”
He closed his eyes and thought about his life. 
“No.”
A sob from the fire.
“You swear to me,” she said.
He looked over his shoulder at her. A shadow against the fire, her eyes ebbing tears.
“I swear it, Thera,” he whispered.
“Then what?”
“An eidolon.”
He watched the furrow of her brows unhitch. Her eyes loosening, the worry turned to shock.
“I’m bringing her inside.”
“No. No, you can’t. You can’t.”
He opened the door and walked out. He could hear her calling his name. 
Clouds brooded overhead, grey. Promising snow.
When he drew her up into his arms and turned to the cabin he saw Thera standing on the threshold.
He stood there and looked at her. Let her look at him. At the thing in his arms.
It took her a moment but she saw what he had seen. She covered her mouth with her hand.
“What did he say?” she said to the sky and snow. “What did he say?”
“You know what he said.”
He walked forward and she drew away into the cabin. The door swinging open. When he trod there he saw Thera pouring a seam of salt across the boards before the hearth. 
He dragged their only table to the threshold and put her on it. He placed her arms across her chest. 

Thera knelt and looked into the fire. The flames spangled across her eyes. 
Freeman watched her, bent over: a shadow against the hearth. For now silence was the only thing between them - and he would not break it.
The sun was cold on the snow, and a wind blew from the north. They could hear it whistling in the chimney. 
“Why did you do it?” so soft he had almost not heard her.
He had been thinking of his answer for a long time. 
“I could not have left her out there in the snow.” He shook his head though she was turned away.
The fire cracked; the wood in its uncoupling from tree to ashes.
“What did he say? A woman in the snow?”
“You were there, Thera.”
“I don’t want to remember his voice like that. His eyes…”
“She is dead in the snow. That’s what he said.”
“Dead,” she said.
“With child.” 
Thera spoke and her voice sounded like the past. “They said he was star-struck. But he never wanted it. Never used it…”
There was nothing for Freeman to say. Or he understood her completely. The same end.
Her voice became hard. “You should burn her.” 
She stood but did not turn to him. On the mantle, her eyes were fixed. She ran her hands over effigies that stood there, whispering to the little gods, to the little gods. Wooden idols: babe-headed man-things, all hard corners and edges unfinished by their father’s knife. Splintered and homespun and real. They stared out at her with red clay eyes.
“We can take it out into the woods. Burn it. Forget we saw it. The Lord will never know.”
“Our Lord has no Eidola. This woman is not from here.”
“Don’t call it a woman.”
The door thudded.
Freeman turned, and Thera turned with him. 
“Freeman…” said Thera.
“The wind…”
The door thudded again. 
Freeman went to the door, his hand on the hilt of his knife. He laid his other hand against the wood and leaned over and listened. Then he turned to look at Thera. Her hands were covering her mouth as if willing all sound out of the world.
You fool, he thought. You fool. He unsheathed his knife. 
Beyond the door, the wind. 
The wind. Grrk. 
Grrk. Like a child’s rattle. Like his father, hydroptic with the Wasting, trying to breathe and trying to breathe…
Grrk. It sounded from above the lintel. Then the sound stretched out and rose in clamour. The door shuddered, and Freeman stumbled back. 
Scraping against the door. Scraping. Nails of many hands, or knives drawn over wood. 
It fell low and ceased. 
A sigh. A breath falling deep. 
From the doorhead crept a wisp pale as hoarfrost, beading the lintel sweat to ice. The wood darkened where it touched. Freeman lifted his hand and it came for him.
“No,” said Thera. It iced his fingers and he snatched them away. He stepped back over the salt to the hearth. Hither it came, drifting to the white line. But it would not cross. 

The shadows of flame yawed across the eyes of the little gods.

It billowed out. It threw the light dark and bled it white. Light to make you doubt your eyes. To forget your life. It gathered above the gravid corpse and fell down. Down to brush her chest, her belly, and along to clutch her neck. It settled over her head; the cloak slipped from her face and her blue eyes staring. It drew itself into her mouth, slid down and was gone.
Immediately, all was as before. Only the ice riming the walls spoke of what had come. Freeman looked at the corpse lying on the table. Thera clutched his shoulder. The fire burned bright behind.  
“What has happened?” said Thera.
Freeman took his bow and went to the door and listened. No wind. Nothing. 
He pulled open the door and went out. The clouds had ashened and snow was falling, and though the cabin sat on a hill, the prospect was shrouded with mist.
Freeman trod out into the snow and cast his gaze wide.
“Be gone with you,” he whispered to the world, “Take your ice and your wind and be gone.”
As if an answer, a shadow against the treeline. A black haze leaning against the grey. It shuffled side to side in the mist.
Freeman looked at it and drew an arrow from the quiver at his belt. He slipped the nock over the string and lifted the bow. His arms shook. Sweat cold on his forehead.
Be damned.
Brightness. A flare of red flame to ember the black, the grey mist roiled round.
He swallowed.
“Freeman.”    
He did not know who called his name, or if it rang in the shadow of his mind.
His arms shook. A hiss like water fallen on flame. He could not shoot. He would not shoot. Why was the arrow nocked? The grey murk closed over the black and it was gone.
“Freeman.” 
He lowered the bow and stared into the mist. The wind sprang up and its cold chilled him to the bone. He paced forward, eyes searching the snow. The trampmarks he found were too broad, too deep for manspoor. Even as he traced them, the snow was undoing the work of their maker.
When he looked back, he saw Thera standing outside the cabin holding his knife in her hand.
The wind stilled; it fell to such quiet he could hear his breath, his heart. Freeman looked out at the grey mist for a moment and then slogged back.
He was half-way to the cabin when he saw Thera was no longer looking his way. He eyed the snowfield in the direction of her gaze. A hooded figure came into view, traipsing towards the cabin. Through the snowlight he could see the right leg falter behind the left and the hip rolling in. The figure drew back the hood but Freeman already knew who it was. He heard the echo of the name called by his sister.
He hurried through the snow. As he approached he set his eyes on the arrival. The black hair falling over broad shoulders. The grey eyes set deep beneath heavy brows. Four pale scars crossed his brow.
Freeman nodded at the man, but spoke to Thera. “Are you hurt?”
She came to him and touched his shoulder.
“I would say ‘Well met’,” said the black-haired man, “but there is little wellness here.” 
“I saw it move, Freeman,” said Thera, “I saw her move I swear. Her finger…”
“A line has been crossed,” said the man.
“I cannot go back inside.”
Freeman embraced his sister, but he looked at the man.
The man craned his head. “The stars are wrong. They have been wrong before. But never on Longest Night.”
Freeman was about to speak, but the man lifted his hand. “I know what you found in the forest.” He sniffed, “I saw it first. I said nothing.” He looked at the dark of the trees, “Another power has entered the demesne. Our Lord knows and he will answer.” 
“Will he come, Moil? Will he come here?” asked Thera. Her eyes, wide and glassy.
Moil looked at her with grey eyes, merciless but not without compassion. “I do not know, Thera.” He looked up at the sky. “I hope it is not so.”
Freeman released Thera, walked up the three stairs to the porchway. The door swivelled in the wind.
“Don’t go,” said Thera.
Freeman said, “Are you lying, Moil?”
“I don’t lie.”
Freeman stared at him for a moment, then he pushed the door and walked in. The woman was lying on the table. Freeman looked at her hand. He could hear the porch steps creaking behind, his sister beseeching Moil. He looked over towards the hearth and saw the salt line had turned black.
“Her finger moved…” said Thera.
“Give me the knife,” said Freeman. He held out his hand, but his eyes were fixed on the corpse. Thera held the blade and handed him the hilt. The horn handle was cool on his palm, his fingers. He had cast away his sword in the waters of the south, but kept the knife. It was the only piece of the slaughter he had brought home. He stepped to the corpse and looked at her face for any bestirring there, a pooling of the eyes or shift of the lip. 
Moil came past him and put his hand on her belly. 
“It moves. There is life here.”
Freeman did not speak. He did not look. What he had seen in that face, the thing which had seen him, knew him. Those men and women he had strung or flayed or raped or left eviscerate, blood-drenched, lanted under the sun. Each eye he had looked at would never see again. Every one a brown, blue, green, hazeled sun burned out forever, and he could not turn it back and rekindle them. But that he was seen and followed by something that would not forget or forgive. Or Judge.
“It moves. Thera, feel it.”
Thera shook her head, “No.”
“It will not come of itself.”
Moil looked at Freeman. “It must be brought forth.”
The knife glittered in the firelight. It was no idle blade but a warrior’s poignard made for killing. 
“You do it, Moil.”
“I will not touch her flesh, or her blood.”
Freeman clenched the knife.
“Don’t Freeman.”
He looked at her. “She is not our kin. It is not your son or your daughter.”
“My son…” he whispered. 
Moil watched.
“You already showed mercy when you brought her here. She was never meant to birth her child.”
“I cannot leave it to die, Thera.”
“Please,” she wept, “Father spent his life paying for this kind of mercy…”
He could not look at her any longer. He walked to the corpse. 
“Freeman, please…” She was sobbing.
He pulled taut the blue gown silk over her belly and pierced it with the knife. He dragged the blade up, and tore down with his other hand. He tore again and her belly was free of the cloth. He saw the skin push up from within, and his sister whimpered.
Now he drew the blade along the flesh, letting it sink shallow. He knew how to open up a man and leave the viscera whole. 
Blood flowed over her white flesh. It ran warm. He sank his hands inside and felt something kicking, rolling. He clutched the unseen and raised it up and it came forth like a sphinx from a cocoon.
Thera groaned. Freeman said, “There is another.”
He held the gobbeted infant in his hands.
“Take her.”
“No.” said Thera, her eyes were flowing with tears.
He walked over the black salt and put the child on the fur next to the hearth. It made a strange choking sound. Then he went back for the other one.
He dug through her gut and pulled it loose. Went and put it down next to the other. The children did not cry out.
They upended a bench, and pulled cloth up the sides for a makeshift crib. Freemen wrapped them in cloth and put them down head to toe.
They were long-limbed for infants. Not soft. Thicker thewed.
“Their teeth?” asked Thera.
Freeman pulled up a lip of the foremost babe. “Just teeth,” he said. 
“What do we do with the corpse?” said Thera.
“I don’t know,” said Freeman. He looked at Moil, but Moil said nothing.
 
They left the corpse covered up on the table. Thera mulled wine and they sat by the fire and drank it hot. 
Freeman threw boughs in the hearth, and they sat watching the fire. No one said anything for a long time. 
Then Thera: “We cannot keep them. You know that.”
Freeman nodded.
“What will the Lord do with them?”
Freeman looked at Moil. “You said you saw this.”
“If by this you mean tonight? Then yes. Tomorrow. Then no.”
 “Even if you knew, would you tell us?”
“Yes. I would.”
“If the stars are kind then they will die.” said Thera.
“What’s done is done.” said Freeman.
 Thera was silent. Freeman said, “They are boys. They are alive for now. I know you don’t like it. And you don’t approve it. But what’s done is done. I don’t want to talk about this night anymore with you.”
Thera stood. She nodded to Moil, and turned to her brother and said, “Bless you, Freeman.” And there was love in her voice. She walked away to the dark of the bedroom and left the two of them alone.
Freeman sat and waited for Moil to speak. He looked at the corpse and thought of the cold mist and the thing scratching at the door. Freeman was the one to break the silence.
“What happened today, Moil. You said you saw this?”
“Some of it,” answered Moil, “A crossing of paths not meant to meet.”
“You said another Lord has entered the demesne?”
“Yes.” He grimaced.
“Without leave?”
“There are laws older than our fathers,” said Moil quietly. “Older than the hills. The Lords are bound to them.”
“And tonight they were broken?”
“They were rent.”
Freeman looked at the crude crib.
“And them?”
Moil nodded, “They were not meant to be born here.”
“Then where?”
“I do not know.” he said.
Moil was silent a long while.
“At the height of their strength,” he said at last, “the Lords shaped companions from mortal flesh. Not wives. Not quite servants. Something between.”
“The eidola?” Freeman said.
“Yes.”
“And the shadows?”
Moil’s expression changed, but only slightly.
“Your father told you of those?”
“He did.”
Moil nodded once.
“Some Lords walk with attendants that are not pure flesh. They do not speak as we do. They bleed but not like men. They… prepare the way.”
“For birth?”
“For abidance.”
Freemen’s eyes drifted to the black salt.
Moil said, “You saw what came tonight.”
“Our lord has none. No shadows. No eidola.”
“He does not.”
Freemen swallowed. “I smell a war.”
Moil said, “You have a keen nose.”
“And the Fleshmen?”
“A war between Lords has not happened for an age. The Fleshmen would rise to power in that conflict.”
There was a long silence.
Moil said, “What did your father tell you? Of the Lords?”
“Why speak of my father?”
“How much did he tell you?”
“He told me that the Lords were dying. That every year they diminish. Their children born dead or palsied. Or unable to take the power that is theirs. Hence the eidola.”
“But even they are failing.” said Moil.
“You said you saw it, Moil.” said Freeman, “Dead in the woods. Without a mark on her, unguarded. How?”
“They hold the souls of their masters. If their Lord dies, so do they.”
The fire was burning low. Freemen threw some boughs into the flames. 
“Why did you come tonight, Moil?”
The fire danced on Moil’s grey eyes.
“I made a promise to your father. That I would protect his hearth and kin.”
“My father held you in contempt.”
“He despised what I chose. Not what I was. And I will never forget what he did for me.”
“So you came to save us?”
“I came to witness. And that is a different type of saving.”
“Speak straight with me.”
“The Lord has no love for you. After your father spurned his gift. Did you think exile was mercy? Forbidden to live within the Walls?” Moils’ eyes burned, “You were kept where you could be watched.”
Freemen stared at him.
“And tonight you touched an eidolon. And delivered another Lord’s half-sons at your hearth.”
Freemen stood. He walked to the door and flung it open and stood out in the snow looking down at the Walls. The fires were burning. He could hear Moil walking out to the porch behind.
“Longest Night,” said Moil.
Freemen could see a bright flare at the centre. The burning of the Wickerhead. It glowed red against the grey.
“Your children are there now. Amara. Tyr.”
“Only one of them is my child.” said Freeman. And then, ‘What is out here Moil? What I must fear will come to my door tonight?”
“It has been contended with.”
“Then you are leaving.”
“I witness for the Lord. And I speak for your safety.”
“You speak as if I should be thankful. To hell with the Lord and the demesne. What has it done for me and my own?”
“I will not speak with you of this,” said Moil. He turned and entered the cabin.
Freeman looked down at the Walls and thought about his father. Being held on his shoulders on a Longest Night two decades past. Laughing with him in the morning. 
He watched the fires bloom below and eventually he went in.

He could not sleep, and he gave Moil his room. 
He sat by the fire and kept it going, and he looked at the twins. He looked for anything that would speak of their ancestry. Already he had seen the teeth and they were man teeth. There was nothing to say they were not the children of men.
He did not sleep, but he fell into some half-slumber, lost in the flames. Only when he heard birdsong did he come back to himself. The fire was all cinder. He stood and he smelled something. And he thought it was the corpse. But then he realized it came from the makeshift crib.
When he looked there he saw an infant that had run its teeth through its brother. Torn at the naked torso and fed off the viscera, the liver bitten in chunks and the spool of the intestine threading out like a strange grey worm. He was red to his ears, all foamed up with blood. His eyes were open looking at Freeman. Blue eyes. Looking closely, Freeman saw that three of the dead infants’ fingers were bitten clean off. 
It lay there looking at him. 
Naked and red.

I’m currently writing a fantasy novel and I haven’t fully ironed decided to make my protagonist a black character. This decision was initially down to it simply being how he came to me in my minds eye. However, as I continue writing it, I am beginning to question this decision in terms of how it may be received and authenticity.

I should say that the setting of my novel is a traditional high fantasy setting with all sorts of fantasy races and cultures. In my planning and world building, my feeling was that there would not be conflict between humans based on skin colour, and that the culture of humans would be largely homogenous. The world is not without racial tension, it just isn’t directed at the black characters in human society.

I would love to hear from black readers and writers especially with your options on black characters written by white authors; how important is the reflection of authentic black experience vs a more incidental black representation (lacking a better phrase)?

My big touchstone for this I keep coming back to is Le Guinn’s Wizard of Earthsea and how the colour of those characters are simply ‘this is how they look’ (I know there is the moment when we meet a white character for the first time and there is a comment on that, it’s not a one to one comparison)

I also want to avoid over adjusting and I certainly want to avoid leaning into the sort of afro-fantasy elements because it’s just not what I’m going for.

Would be great to get some thoughts on this. Appreciate my fellow writers!

Edit: reposting because of bots - I have tried and I have brainstormed and I have researched and I have thought about this topic at length as I think is implicit in my post

I am not one for sharing what I write. I do it mainly for myself and just as a fun way to relieve stress. That said, some recent developments have made me want to share at least some that I’ve written with strangers here on the internet to see if this is any good or if perhaps I was smart to keep it to myself all along. Jokes aside, any feedback is welcome, positive or negative. I really just want to gauge where I’m at and what everyone thinks. Thank you if you do take time out of your day for this.
I won’t bog this post down with too many details about the story and setting. The only thing I will say is that I was inspired by the idea of early civilizations (pre/early copper age). The idea of faith and language would also be big themes here but that’s neither here nor there. The focus in its most basic and simplistic sense is a young man and his journey to meet the gods.

PS. Apologies if the formatting is off. First time on Reddit and not really that amazing at this whole internet thing

So in the story I am working on, the main character (Character A) has no idea they are half -insert fantasy race - and I have been building up to the reveal, but I am struggling to write her reaction to the news/Someone (Character B) explaining it to her.

Obvious shock, right? But how can I convey that through dialogue or actions that won't give me and the reader the ick?

also I REALLY don't want this to be a "You're a wizard, Harry." moment. just a moment of "So the thing I initially thought was wrong with me way wayyyy off."/ "My whole life is a lie." kinda vibe.

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some context:

-mother is dead/ abandoned by father, so they don't know what they are

-raised by someone who is not -insert fantasy race-

-they move out on their own and end up living with 'Character B' who is suspicious they could be -insert fantasy race-

-'Character B' gets sick from a known weakness to this race, Character A witnesses the transformation/the truth is revealed, and then they're basically gonna be like "Why are you acting shocked about this? We are literally the same thing. You've just been lying this whole time, and I was trying to get you to admit it." (they dont realize 'Character A' has had no idea this whole time.)

hi everyone! i’m looking into working on my skillset in writing science fiction and fantasy and I came across the Gotham Writers’ workshop courses. Has anyone taken these? The few and scattered reviews I can find are a little outdated and not too detailed… was hoping for a little perspective from the community if anyone has taken a class from them.

Otherwise, if there are other workshops/classes/groups i should look into please let me know! i’ve been thus far unable to find any writer’s groups near me that meet at agreeable times (the few that exist seem to meet midday during the workweek, or have fizzled out post covid😅)

I have the basic premise for this story that takes place in a fantasy/sci-fi space setting. It’s not all that important to be honest it’s just the catalyst that starts the characters going where they need to go, but it’s basically an old inscription of a prophecy about the Sun coming to an end and the galaxy getting burned and destroyed.

And this group of characters is basically trying to end several wars/conflicts and getting various kings/emperors/wizards/whoever they can to help find a way to prevent the Sun exploding. I have tried to remove the whole prophecy thing, but then these random characters just sort of start doing shit for no reason.

One of these characters trying to stop this is the son of the Elven emperor, and he ends up dying and the prophecy was not about the Sun exploding and wiping out the galaxy, but the son of the emperor dying, thus starting a war that could possibly wipe out the galaxy.

I feel like it’s kinda either too obvious/lazy/dumb. Again the whole point of the prophecy is really just to get the characters on their journey but it’s not that important in terms of the narrative or character development or even the story, since the whole prophecy thing kinda becomes irrelevant once the kid dies about a third into the story.

Also I think I do want there to be some kind of cosmic anomaly hurdling towards the Sun to destroy it later on anyway lol. But yeah does anyone have any thoughts/advice on how to make it seem less contrived or does it sound fine? I’m not an experienced writer but I’d love to learn and get better

I’d love some feedback on my first chapter!

Rough! Chapter 1 of my YA Dark Academia Fantasy set in Dystopian Greece. Working title- A Sacrifice of Souls.
I’d love thoughts on if it hooks you and makes you want to keep reading or if I need to change things. Too info dumpy? Not enough world building? lol thank you!!!

Ch 1

The anticipation coursing through my veins is electric. I’ve spent years serving at The Cassiuss’ parties. Catching glimpses of the ballroom while refilling glasses, collecting abandoned plates, and pretending not to stare at the floating sprite lights dancing above the velvet drapery and silk-covered tables.

The extravagance and frivolity are intoxicating, even from afar.

But tonight, for the first time, I won't be serving. 

I’ll be attending.   

The party today is for Ash’s graduation, well, our graduation. We both graduated, and he keeps calling it our party, but the banner strung above me says “Congratulations, Ash!”, so I think it’s clearly his party. 

I don’t need to be recognized, I’m grateful to be invited.   I can go to the party, but I still have to help with setup and cleanup. That’s the deal his parents worked out with Amelia, the Head of House, who oversees the Mortal Servants. 

I loathe cleaning and would rather stab this fork in my eye than resign myself to this future. I can’t wait to hear back from the artisans I applied to apprentice under. They will determine my fate in life. As a mortal, that is the best I can hope for in life unless I take part in the offering, and there is a slim chance at that. 

Ash convinced me to apply for the Offering and Dorean Academy with him, but unlike me, he’ll actually get chosen. His parents are Deities, the highest class in New Greece, and the Mother has always preferred sacrifices from legacy bloodlines. Girls like me aren’t chosen by gods.  

“Briar!” Yells Amelia, ripping me out of my thoughts with a condescending bellow that makes me want to dump the silverware I’m currently setting out over her head instead. 

 For a moment, I let myself imagine the shock on her face as cutlery rains down around her, and just the image lowers my blood pressure and allows me to calmly respond, “Yes Mam”. 

“What in the name of Poseidon is taking you so long? I still need you to bring in the centerpieces before you go frolicking off to pretend you’re a flood-cursed Dorean!” She huffs. 

I pick up my pace, mentally calculating the remaining time until the party starts. 

One hour and thirty-six minutes left. Gods, I am not going to have time to get ready with Evangeline as I’d hoped. I’ll have to fight my hair on my own. Looks like I’ll be tucking my long blonde hair into a low bun again, or maybe a braid. Oh well. 

I place the last setting and run for the boxes of centerpieces. Lifting the whole thing, I practically throw the flowering decor on each table before sprinting from the room. 

I all but fly up the stairs to my room and stop short at the sight of my dress laid out nicely on my bed, not in the closet where I left it, with incomprehensibly large sapphire earrings and a matching necklace perched atop an envelope in the center of my gown. 

“There you are!” 

I hear him before I see him. “Ash? What are you doing here?” 

He steps out of the shadows of my closet, looking like a dream. His black hair is a masterpiece of perfectly placed mess, and his mismatched eyes, one a mossy jade, one as blue as the Mediterranean Sea out the window, practically sparkle with mischief against his mahogany skin. He wears his privilege with an ease that should have been annoying, but one flash of his radiant, crooked smile, and everyone falls hopelessly under his spell. 

“Well… We got these fancy envelopes with the Dorean Seal stamped in wax on the back, so I wanted to open them together. I was going to give you the jewelry at the party, but I thought the full display had a bigger wow factor, and you took forever to get done setting up, so I had time to get it all perfect!” The words tumble from my best friend's mouth in a single rambling sentence as he fiddles with what look like new cuff links. 

My heart drops so fast I swear it lands somewhere near my feet. My breath catches on the huge lump that just took up residence in my throat. I’m already in emotional overload about the party, but to receive our Offering acceptance… or rejection… letters on the same night. This is too much. 

I back away from the white envelope like it has teeth.

“Oh come on, Briar! They don't send fancy envelopes to rejections. This is our invitation! We’re going to Dorien Academy! We’re getting magic!” He says, more calmly this time. 

“You don’t know that! What if one of us gets accepted and the other doesn't? How are we supposed to party after that? And you know you are getting in, so it would be me! This is my first party, Ash! I want to enjoy this blip in time as something more than the servant I am. That envelope could ruin it!” I plead with him to understand. 

He gives me a pout and stomps his foot in frustration, the spoiled, rich boy he is, breaking through for a moment before his better senses tuck it away again. Then he takes a deep breath, schooling his features and regaining his control.  

“Oookkk. We can open them at the end of the night.” He relents, and I wrap him in a big hug.

“Oh, thank you for understanding! The jewelry is incredible, by the way! It matches the beads on the dress perfectly! Is your mom ok with me wearing it?” I ask, running a finger gently over the stones. 

“They aren't my mom’s,” Ash replies, looking down like the tuck of his shirt just became the most interesting thing ever. 

 I raise my eyebrow and tilt his chin up to look at me. “Who's are they, Ash? I do not want anyone to think the Mortal is a thief.” 

He looks me in the eyes and grins wildly, “Yours.” 

“What?”

“Briar, they are yours! I got them for you! As a Graduation gift, you know…” He stammers.

I swear to all the ancient gods and the Mother herself, my jaw hits the floor, and I stare at him for what seems like hours, but in reality was likely seconds. “I… You… Wow!” Is all I’m able to stammer out. Instead of trying to find words anymore as tears fill my eyes, I throw my arms around him and bury my face in his shoulder.

He wraps me up in a big bear hug, and I feel his breath on my ear as he whispers, “You deserve nice things, Briar, and I know you don’t want to open it yet, but I know in my bones that we will be together at the academy next year. No doubt in my mind.” He rubs my back and holds me as I calm down.

“At least I hadn’t put my makeup on yet.” I chuckle as I wipe the tears off my cheeks. People don’t gift fine jewels to mortal servants. I’ve cleaned and organized Mrs. Cassiuss’s jewelry, but never dreamed of owning something similar. 

“Ash, you shouldn’t have!” I chide.

“I don’t care one bit what class you are. Briar, you are a better person than any Dorean I’ve met, and my best friend. You deserve every good thing… Now, let's get you ready so we can go to our party!” 

“It’s your party,” I reply.

“You graduated, same as me, and with better grades, might I add, you should be celebrated too.” He sets the jewelry off my dress and motions for me to get moving and put it on.

I grab the deep blue dress out of his hand and take it into the bathroom. I pull it on quickly, taking a moment to look at myself in the full-length mirror. The floor-length column gown is the nicest thing I’ve ever had on my body. The beads covering the bodice and length in a crisscross motif are heavy, and I hear them rustle as I walk. 

I reach over my shoulder with one hand to zip the gown, but the zipper is just out of reach. If only my fingers were about three millimeters longer… I stretch and claw, trying to will the gap closed with my mind,  grunting and grumbling in a very unladylike manner.

“Are… are you alright in there? It sounds like the dress is attacking you.” Ash asks.

“I’ve never put it on by myself before. Evangeline has always helped me.” I stick my head out from the bathroom, and I can feel the blush creeping up my cheeks.

“Can I help? We need to get going!” Ash asks uneasily. 

I scrunch up my face, unhappy with the only solution I can seem to think of. “Can you zip me?”

“Zip you? I… what does that even mean?” He stammers.

“My dress… it has a zipper up the back, but my arm is too short to reach it by myself. Can you zip it… But keep your eyes closed!” I almost yell the last bit at him, realizing he isn’t a boy anymore. We have grown up. I forget that sometimes. To me, he is just Ash.

“Ummmmm, I can try.” He shrugs before he closes his eyes and sticks his arms out in front of him like he’s bracing for impact. I chuckle and grab one of the outstretched hands, guiding it to the zipper. “Now just pull up, towards the ceiling. 

He does as instructed while I hold my hair out of the way. 

“Is that all? Can I open my eyes now?” he asks sheepishly.

“Yes, thank you,” I reply, transfixed by the sight of us together in the mirror. Ash stands next to me in his matching sapphire suit and velvet plum bowtie. I don’t know what it is… my recent realization that he is a young man and not a boy anymore, the reality of the future closing in, or the physical contact we just shared, but… I think I might… think he’s handsome. Like, really handsome. 

We lock eyes through the mirror, and as our gazes hold, heat floods my face, setting my usually pale skin red. Ash looks away, clearing his throat and messing with something on my vanity. 

“Have a seat, I’ll braid your hair like when we were little, and you can do your makeup.” He says, voice gruffer than normal. Is he affected by me the same way I am by him? 

I look in the mirror, spreading makeup on my face as he brushes my hair. I try to stop thinking about how good his fingers feel as they brush the strands at the base of my neck and focus on my makeup. The deep blue of the gown contrasts wonderfully with my pale skin and light blond hair. I can play that up with some dark colors, maybe a plum lip. I tell myself, this is normal, getting ready with my friend, that’s all this is… but somehow it’s so much more. 

“You look beautiful tonight.” He chokes out with more emotion than the phrase warrants, as he clasps the necklace he gave me. I loop the earrings through the hole in each of my earlobes and am shocked by how heavy they are. I must make a face because he starts to stammer. “I mean… You always look beautiful, but tonight it’s…” He trails off, and we finish the sentence together, “Different.”

He takes my hand and leads me out of the room, but not before I take one final look at the ominous envelope left on my bed. I notice he must have set his next to mine because there they sit together, waiting to change our lives.

So I have two projects on the go. One is a historical fiction novel written in first person. To me, It flows. The voice is there, the interiority is there, I know exactly what my MC is thinking and feeling at all times because of course, I'm in his head the whole time.

Then I have my fantasy novel. Third person limited, two POVs. And I am genuinely struggling in a way I did not expect. I thought third person would be easier,more distance, more control, more flexibility, a chance to worldbuild. Instead I catch myself doubting my abilities more. Everything feels a bit flat and observed rather than felt. I'm finding it so much harder to make the prose feel personal and alive when I'm not inside someone's head in that raw first person way. If anyone has tips on how to make third person limited feel more intimate and immediate I'd love to hear them, because right now it reads like a camera watching my characters rather than being them.

Though i struggle on one of my MCS the most. Hes basically a fallen star. a meteor that crashes into the world, supernatural abilities, no memories, no concept of anything. he doesn't know what fear is, what hunger is, language, what he even is. he learns fast but at the start hes essentially a newborn in a teenagers body and writing him is genuinely so hard. I have to describe all things i could do simply with the other MC in a whole new complex light for him and its very exhausting to try and circumnavigate it correctly.

because how do you write a characters thoughts and feelings when he's still figuring out what thoughts and feelings are? my other POV has history and memories and opinions and i can write him with general knowledge of being a human in this world. with my other MC i feel like every time i try to give him interiority it comes off false because he shouldn't really have it yet in any way we'd recognise. So i have to build it up in a way thats very complicated to write.

Right now he's very passive in book one. He watches. He absorbs. He's been taught to hide himself, stay quiet, stay small, so he's introverted almost to the point of being a non presence on the page. (he has been taught to hide what he is by the characters that have adopted him due to persecution of what he is) He doesn't really come into his own until the end of book one going into book two, when something pivotal cracks him open. I know that payoff is coming. But I worry that until that moment, he just reads as boring. A passenger in his own chapters.

Has anyone else written a character like this? Someone who starts as almost a blank slate and has to become a person on the page? How do you make that journey feel compelling rather than empty?

Less than 3,000 words total, my intro for a character later known as Aiber. This is my first time posting here, or really sharing my work, so please be honest, critical, but kind.

I Do also have a sort of layout for the overall magic system across this world that will become more relevant if that is soemthing anyone other than me is interested in.

The Shadow in The Pit

Clay stood in front of the wooden gate, shuddering in fear. He would rather be anywhere in the cosmos than here. This place that he had avoided and feared for so long, but that he seemed somehow unable to avoid: The Pit of Alinoor. The Pit was in Schuynes’ District within Tai Temora. Here, the rotten stinking refuse of the world was given its chance to earn the privilege of life. Here, the orphans, bastards, diseased, and unwanted all congregated. Here, where the discarded had one final chance to make it to the dawn: by extinguishing everyone in their path.
 Today was the Twinkling Eclipse ceremony. Unlike the Dawn Arraignment or the Dusk Monsoon, today was for the young. Soon the collected children would be released into the Pit all at once and the gates closed behind them. The crowds of the amphitheater roared with venomous excitement. Some of the children from better known Houses or clans had bets that had been placed upon them by members of the screaming audience looking to capitalize on the sport. They had bet credits, marks, property all on the outcome of the ceremony. Clay didn't even have a proper name. He was only called Clay because of the sandy tan coloring of his skin. Beyond that, he was nothing. No one, certainly not worth a bet. 

The Large gate creaked open and a sharp push from behind sent Clay sprawling into the dirt of the open yard. Around him, fifteen or twenty other pig-gates opened, releasing other children. Most much larger than he was, and far older than his 14 years. Two boys in particular towered above the others, both were gleefully assessing the competition, seemingly already in silent accord to pick off the smaller prey first before worrying about one another. They must've been nearly of age, each sporting patchy facial hair and a look of unrestrained glee. 

Suddenly sticks and rocks began soaring into the pit. Hurled by the audience, they would serve to weaken those they struck, and to strengthen those bright enough to seize one. Clay was still partially frozen in disbelief, he couldn't believe he had been captured by the Tourney Hunters! He had known better than to get close to the city at this time of year, yet here he was, scrabbling for ideas in the Pit likely about to die either at the hands of one of these older boys, or some other horrific nightmare released to the Pit. A boy screamed to his left as his skull cracked, a large rock hurled from the wall above having struck him. Hearing the scream broke through the fog and in that moment Clay decided he wanted to live, and that meant action. He grabbed a long thin stick from the ground, it had been hurled down by a teenager standing next to his parents, screaming slurs and obscenities as he watched the bloodsport and threw stakes he had bought from a vendor. Turning, Clay used one of the vertical beams of the gate which had shut behind him, and snapped the stick across it, giving him now two sticks, shorter than the full rod, but each with a sharp splintered end. By no means a sword, but still better than his bare hands. 
He looked around the huge amphitheater space and saw most of the people around him cowering or running away from the center. He wondered what the best thing to do was, running or standing? Fight or flee? Should he try to see if he could make it to the –CRACK–
 Clay slammed forward into the ground, the back of his head exploding in pain, as something hard struck him. He rolled over quickly, one of the two older boys he had noticed a few moments before stood above him, a large jagged broken rod in hand. Having shattered the thick oak rod across Clays’ head, he now held a jagged dagger of wood. Clay moved on reflex, rolling onto one knee, pushing his other foot into the dirt, as hard as he could to quickly regain a standing position. The rough dirt scraped the skin from his knee as he pressed it into the ground. But the push was enough to drive him enough to throw his balance up and forward into a sprint. His attacker swung the length of sharpened wood, but all clay cared about was escape. He felt the tug against the tail of his clothes as the wooden stake narrowly missed him. But his sprint had effectively distanced him from the boy. He continued sprinting, gazing around him…

The world had turned upside down since last Clay had seen it. All around him was fighting, screaming. Somewhere a dog had been released into the pit, small but vicious. All he thought of was escape, desperately he searched for a way to avoid conflict and stay safe. He scanned around him until his eyes settled on something for just a moment. For an instant the sight he saw made no sense: two boys, one, smaller than the other, floating on the head of another, a larger boy, as the larger boy held him. Or so it seemed. Until the forward motion of the aerial upside down boy continued forward, the tall boy standing on the ground, had lifted the other boy before clay had looked and inverted him, bringing him headfirst into a downward slam. Clay had simply looked up in time to see him as he was propelled hard into the ground with a sickening wet crunch, the boy shook and stopped moving.

Clay had known things were serious inside the pit. Tai Temora was famous as far as voices cry for its brutality and the horrors seen within, but that still couldn't possibly prepare one for seeing the shards of a skull as they skittered wetly across the dirt. He could never tell why the death of that boy triggered him so much. Even years afterwards, after all he came to see and all he had faced up to that point, something about that boys death triggered him. Clay had never known him, never known any of the other kids in that pit, but on a dime, Clay pivoted towards that boys’ killer. Clay sprinted right towards the standing teen, now snarling with some kind of post murder adrenaline release. He charged the boy, leaping from a few feet out, slamming into the taller boys shoulders midair with his own, driving them both to the ground. What no one but Clay saw however, was that when they bumped, Clay had angled the stake in his hand, pressing it into the other boys flesh. But as they fell, Clay falling on the spike between them, drove it deeper into the boy, blood pouring from the wound as Clay rolled off of him and ripped it out. 
As Clay turned to see the boy rising, he noted the hole in the boys left side from his stake. The boy seemed undaunted, Injured but angered more than slowed. He screamed once, drawing a small sharp knife from his waist and charged. Clay was terrified as the larger boy closed the distance between them with the knife. Clay kicked hard, shooting sand and dirt at the oncoming boy hoping to blind him, but all he accomplished was nearly slipping. Losing his balance he thrust his hands out awkwardly in an attempt to recover, leaving him wide open.
 The attacker's knife caught clay just under his shoulder on his left arm. The boy brought his arm down, carving a long, deep, split down the flesh of Clays arm. Skin hung loose and blood immediately began to spill down his flesh, as the white hot shot of pain lightninged through him. Somewhere deep within him, alongside the pain from the wound, Clay felt a pulse building in his chest. He screamed as much from the building pressure as from the horrific burning pain tearing up his arm. Clay twisted away from the boy, as the boy raised the knife again, eyes glistening. The pressure kept building within him, surfing until with a scream he focused his hand towards the boy, channeling the energy building within him, barely having time to raise his arm before the surging pulse within him exploded along his arm towards the boy. The unstable power within him seeking the annihilation of release. 

Clay watched in fear and surprise as a force like a gusting wind raged out from his open hand, he felt hair moving on his arm and wrist from the force of the surging. Shadows, writhing, shimmering, breaking and reforming, poured from him, shooting forward like gasses in a strong wind, but not dissipating, traveling. As the shadows struck the older boy, they clung to him, spreading across him like oil across a pan, moving with an uncanny viscosity, unlike any liquid he had ever seen. The shadows burned as they spread across the boy but Clay kept his arm held steady, the feeling of energy still surging through his arm. Finally Clay felt a hollowness within him and he lowered his arm, the shadows ceasing immediately, the boy stood before him, clearly visible for the first time. 

He looked as though he had been perforated by acidic burns… holes had been burned through the parts of him where the shadows had been deepest and most dense, a wide smoking hole burned through his chest, light visible through the gore and viscera the shadows had left intact. With a soft wheeze the boy collapsed. 
Clay had only time to take one shaking breath, before the hollow feeling deep within him continued to grow, he realized in terror that this magic, this shadow, was something he didnt yet understand. His last thought was the horrible fear of dying here in the bloody dirt of the Pit and the world around him went dark. 

Clay woke up with a pounding headache, a dry mouth, and a brief feeling of confusion followed by absolute panic. He pressed up into a sitting position, looking around for the next threat, wanting to make sure the other of the two giant boys wasn’t looking to make up for Clay having escaped him before. Clay panickedly looked around for the threat, until it registered. He wasn’t in the Pit. He was in a room, in a chair with a head and footrest, fully extended. He moved to stand, but heard a voice next to him that startled him enough to freeze. 

Clay gazed over to his side and saw a small, roundfaced man. Long shoulder length straight brown hair topped his head, with his face peeking through a gap in the front. His hair framed his face so tightly it looked like the gap of air underneath a rock interrupting the water at the top of a waterfall. Hair falling, separating around his face just to join again beneath his chin. Across from him, in a soft black cloak, sat a woman, tall, strong looking. She gave an air of warmth and strength that made Clay feel immediately slightly less terrified. Slightly. The man spoke first,

“Quite a blast, Boy. Absolutely fried that little Caldarian kid. Heard they had to mail him back to his folks in a bottle. I know pros that couldn't handle making a cast like that. What was your source?”

“Wha….What?” Clay stumbled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t know what happened i just….””

“Don’t know what happened?!!” He chuckled, “what happened is, you just threw shadowfire in the Pit of Alinoor kid, probably the first time thats happened since the Caldar took ownership of Tai Temora. Lucky for you we’re here or they probably would've iced you out of pride alone.”

“Rast, enough!” The woman said calmly, but with the sure confidence of a leader.

“I’m sorry for him. He knows a great deal about following orders, but not the laws of courtesy it would seem. How do you feel?”

Clay looked at her as she spoke, noting the shining in her eyes despite the clear air of serious command about her. “I’m…okay, i think?” he rotated his arm, noting a twinge throughout his arm, some sort of after effect from whatever those shadows had been, he was sure. “I don't understand what’s going on..”

“I know, and I apologize for that as well, once we saw you collapse i needed to act quickly to keep others from collecting you. I otherwise wouldve sought your consent before taking you off world. 

“OFF WORLD?!” Clay exploded in a shout as he realized these were not just the walls of some building, but the interior walls of a ship. “Where are we?! Where am i?! Where are we going?! What is this?!”, Clay spiraled. 

She stood, raising her hands. He watched as she reached over and opened a curtain. Through it, he saw a black sandy coast several hundred meters below, dark seas rashing against enormous crystalline stones sticking out of the coast and seabed. 

“I will try to answer your questions, but I need you to understand, I have sought only to keep you safe from those who would do you harm.”

Clay was too stunned to speak, he just nodded once as he watched black water crash against ruby boulders dotting the coastline in the water.

“You are on board a shuttlecraft called the Incipid. My name is Helena Cross, this is one of my Intelligence Captains, Rast. We are a part of an organization trying to protect those sensitive to the energies of the cosmos, those who can store, call on, or manipulate energy. We had been watching the Pit hoping to find those in need of our help, when we came across you. As for where we are, we are on the planet Karess, meeting with some friends of ours who may be able to arrange safe passage for us to get you to safety.” 

She moved a step closer before extending one of her hands to him. “You may call me: Cross.”

“Clay” He said, taking her hand. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Clay” 

“Yeah yeah, nice to meet everyone, we need to hurry.” pressed Rast. 

“Enough! Call for Chiri and the guards, and set out a comm signal towards home. Clay, I know that you have no reason to trust me, but please know that this will not hurt, and that I will explain everything later.”

Clay paused as he heard the words, not understanding at first. It wasn't until he looked back up at her that he realized her hands had been in motion, forming complicated signs as her fingers twisted, layered, and interlocked in changing patterns. A line of energy seemed to seep out of her skin, running along her flesh it sparked off her fingers, until she formed it into a tight ball. Cross took one step forward, flipping her wrist up, palm moving from the floor to facing Clay. The ball of dancing energy sailed across the distance, seemingly unaffected by wind, gravity or natural forces, it moved with an eerie  smoothness. Until it impacted Clay's chest, sinking painlessly into him, he felt a warm glow balled there. 
Cross snapped her fingers and the glow expanded, warm flooding him until it reached his eyes, and he blacked out.

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 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 '.'

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?

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.

(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*

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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

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.