Calling All Wannabe Writers

[Flying Turtle]

Hey everybody everybody

A few people have pointed out that the original "Calling All Wannabe Writers" thread was misplaced in the Media Discussion section so I thought I'd start a new one in the proper location.

For people new to the thread this is a place for people to post their creative writing and get feedback. Query letters, short stories, novel, comics, whatever you want. Happy writing.

[Absol197]

I'll bite! And try to hang around and critique stuff.

I submit my pre-existing thread for my current piece I'm working on, Virial's Story [Working Title]. (It's also on my DeviantArt, same profile name [Absol197], if you want something slightly cleaner than a GitP thread )

I'm looking for comments, critiques, reviews, etc. Basically anything tht you notice that might make it better. Also - questions about the world raised but not answered. A lot I probably do have answers for and they just haven't made it into the text yet, ut some I might not have answers for yet, and knowing what the question is is half the battle!

I'm also looking for suggestions on what scenes to tackle next, so anything you might want to see, et me know and I'll try to work it up.

In return, as I said, I'll review other pieces posted here as I have the time. I'd ask that you tell me what specifically you're wanting to have reviewed, and what level of ferocity in my reviews you want. General levels are: Light, Medium, Rough, Vicious, and Puree. I'l admit I'm not an expert at providing the latter two, so that could be pratice for me as well!

For my own piece, reviews in the Medium to Rough range would be appreciated.

[Flying Turtle]

I'm game. If you could have a look at this I'd appreciate feedback. Annoying typos and all.

Obviously, there's a lot more.

I'm having difficulty following this. I went back and read chapter one and I had difficulty following that. Granted that might be because I haven't seen any of these animes and I have only played one DnD game in my entire life and that was about fifteen years ago. I guess my point is that this isn't very friendly to the uninitiated but that's pretty much universal when it comes to parody and satire.

Keeping the above in mind I did feel like things were more confusing then they had to be. I would recommend avoiding having off screen characters talk. When a text box comes from off screen it makes it harder than it should be to figure out who's talking. I could usually figure it out thanks to context clues but hiccups in your reader's understanding, even if they are brief, can still hurt jokes or kill the moment. Try to make sure all speaking characters are on scream. I was also occasionally stumped by the meaning of the effects you apply to character images, like you occasionally make a image look like a negative image. What is that suppose to communicate? Of course as noted above my confusion is probably far greater than the average reader so your mileage my vary.

[Flying Turtle]

I've got a short story, would appreciate any views. Feedback from workshop was lacking.

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

That was... wow.
Your prose is incredible. Absolutely outstanding. Patrick Rothfuss level word-craft right there.

I also really dig the story itself. I have a few suggestion but I can see why your workshop was lacking in feedback.

First off this might be more of a matter of personally taste but I felt the way the ghost of Walter Perly Smith dreeewwww out hisssss wooooordsssss, was more campy than spooky. Personally I associate that trope more with people pretending to be ghosts than actual ghosts. You obviously have no shortage of skill with descriptive writing. I recommend using that instead of relying on such a oft used and oft mocked trope.

Secondly, on page twenty-eight you give us some generic background for your horror which I feel was a mistake. The background itself feels like barebones Lovecraft stuff and frankly it doesn't help. A big part of horror is the unknown. Its why horror movies wait until the very end to reveal the monster. Your audience knows what scares them and when you paint an admittedly uninteresting picture for them your depriving their imagination the chance to do your job for you. I'd recommend rewriting the background. Throw out all that stuff about it being an ancient sealed evil that predates mankind. Instead I'd recommend giving the audience something that feeds their imaginations. Give us info that poses more questions than it answers. There are lots of ways you can do this but one way is to reveal not their background but their history with the human race. Hint at what they've done to the world and what they could do. Don't tell us about where they've come from or why they do what they do. Suggest to us what they're going to do to us. Keeping with the horror movie analogue this is similar to the audience being shown one of the horror's previous victims. A terrifying preview of what's to come.

Finally I feel like the ending you have sets up but fails to pose a very interesting question. Whose going to strengthen the seal after Eli's spell starts to fade? This question becomes even more chilling when you realize that Eli hid his occult studies from the world, unlike his predecessor who left published poetry and a local legend behind as a trail of bread crumbs for a successor to follow. If you could organically poses this question to the readers at the end, perhaps in the form of a sudden regret in the last moments of Eli's life it would be simply chilling. Another possible avenue to hint at this would be to change the finally W.P.S. poem to one where he calls out to the world for someone to continue his work and recoils at the thought of repercussions the world will feel if no one does.

But seriously though that was fantastic.

[Marlowe]

I'm having difficulty following this. I went back and read chapter one and I had difficulty following that. Granted that might be because I haven't seen any of these animes and I have only played one DnD game in my entire life and that was about fifteen years ago. I guess my point is that this isn't very friendly to the uninitiated but that's pretty much universal when it comes to parody and satire.

Keeping the above in mind I did feel like things were more confusing then they had to be. I would recommend avoiding having off screen characters talk. When a text box comes from off screen it makes it harder than it should be to figure out who's talking. I could usually figure it out thanks to context clues but hiccups in your reader's understanding, even if they are brief, can still hurt jokes or kill the moment. Try to make sure all speaking characters are on scream. I was also occasionally stumped by the meaning of the effects you apply to character images, like you occasionally make a image look like a negative image. What is that suppose to communicate? Of course as noted above my confusion is probably far greater than the average reader so your mileage my vary.

You said not a word about the writing! The very factor I was asking feedback on. Not incredibly helpful.

At the very beginning of the thing, characters had to talk from off-panel the entire time because I was not messing with the images much and they simply had no option. This is why different characters have different fonts. As I started getting more confident with image manipulation I started trying to put all speaking characters on stage simultaneously.

This led to some extremely cluttered panels, and hindered composition. So especially after this strip seemed to mass muster with the audience I went back to letting characters speak from off panel. I've worked hard to give different characters different voices and ultimately, if somebody is going to get confused over a conversation with only two participants, there's not really a lot I can do.

The "negatived" (bitmapped, in this case) images are used to show a character feeling shock, revelation, anger, or some other emotion I felt needed a visual cue. In the case of this strip the characters are converted to black-and-white bitmaps when speaking in a more straightforward manner than usual.

[Asmodean_]

First chapter from my (currently un-edited) 2016 NaNo:

Spoiler: 1. Aradale

Show

1: Aradale

The sun rose slowly on the plains of Eldin, as it always had done and always would do. Elwin’s cockerels took up the morning chorus and gently raised the village of Aradale from its sleep. It was Shoremun, and the first creeping tendrils of winter were slowly converging on the lands. A fog sat sleepily over the land, and the frost, although it hadn’t come yet, showed signs it would be rearing its head before long.

Arlen came out from the back door of his house and walked over to the fields. His white hair flowed gently in the breeze, brushing against his coat, of good northern Ozrynian make, and his pointed ears that picked up the mournful wail of the air through the trees. His dark-skinned hands gently held a hatchet for chopping firewood. With any luck, the weather would stay as it had for the past week or so and he wouldn’t have to use it for a while.

He set the hatchet down, knelt at a corner of the first field, and plucked an orange sinew out from the soil, and frowned. The carrots looked sparse. Not stunted, not diseased, just as if they'd only been in the soil since Barmun, despite the fact he clearly remembered planting them all the way back in Sirmun. He shrugged, and replaced the young-looking root in its dirt. There was enough of the crop that they’d be able to live off it, but they wouldn’t have any left to sell to the merchants that would take it to other places that couldn’t grow enough. Kotaki Head would have to go hungry this winter. And good riddance, too. That stronghold at the northern tip of the continent was the last remaining fragment of the Kotaki Empire - just thinking about it made him shudder. Several hundred years previous, they had harnessed the power of Hei’an, a mysterious force that was spoken of only in whispers, only in fear. With it, they had conquered half the continent, oppressing the populace and burning the records of all that had come before them. Even a single man with Hei’an behind him could wipe out an entire legion of army men in as little as an hour. It was only due to a small group of adventurers that it had been sealed away, never to be touched by the likes of mankind, ever again. The Rotanis had single-handedly defeated the now immensely weakened dictators and filled the void they had left behind. From all that he had heard, the current rulers were infinitely more benevolent than the Kotakis.
His train of thought was interrupted by a shadowy streak that shot out from behind one of the trees in the distance, and back behind one of the others - a gnarled one that seemed to exist only to shed its branches. He'd been meaning to chop the old gum down for ages, but there had always been things needing doing. "I know that's you, Elwin," he called, glaring at the tree. He was hardly ever caught in his shenanigans, but it never seemed to matter since he was the only one to ever try shenanigans. Defeated, the half-elf plodded out from behind the old gum and walked up to him. The breeze picked up his flowing brown hair, which had grown out long in what was supposed to be an homage to elven tradition, but in the end just made him look the fool. His ears didn’t have quite the same point to it that his mothers’ had, but his mixed heritage was clearly visible from the way he carried himself, as if unsure whether to mix with the predominantly human crowd or set himself apart and embrace his elven ancestry. He was too wispy and didn’t have enough bulk on him for work in the smithy like Leron did, but too clumsy and not graceful enough to fully pick out sylvian past-times. Despite his efforts, Arlen couldn’t teach him any further than the basics of drow handsign, and he couldn’t lift any hammer heavy enough to do proper work for more than a few seconds, so he defaulted to being the village trickster - flour on the dogs, that sort of rubbish.

“I heard there are barbarians,” he whispered excitedly, whipping his head about as if to see if one had snuck up on him in the few seconds he’d been approaching. He had a feverish look about him, which didn’t seem particularly out of place with his unkempt dirty brown hair and wild crimson eyes. It was impossible to tell whether the young Faolain was telling the truth or just delusional.
Arlen sighed, and sat down on the cross-bar of a nearby fence. “Elwin, there haven’t been any barbarians here for over thirty years. I’m sure whatever you think you saw, it was nothing. Probably just the wind through the trees, or a buck through a clearing.”

“But what if it’s not? I know what I saw. If we just let this go, they might attack Aradale. I don’t know how you drow work, you might be absolutely fine, but I know I certainly wouldn’t be able to live with myself if me ma or pa got killed because you wouldn’t go and help thin their numbers.”

“Thin their numbers? Listen to yourself, Elwin! You’ve been reading far too many of those adventure tales. Those books have planted a seed in your head, haven’t they. This isn’t the stories, this is real life.”
A northerly wind swept through the trees, bringing a chill to their bones. The woods looked closer, now, as if they were closing in and soon enough the barbarians would burst past the shadowline and hack them to pieces. “All the same,” he conceded, “we’d better check”.

Half an hour later, they met each other near the east road to Ferndochty, Arlen with a longbow strapped to his back and a quiver with a dozen arrows, and Elwin with a sword and buckler. They regarded each other with a slight grimace - neither of them were properly men yet, and the weapons looked comically oversized on them. Whereas a grown army man may have been able to wield Elwin’s sword in one hand and a buckler in the other with relative ease, it took Elwin a great deal of effort to lift the weapon even in both hands. Arlen’s bow was made for a human, not a drow elf, which would typically stand a head shorter, so either the tip would drag against the ground and wear out or the bow would stand taller than he did. Even together, they would be at best a token sign of defiance that would serve no more purpose than to warn any barbarians of their notice. In their adolescent eyes, of course, they were instead the first line of defence that could keep Kyrla and the other village girls safe from the vicious horde of marauders. Arlen nodded, and they were off.

The oaks and spruces of the plains slowly but surely gave way to the hardened, gnarled mahoganies and teaks of the inner forest. Roughly an hour had passed - they had started alert, watching with grave suspicion any errant noises or suspicious shadows in between the trees, but as they made their way through the uneventful forest, their guard began to slip, as the monotony of checking every gap began to turn excitement and fear into a more mellowed boredom of sorts. Yes, every gap between trees was still being checked, but it was a casual once-over while the mind was elsewhere instead of a feverish scrutiny of every single shadow.

Arlen had begun to walk half-asleep, going through the motions without much conscious thought. This stopped, as it had to, when he reached a clearing in the forest. “Okay,” he said, scratching his back and stifling a yawn, “we can have a break here.” He looked around to see if Elwin would agree, although that was a foregone conclusion - if Elwin could find an excuse to be lazy, he would be more than happy to take it. Instead, he got no answer; Elwin was not there.

Snapped awake by this development, Arlen whipped his head around to see anywhere the half-elf might have gotten off to, but there was no sign of him. The clearing suddenly seemed a lot smaller, the trees seemed to loom over him, towering over him rather than protecting him. The shadows seemed more real, as if they could jump out from behind the trees and attack. A rustling came from behind a mahogany at the end of the clearing, and did that shadow seem just a bit bigger than it had before? Better safe than sorry - he reached for his bow and nocked an arrow, aiming it directly at the spot that looked like it was occupied by someone or something that wasn’t there before.

Suddenly, a battle cry from behind, and a figure came crashing out of the underbrush; instinctively, the drow whipped around and immediately loosed his arrow, but even as it left the bow he knew he’d made a terrible mistake.

Arlen had always been a good shot. Some put it down to his fastidious training (although with the same breath with which they praised him for his discipline, they would berate him for wasting his time, since no barbarian would ever come back to Aradale after what his parents had done to them all those years ago), others put it down to the quality of the longbow itself being particularly high, and others still just said it was down to a dark elf’s generally better eyesight, concentration and intuition. So even in the least favourable of conditions, an arrow from Arlen’s bow was a sure hit.

Like all the others, this arrow found its home in the right shin of the assailant, who collapsed almost immediately, unprepared for such retaliation.

“Elwin!” Arlen yelled, rushing to his side. “Are you okay?”

“What does it bloody well look like?” came the reply through gritted teeth. “What did you go and shoot me for?”

Arlen threw his hands up in disbelief. “Gee, I don’t know! Surely can’t have been all that talk about barbarians, could it! What did you go and jump out of those bushes like a bloody homicidal maniac for?” Without waiting for an answer, since he knew any he got would just enrage him to the point of deciding maybe the leg wound wasn’t entirely undeserved, he reached into his pack and pulled out a cloth bandage. “Now hold still and think about what ol’ Master Bodkin’s going to do to you when he finds out what you’ve done.”

It was impossible to tell whether the resulting scream was from the arrow being pulled out or the thought of what would almost certainly be the worst strapping Elwin would have had in years. Quickly, Arlen wrapped the bandage around his leg, tied it off and put the still-intact arrow back into his quiver. No sense wasting a still-perfectly-serviceable arrow. Ever the trooper, Elwin stood up, although he wavered and ended up having to rely on Arlen’s shoulder for support. Search for barbarians already implicitly abandoned, they hobbled back towards Aradale.

If the trees hadn’t seemed malevolent before, they certainly did now. Despite this being the main route between Ferndochty (and from there, Varisvalla, Murtovaara and the rest of Arad Ozryn) and Aradale (and from there, Kinallen, Azmarin and the rest of the world), it was so narrow in places that two men couldn’t walk two abreast without being accosted by the local teaks, and so un-worn that roots could stick out from the ground right in the middle of the path without being cleared in due time with due process. This made the return from the clearing a long, arduous one. And it was only made more arduous by the fact that Elwin was complaining for most, if not the entirety of the journey, which generally involved all the things he would no longer be able to do, and what Arlen would have to do to make up for his inability to help. At no point did it cross either of their minds that the commotion they were causing might be attracting others to their location.

The pair was perhaps half an hour outside the village when the sound of a twig snapping perked up their ears. It had come from twenty, maybe thirty paces behind. It could have been “just a buck”, or maybe a branch loosening as the ravages of winter made their approach known, but all the same, it could have been something else.

Furitively, he looked back. “By Delena!” he shouted, grappling Arlen’s shoulder with increasing feverity. “Go faster!” He turned back round and tried to run, but his injured leg restricted him to hobbling along. Both of them knew there was no escaping the beast. Their only hope was to hold their ground and try to fight. Arlen grimaced in anticipation and turned around.

The beast was some kind of wolf - or at least, it looked like it had been a wolf at some point, but whether it was the ravages of time, or some ungodly disfigurement, or even the unnatural powers of hei’an, it didn’t seem particularly like a wolf anymore. Its fur was falling off in places, and where its skin showed under the mangled tufts, it was red and swollen. Froth dripped from its unnaturally wide mouth that seemed to be permanently contorted into a grin, and its eyes shone with a burning crimson glare. If it had ever had a soul, it certainly didn't have one now, or it was so severely twisted it would never pass as one. The wolf-creature sniffed the ground, where a few errant drops of blood had escaped from the hastily-applied bandage, and snarled with a bubbling throat. More froth fell from its lips, hissing as it touched the topsoil.

In one swift movement, Arlen had whipped out his bow and shot an arrow at the wolf-creature. If it felt it sink into its shoulder it didn't show it. Instead, it leapt at Elwin's injured leg, sinking its teeth into his flesh, revelling in the taste of warm elf-blood. He screamed a scream of agony and despair, and a tendril of smoke began to rise from where the skin had been broken, carrying with it the unmistakable smell of sulphur. Once more, Arlen drew and fired his bow, this time sending an arrow straight into its eye. The shaft seemed to sink some inches into the wolf-creature’s skull, but whatever force was driving this creature would not let it die. Instead, it let out a howl that froze the very blood of any near enough to hear and scampered back to the woods. Apart from the frantic thrashing that was ever so thankfully growing quieter as the wolf-creature fled, a deadening silence filled the air. Until a whimper cut through:

“Arlen… I can’t feel my leg.”

[Absol197]

Hey, Thrudd!

I read through your story too, and I have to agree with Mr./Ms. Turtle - very well written! I have a lot of trouble with sensory descriptions, especially invoking smells, but you did a great job of immersing the senses in your world.

And, having just recently read through the entirety of Lovecraft's fiction, I can say you've captured the same style (down to the devoted love for the New England, and specifically Massachusetts, countryside ). I would reiterate mostly the same suggestions as Flying Turtle - make the history of your great beast more vague, which will make it more disturbing. Otherwise, really...unless you have specific sections of it that you want me to focus on, just keep writing!

[An Enemy Spy]

Asmodean, you should space your paragraphs out so we're not left with a giant block of text.

[Asmodean_]

Asmodean, you should space your paragraphs out so we're not left with a giant block of text.

Right, the google docs I was working on had extra line breaks. Fixed

[Flying Turtle]

You said not a word about the writing! The very factor I was asking feedback on. Not incredibly helpful.

At the very beginning of the thing, characters had to talk from off-panel the entire time because I was not messing with the images much and they simply had no option. This is why different characters have different fonts. As I started getting more confident with image manipulation I started trying to put all speaking characters on stage simultaneously.

This led to some extremely cluttered panels, and hindered composition. So especially after this strip seemed to mass muster with the audience I went back to letting characters speak from off panel. I've worked hard to give different characters different voices and ultimately, if somebody is going to get confused over a conversation with only two participants, there's not really a lot I can do.

The "negatived" (bitmapped, in this case) images are used to show a character feeling shock, revelation, anger, or some other emotion I felt needed a visual cue. In the case of this strip the characters are converted to black-and-white bitmaps when speaking in a more straightforward manner than usual.

Well I do have some writing suggestions. I was just hesitant to mention them as I feel they may have been tainted by my general confusion but if you're up for them here goes, just take everything with a larger than normal bit of salt.

Your dialogue itself feels very rapid and colloquial, in all the right ways. I have no trouble believe that these characters are all sitting around a table playing a campaign. However despite this the story seems to move very slowly. Characters are constantly going off on tangents and while this certainly lends your story a natural conversation feeling I can't help but feel you use too many tangents and spend to much time on individual ones. For example you spend most of the first post of chapter ten having your characters brood over their hometowns. One character actually criticizes another for said brooding only to launch into her own spiel about growing up in a fishing village.

Another good example of this would be the small annoying creature joke in chapter seven. It's a good joke about cute one dimensional characters taking up screen time but ironically enough the joke itself ends up taking too much screen time. It chews up a lot of time in the post it is introduced and even overflows into the next post.

Additionally I feel like you tend to rely heavily on the same character archetypes. Most of your characters share the same snarky, long suffering, cynical attitude towards both their originating work and the story they are now in. Even your 'naive' characters can't help but mock their source material. This is very helpful for lampooning faults common to these genres and, like the above mentioned small annoying creature joke, you have come up with some truly clever jokes using these characters but ultimately this lack of variety in character dynamics hurts the story and made many jokes feel a little samey.

In the post you initially shared with us, the one with Maurissa and Lily, you had a good bit early on where the whole punch line is Maurissa stopping her counting, 'briefly looking up' (cleverly accomplished by flipping the image), and then returning to her counting. This was short, sweet, and best of all different from your normal, much more dialogue heavy approach to humor and I feel the comic as whole could benefit from more of this kind of subtle visual humor.

In all I feel like you are very good at what you do, the problem is you tend to stick to the same old song and dance time and time again. I'd recommend experimenting with some new ideas. New topics of humor, new character dynamics, and more of that subtle visual humor.

[Thrudd]

That was... wow.
Your prose is incredible. Absolutely outstanding. Patrick Rothfuss level word-craft right there.

I also really dig the story itself. I have a few suggestion but I can see why your workshop was lacking in feedback.

First off this might be more of a matter of personally taste but I felt the way the ghost of Walter Perly Smith dreeewwww out hisssss wooooordsssss, was more campy than spooky. Personally I associate that trope more with people pretending to be ghosts than actual ghosts. You obviously have no shortage of skill with descriptive writing. I recommend using that instead of relying on such a oft used and oft mocked trope.

Secondly, on page twenty-eight you give us some generic background for your horror which I feel was a mistake. The background itself feels like barebones Lovecraft stuff and frankly it doesn't help. A big part of horror is the unknown. Its why horror movies wait until the very end to reveal the monster. Your audience knows what scares them and when you paint an admittedly uninteresting picture for them your depriving their imagination the chance to do your job for you. I'd recommend rewriting the background. Throw out all that stuff about it being an ancient sealed evil that predates mankind. Instead I'd recommend giving the audience something that feeds their imaginations. Give us info that poses more questions than it answers. There are lots of ways you can do this but one way is to reveal not their background but their history with the human race. Hint at what they've done to the world and what they could do. Don't tell us about where they've come from or why they do what they do. Suggest to us what they're going to do to us. Keeping with the horror movie analogue this is similar to the audience being shown one of the horror's previous victims. A terrifying preview of what's to come.

Finally I feel like the ending you have sets up but fails to pose a very interesting question. Whose going to strengthen the seal after Eli's spell starts to fade? This question becomes even more chilling when you realize that Eli hid his occult studies from the world, unlike his predecessor who left published poetry and a local legend behind as a trail of bread crumbs for a successor to follow. If you could organically poses this question to the readers at the end, perhaps in the form of a sudden regret in the last moments of Eli's life it would be simply chilling. Another possible avenue to hint at this would be to change the finally W.P.S. poem to one where he calls out to the world for someone to continue his work and recoils at the thought of repercussions the world will feel if no one does.

But seriously though that was fantastic.

Wow, thanks for reading the story and the kind compliments, Flying Turtle and Absol.

Those are some good ideas, I like the idea of Eli reflecting on his regret and failure to plan for finding a successor. Or perhaps he has actually reburied Walter's book and his own notebook, in the hopes that another family will come to the land before it's too late.
You might be right about the ghost-speech. I'm debating whether to change it - you're the first to suggest that. I don't really want to change the final poem because I don't want to suggest a hint of possible salvation, but the inevitability of failure due to the inability to control conditions perpetually.

I'm considering how to re-address the creature reveal. I was worried that as it was, the creature was not scary enough, so I wanted to reveal the scale of its power somehow. Maybe that section would be better as a review of passages Eli uncovers relating to how destroyed settlements, disasters and fires and various horrific deaths are associated with the appearance of the shadows, as well as failed pregnancies and infertility, going back to prehistory. And the final scene should be the reveal that the apparently individual shadow "men" are really like tentacles of a presence as large as the hill itself.

I have also been planning to create more W.P.S entries to fill in all the section breaks, do you think is necessary? It would add to the pattern and sense of completeness for me, but that may just be my own neuroses requiring patterns to be complete. I was going to make a couple passages from the actual book of spells, and probably another poem, each presaging the content of the section that follows.

It was around Halloween when I wrote it, and obviously heavily inspired by Lovecraft. Part of the draw, for me, is the fact that I actually grew up in the places Lovecraft talks about (or fictionalizes). The farm, landscape, and town are all drawn from my actual home and childhood (I grew up in Northampton, the library described based on the real Northampton library, the farm land and forest features other than Walter's house are representations of real places I explored as a kid). So I'm glad I was able to make a good showing of representing and describing it.

PS- Absol, I am reading your dragon story in free time between assignments, I'll have comments when I get through all the chapters.

[Flying Turtle]

I have also been planning to create more W.P.S entries to fill in all the section breaks, do you think is necessary? It would add to the pattern and sense of completeness for me, but that may just be my own neuroses requiring patterns to be complete. I was going to make a couple passages from the actual book of spells, and probably another poem, each presaging the content of the section that follows.


PS- Absol, I am reading your dragon story in free time between assignments, I'll have comments when I get through all the chapters.

I don't think more W.P.S. entries are necessary but given how effectively they set the mood I'd say it is definitely worth a try.

Also Absol I am in the middle of your story as well and will post something once I have finished.

[Absol197]

No problem; it's long, take your time .

So Thrudd, with revealing the scale of your creature's power, a great idea would be something like referencing events that these "shadow people" have been sighted causing across the entire globe and across history, and then maybe just leave a last line in Walter's notebook saying something like..."But they're not a 'they!' Their just tiny pieces, just its fingertips!" Or something like that. You get the idea - establish the race as being this absolutely horrid thing that's been locked away all across the world to prevent horrible disasters, then give a little hint that they're part of one giant creature. And a very small part, at that.

Leave the rest up to the imagination, and you'll give people the shivers!

[Flying Turtle]

First chapter from my (currently un-edited) 2016 NaNo:

Spoiler: 1. Aradale

Show

1: Aradale

The sun rose slowly on the plains of Eldin, as it always had done and always would do. Elwin’s cockerels took up the morning chorus and gently raised the village of Aradale from its sleep. It was Shoremun, and the first creeping tendrils of winter were slowly converging on the lands. A fog sat sleepily over the land, and the frost, although it hadn’t come yet, showed signs it would be rearing its head before long.

Arlen came out from the back door of his house and walked over to the fields. His white hair flowed gently in the breeze, brushing against his coat, of good northern Ozrynian make, and his pointed ears that picked up the mournful wail of the air through the trees. His dark-skinned hands gently held a hatchet for chopping firewood. With any luck, the weather would stay as it had for the past week or so and he wouldn’t have to use it for a while.

He set the hatchet down, knelt at a corner of the first field, and plucked an orange sinew out from the soil, and frowned. The carrots looked sparse. Not stunted, not diseased, just as if they'd only been in the soil since Barmun, despite the fact he clearly remembered planting them all the way back in Sirmun. He shrugged, and replaced the young-looking root in its dirt. There was enough of the crop that they’d be able to live off it, but they wouldn’t have any left to sell to the merchants that would take it to other places that couldn’t grow enough. Kotaki Head would have to go hungry this winter. And good riddance, too. That stronghold at the northern tip of the continent was the last remaining fragment of the Kotaki Empire - just thinking about it made him shudder. Several hundred years previous, they had harnessed the power of Hei’an, a mysterious force that was spoken of only in whispers, only in fear. With it, they had conquered half the continent, oppressing the populace and burning the records of all that had come before them. Even a single man with Hei’an behind him could wipe out an entire legion of army men in as little as an hour. It was only due to a small group of adventurers that it had been sealed away, never to be touched by the likes of mankind, ever again. The Rotanis had single-handedly defeated the now immensely weakened dictators and filled the void they had left behind. From all that he had heard, the current rulers were infinitely more benevolent than the Kotakis.
His train of thought was interrupted by a shadowy streak that shot out from behind one of the trees in the distance, and back behind one of the others - a gnarled one that seemed to exist only to shed its branches. He'd been meaning to chop the old gum down for ages, but there had always been things needing doing. "I know that's you, Elwin," he called, glaring at the tree. He was hardly ever caught in his shenanigans, but it never seemed to matter since he was the only one to ever try shenanigans. Defeated, the half-elf plodded out from behind the old gum and walked up to him. The breeze picked up his flowing brown hair, which had grown out long in what was supposed to be an homage to elven tradition, but in the end just made him look the fool. His ears didn’t have quite the same point to it that his mothers’ had, but his mixed heritage was clearly visible from the way he carried himself, as if unsure whether to mix with the predominantly human crowd or set himself apart and embrace his elven ancestry. He was too wispy and didn’t have enough bulk on him for work in the smithy like Leron did, but too clumsy and not graceful enough to fully pick out sylvian past-times. Despite his efforts, Arlen couldn’t teach him any further than the basics of drow handsign, and he couldn’t lift any hammer heavy enough to do proper work for more than a few seconds, so he defaulted to being the village trickster - flour on the dogs, that sort of rubbish.

“I heard there are barbarians,” he whispered excitedly, whipping his head about as if to see if one had snuck up on him in the few seconds he’d been approaching. He had a feverish look about him, which didn’t seem particularly out of place with his unkempt dirty brown hair and wild crimson eyes. It was impossible to tell whether the young Faolain was telling the truth or just delusional.
Arlen sighed, and sat down on the cross-bar of a nearby fence. “Elwin, there haven’t been any barbarians here for over thirty years. I’m sure whatever you think you saw, it was nothing. Probably just the wind through the trees, or a buck through a clearing.”

“But what if it’s not? I know what I saw. If we just let this go, they might attack Aradale. I don’t know how you drow work, you might be absolutely fine, but I know I certainly wouldn’t be able to live with myself if me ma or pa got killed because you wouldn’t go and help thin their numbers.”

“Thin their numbers? Listen to yourself, Elwin! You’ve been reading far too many of those adventure tales. Those books have planted a seed in your head, haven’t they. This isn’t the stories, this is real life.”
A northerly wind swept through the trees, bringing a chill to their bones. The woods looked closer, now, as if they were closing in and soon enough the barbarians would burst past the shadowline and hack them to pieces. “All the same,” he conceded, “we’d better check”.

Half an hour later, they met each other near the east road to Ferndochty, Arlen with a longbow strapped to his back and a quiver with a dozen arrows, and Elwin with a sword and buckler. They regarded each other with a slight grimace - neither of them were properly men yet, and the weapons looked comically oversized on them. Whereas a grown army man may have been able to wield Elwin’s sword in one hand and a buckler in the other with relative ease, it took Elwin a great deal of effort to lift the weapon even in both hands. Arlen’s bow was made for a human, not a drow elf, which would typically stand a head shorter, so either the tip would drag against the ground and wear out or the bow would stand taller than he did. Even together, they would be at best a token sign of defiance that would serve no more purpose than to warn any barbarians of their notice. In their adolescent eyes, of course, they were instead the first line of defence that could keep Kyrla and the other village girls safe from the vicious horde of marauders. Arlen nodded, and they were off.

The oaks and spruces of the plains slowly but surely gave way to the hardened, gnarled mahoganies and teaks of the inner forest. Roughly an hour had passed - they had started alert, watching with grave suspicion any errant noises or suspicious shadows in between the trees, but as they made their way through the uneventful forest, their guard began to slip, as the monotony of checking every gap began to turn excitement and fear into a more mellowed boredom of sorts. Yes, every gap between trees was still being checked, but it was a casual once-over while the mind was elsewhere instead of a feverish scrutiny of every single shadow.

Arlen had begun to walk half-asleep, going through the motions without much conscious thought. This stopped, as it had to, when he reached a clearing in the forest. “Okay,” he said, scratching his back and stifling a yawn, “we can have a break here.” He looked around to see if Elwin would agree, although that was a foregone conclusion - if Elwin could find an excuse to be lazy, he would be more than happy to take it. Instead, he got no answer; Elwin was not there.

Snapped awake by this development, Arlen whipped his head around to see anywhere the half-elf might have gotten off to, but there was no sign of him. The clearing suddenly seemed a lot smaller, the trees seemed to loom over him, towering over him rather than protecting him. The shadows seemed more real, as if they could jump out from behind the trees and attack. A rustling came from behind a mahogany at the end of the clearing, and did that shadow seem just a bit bigger than it had before? Better safe than sorry - he reached for his bow and nocked an arrow, aiming it directly at the spot that looked like it was occupied by someone or something that wasn’t there before.

Suddenly, a battle cry from behind, and a figure came crashing out of the underbrush; instinctively, the drow whipped around and immediately loosed his arrow, but even as it left the bow he knew he’d made a terrible mistake.

Arlen had always been a good shot. Some put it down to his fastidious training (although with the same breath with which they praised him for his discipline, they would berate him for wasting his time, since no barbarian would ever come back to Aradale after what his parents had done to them all those years ago), others put it down to the quality of the longbow itself being particularly high, and others still just said it was down to a dark elf’s generally better eyesight, concentration and intuition. So even in the least favourable of conditions, an arrow from Arlen’s bow was a sure hit.

Like all the others, this arrow found its home in the right shin of the assailant, who collapsed almost immediately, unprepared for such retaliation.

“Elwin!” Arlen yelled, rushing to his side. “Are you okay?”

“What does it bloody well look like?” came the reply through gritted teeth. “What did you go and shoot me for?”

Arlen threw his hands up in disbelief. “Gee, I don’t know! Surely can’t have been all that talk about barbarians, could it! What did you go and jump out of those bushes like a bloody homicidal maniac for?” Without waiting for an answer, since he knew any he got would just enrage him to the point of deciding maybe the leg wound wasn’t entirely undeserved, he reached into his pack and pulled out a cloth bandage. “Now hold still and think about what ol’ Master Bodkin’s going to do to you when he finds out what you’ve done.”

It was impossible to tell whether the resulting scream was from the arrow being pulled out or the thought of what would almost certainly be the worst strapping Elwin would have had in years. Quickly, Arlen wrapped the bandage around his leg, tied it off and put the still-intact arrow back into his quiver. No sense wasting a still-perfectly-serviceable arrow. Ever the trooper, Elwin stood up, although he wavered and ended up having to rely on Arlen’s shoulder for support. Search for barbarians already implicitly abandoned, they hobbled back towards Aradale.

If the trees hadn’t seemed malevolent before, they certainly did now. Despite this being the main route between Ferndochty (and from there, Varisvalla, Murtovaara and the rest of Arad Ozryn) and Aradale (and from there, Kinallen, Azmarin and the rest of the world), it was so narrow in places that two men couldn’t walk two abreast without being accosted by the local teaks, and so un-worn that roots could stick out from the ground right in the middle of the path without being cleared in due time with due process. This made the return from the clearing a long, arduous one. And it was only made more arduous by the fact that Elwin was complaining for most, if not the entirety of the journey, which generally involved all the things he would no longer be able to do, and what Arlen would have to do to make up for his inability to help. At no point did it cross either of their minds that the commotion they were causing might be attracting others to their location.

The pair was perhaps half an hour outside the village when the sound of a twig snapping perked up their ears. It had come from twenty, maybe thirty paces behind. It could have been “just a buck”, or maybe a branch loosening as the ravages of winter made their approach known, but all the same, it could have been something else.

Furitively, he looked back. “By Delena!” he shouted, grappling Arlen’s shoulder with increasing feverity. “Go faster!” He turned back round and tried to run, but his injured leg restricted him to hobbling along. Both of them knew there was no escaping the beast. Their only hope was to hold their ground and try to fight. Arlen grimaced in anticipation and turned around.

The beast was some kind of wolf - or at least, it looked like it had been a wolf at some point, but whether it was the ravages of time, or some ungodly disfigurement, or even the unnatural powers of hei’an, it didn’t seem particularly like a wolf anymore. Its fur was falling off in places, and where its skin showed under the mangled tufts, it was red and swollen. Froth dripped from its unnaturally wide mouth that seemed to be permanently contorted into a grin, and its eyes shone with a burning crimson glare. If it had ever had a soul, it certainly didn't have one now, or it was so severely twisted it would never pass as one. The wolf-creature sniffed the ground, where a few errant drops of blood had escaped from the hastily-applied bandage, and snarled with a bubbling throat. More froth fell from its lips, hissing as it touched the topsoil.

In one swift movement, Arlen had whipped out his bow and shot an arrow at the wolf-creature. If it felt it sink into its shoulder it didn't show it. Instead, it leapt at Elwin's injured leg, sinking its teeth into his flesh, revelling in the taste of warm elf-blood. He screamed a scream of agony and despair, and a tendril of smoke began to rise from where the skin had been broken, carrying with it the unmistakable smell of sulphur. Once more, Arlen drew and fired his bow, this time sending an arrow straight into its eye. The shaft seemed to sink some inches into the wolf-creature’s skull, but whatever force was driving this creature would not let it die. Instead, it let out a howl that froze the very blood of any near enough to hear and scampered back to the woods. Apart from the frantic thrashing that was ever so thankfully growing quieter as the wolf-creature fled, a deadening silence filled the air. Until a whimper cut through:

“Arlen… I can’t feel my leg.”

First off nice world building, it's always good to expose your readers to your lore early so they can start learning and internalizing it early. You also strike that harmony between vague and informative where I feel like I understand what you've introduced but I'm also very aware that there is more to it.

Also both your prose and voice do a great job together selling the rustic, high fantasy village setting. The names, the word choice, and the character behavior, e.g. Elwin assuming a snapped twig was " 'just a buck' " complete with diegetic quotes all sell me the exact same story and it really sucked me it.

Your prose does suffer from the occasional hiccup but given that there doesn't seem to be any recurring problems I suspect this is more the result of the time crunch nature of NaNoWriMo then anything else. Give it a thorough once over and I think you'll find most of them.

I am not wild about the encounter with the wolf beast however. You do a great job describing the wolf itself but not his actions and this hurts the description and creates some confusion.

For example you mention "there was no escaping the beast" but you don't really elaborate on why this is so. Is the beast just that fast or are Arlen and Elwin just that slow with Elwin's injury? Would they have been able to escape if Elwin hadn't been injuried?

I was also confused about when exactly the wolf noticed the two of them. You mention "The wolf-creature sniffed the ground, where a few errant drops of blood had escaped from the hastily-applied bandage..." which makes me believe that it hasn't noticed them yet and is still searching but it seems odd that Elwin and Arlen would both decide that escape was impossible when the wolf hadn't even noticed them.
Then the confusion was compounded when you mentioned Arlen shooting the wolf and saying that "If it felt it sink into its shoulder it didn't show it." So has it noticed them now? Arlen's comment about it not seeming to feel the arrow and the lack of any description of a reaction would suggest no but then it leaps at Elwin, the first action it has directed towards either of them. So when exactly did it notice them?

Again, you do a good job describing the wolf's appearance but not its actions or behavior, confusing the scene and making the wolf feel a little bland. With some more details to its behavior you could fix both of these problems.

Finally I'd like to finish with some baseless conjecture, as opposed to the questionable conjecture I normally employ. I am reading the character background this writing sample provides and, frankly, nothing jumps out at me. Now I could be way off base, and given that I have only read a small sample of your work that is more than likely, but these characters feel like characters I've seen a thousand times before. We've got a good at heart trouble maker whose background sets him apart from the rest of his village and a young farm boy with former warrior parents who, on some level, dreams of becoming a warrior too. Also said parents may be dead. I've seen all this before and to make matters worse, you seem to be utilizing a pretty standard fantasy setting. The setting itself is fine but when you combine it with characters that have been done before, I start to wonder if this story is going to show me anything new.

Of course if the above prediction is completely wrong feel free to ignore it for the baseless conjecture that it is. Like I said, your prose is solid and you do a great job maintaining a consistent aesthetic through out all aspects of it.

P.S. Thanks for giving me an excuse to use the word diegetic.

[Chijinda]

Character epilogue from my last Dark Heresy campaign (As the campaign in question didn't really get a satisfying conclusion I figured I'd try my hand at writing one). May as well use this as an opportunity to improve my narrative writing.

Spoiler: Character Epilogue

Show

Darkness. Impenetrable darkness. That was what the Acolyte awoke to. His thoughts were laboured and slow. Confused. Then the pain struck. An agonizing pain that burned across every nerve in his body. He tried to scream, but found he was without a voice. Something was pressing on his chest, and stealing away his breath. What had happened? Where was he? His mind struggled to remember. Struggled to focus, but every moment he thought he had a hold on a clear thought it slipped away again. Instinctively he struggled against the weight on his chest, it shifted. Just a hair, before the effort became too much and the Acolyte slumped down again in the darkness. An acrid, burning smell was in his nostrils. Some part of him recognized it as the smell of charred human flesh. Who was burning? What had happened?

The Acolyte strained his ears to catch any sounds, but there was nothing. He strained his eyes to see if he could pierce the veil of shadow surrounding him. Dimly he could make out approximate shapes, but they were beyond his comprehension, and he could not be certain if he was truly seeing, or if his fevered and disoriented mind was crafting phantoms to give him hope. Still the questions circled endlessly in his mind. What had happened? Where was he? Why was he in such pain? He could sense the answers at the back of his consciousness, but they proved elusive to his worn and tired mind, distracted by the pain. He was certain he would have been writhing had he the room to move. Screaming had he the strength to scream. Trapped in this nightmare. Alone in the darkness.

At some point, the Acolyte felt something on his face. Stinging and wet. It was water. Dimly he could hear the sound of acid rain drizzling onto the rubble that held him pinned. That was a small comfort to him. Despite the pain it caused as it picked at his burnt flesh, it was a welcome relief from the monotony of the darkness and his own confused thoughts. It also meant that there was a flow of air to where he was, and that he wouldn't die. It gave focus to his thoughts; Allowed him to reach into the recesses of his mind. Who was he? Where was he? What had happened?

He began to find scraps of memory buried there. A face. A name. He saw a stone faced man who radiated power, a maul crackling with energy in both hands. He saw a woman, with long brown hair, clad in Imperial battle regalia. A soldier, with scarlet hair; A pair of blades flashing about her like lightning. Other faces came to him too. Other names.

Frost. Lanate. Utopia. Serenity.

His mind attributed great importance to these words, but he could not fathom it, even with his renewed focus. The Acolyte tried to calm himself, assured that he would recall in time. But with every passing moment, he felt his focus ebb, and the thoughts and memories slip away again into the darkness that surrounded him. Though he willed himself to be patient, frustration now eroded his mind. The ceaseless pain did not give him a moment's peace. Though the rain water which dripped onto his face gave him something to concentrate on, something with which to take the edge from the horrific pain wracking him, it was an ever present entity. A contant companion, mocking him and taunting him. A distraction which withheld the memories he so desperately sought from him. The Acolyte hated that pain now. Despised it with all his being. Hated it as he hated the great weight pressing upon him. With all his hatred he fruitlessly willed the stones upon him to move, and for a brief, fevered instant, the Acolyte swore he could feel the weight that pinned him to his tomb shift. He was near certain he had heard the creak and groan of rock grinding on rock. He at once gave pause, and listened further. Mentally willed his nerves to be as attentive as they might be, to detect the slightest shift in the debris that bound him.

The Acolyte heard nothing but the pattering of rain. The Acolyte felt nothing but the pain of his wounds and the weight of the stones. A rasping breath drew from his mouth as he slipped again into despair, and felt his eyes close. Perhaps if he allowed it to be, he might die in his sleep, and put an end to this monotonous and cruel hell that trapped him. An escape from his torment.

Sleep took him, and his mind wandered amidst a labyrinth of memories. More images flashed through his mind at a dizzying pace. A dark skinned scoundrel, a cocky grin on his face, and a pair of pistols in his hands. A hulking greenskinned beast. A raven haired woman, rifle roaring, a blazing fireball at her back. An old man, screaming in agony, his features twisting and warping. A huge, armour clad figure collapsing in an occult circle, his life torn away by the abomination that formed before him. Next a woman, youthful with flowing golden hair, a sharp gaze piercing through him. There was something he'd done. A promise he'd made.

Sacarius. Elizabeth. Valerion. Sylith. More names that struck a chord within the Acolyte's mind.

A final figure appeared in his mind. This was not a face that he had seen in person. It was a tapestry he had seen once. Long, long ago. A valiant knight, gilded in shining armor. Flowing black hair, a blazing sword in hand. A golden halo of power emanated from him. knight stood, stalwart and invulnerable against the encroaching darkness, the bones of his enemies broken to dust beneath his feet. There was no name that came to mind when this image surfaced in his mind, not even a word. It was a feeling. Not one that the dreaming man could quite grasp though. It was more than simply hope, it was more than obedience. It was faith. It was loyalty.

It was duty.

The Acolyte's eyes opened. A spark had ignited within his mind. His very soul. He remembered now. The memories came rushing back to him, some still foggy, others clear as crystal. Yes... he remembered them now. His comrades. Brothers and sisters in arms whom he had fought beside. Bled beside. In his mind's eye, he saw their final moments. He saw the stone faced man.... The Inquisitor. He saw him fall, betrayed by his closest ally. He saw the war goddess fall, a final grin on her lips as she expended her final breath to strike down the traitor who had slain their lord. The scoundrel... yes. He saw him as well, and the red haired soldier, disappear in a blaze of fire and shrapnel. His last memories in fact.

He was an Acolyte of the Imperium's Holy Inquisition. He had seen terrible things, and fought even worse, to find himself here. They had fought their way through a Hive City. To the cathedral... They had staged a tremendous battle, against an enemy that had been the epitome of evil. He remembered. The beast had been bested. His blade had been at the monster's throat. The end was nigh. But the creature had used the last of its power to bring down the cathedral upon them. His fellow Acolyte had ended it. He remembered him stripping his grenade-laden jacket. Removing the pin. Hurling it at the demon. Calling at him to run.

It had not been enough. The blast had consumed everything in sight. He had been lost.

The Acolyte stared into the darkness, absorbing his resurrected memories. Though pain still seared through him, he was rapt in thought and did not notice. He remembered who he was. Perhaps. He thought for a moment. Perhaps he was still there. That this debris crushing him, was the cathedral. A single eye glared. Then it burned. The debris trembled, and shifted as the Psyker's will began what his scorched and useless muscles could not. But the stones pinning him were heavy, and there were many of them. For an instant, he almost doubted himself. The memory of the golden haired woman surfaced in his mind again.

"Stop."

That was what she had told him the last time he had second guessed himself. That was what she had told him when he had thought him lesser than the challenge before him.

The Psyker's eyes had been burning. Now it blazed, an ethereal, unnatural light pouring from the socket. His nose gushed with hot blood. Yet even this might not have been enough to shift the weighted stones from his body, had not this burst of power driven the stones at the top away. The weight lightened. Not by much. Not by much at all. But it was by just enough that the Psyker's final reserves of power could push the next uppermost rocks away. And the layer beneath that. And then the layer beneath that. Finally, at last, he could see the light. The triumphant, smog-coated skies of the Hive City. The acid rain stinging his face. Aggravating his burns. The bright azure flame that burned in his skull died down, as it drove the final weight from his chest, and the Acolyte breathed deeply. A deep, admittedly painful and hacking excuse for a breath, but it was as though it was the first breath of a new life. He paused a moment, after taking this breath. Contemplating.

New life.

Rather than the exuberance he had expected to feel after breaking free of his stone prison, there was a hollowness within the Acolyte. He drew breath as living men did. His eyes saw the world as living men did. He felt pain, as living men did as well. But.... for what? Was this really? Living? Was he alive? Or had his body simply failed to stop? For yes, life flowed through his veins, but for what purpose? Surely... surely his comrades that had accompanied him into battle were dead. The soldier... the scoundrel... To think that they would have survived the blast was unrealistically hopeful. The Acolyte's eye closed in a different kind of pain. What was left for him then?

Scorched limbs attempted to move. To find purchase on the nearby terrain. But they were weak. Very weak. His injuries were hardly minor. He could see now, that burns covered almost his entire body. What armor he had worn into battle had been burnt away, leaving the scorched flesh beneath exposed. Shrapnel had ripped out muscle and skin, leaving gleaming white bone visible in some places. He could not see his face, but he imagined it had suffered similarly. He briefly considered that perhaps the fire had seared his bleeding injuries shut, as they had formed.

The cleansing flame. It burns away the impure.

A few days ago, the Acolyte might have smiled at this macabre silver lining, but now found his lips unmoving from a grim, hard, line. Smiling seemed beyond him now, as it dawned on him just how alone he felt. A single phrase helped him to focus his mind. A single phrase lifted from some ancient Imperium primer he had perused in his old quarters aboard his Inquistor's ship.

"The only true fear is dying without your duty done."

Was his duty done? Truly? Had he finished all he had set out to do? The Acolyte thought on this long and hard, as he willed his agonized limbs to move. Inch by inch, they crawled along the ground, pulling him slowly, ever so slowly, free of the wreckage. Progress was agonizingly slow, but it gave him time to think. Time enough, that by the time he reached the top, he had reached a conclusion.

No. The Acolyte had not done all he had set out to do. He had not yet done all that he could to serve the Imperium. Indeed, not only had he not yet finished his task, he realized, he had barely begun. This journey. This deadly journey, with so many near misses, so many losses, and so many harrowing experiences, had served only to set the stage for the real good he might do. When he had first set out on this mission, he had been naive. Inexperienced. Weak. Powerless. Through these trials he had gained power. Gained influence. Gained allies. Gained resources. Was it only now? Now at the very moment where he could begin his own battle against the darkness that his battle was to end? His battle. Not the battles of another.

The Acolyte stumbled as he removed himself from the depression, and leaned against a broken pillar, breath coming in short, whispy gasps, burnt lungs screaming for air after such a meager feat. His single good eye took in his surroundings. The cathedral was a ruin. Nothing was left of the second floor, save for some fragments of masonry, that had once been the outer wall. It was marked by battle. There was nobody here. No doubt, after knowledge of the abomination that had been summoned here spread to those who were worthy, and requiring of such knowledge it had been quickly quarantined. Perhaps it would even be razed, burnt and cleansed. That would be proper, and he knew that it was the same order he would have given, were he in a position to do so. The Acolyte was alone. A name came to his mind, as he rested, his strength expended by the climb.

Cole.

That was his name. No. No wait. That wasn't right. The Acolyte's eye fell back to the pit out of which he had climbed. But he hadn't. He hadn't climbed from the pit. His physical shell had, yes, but a piece of him was still down there, and not merely the pieces that had been blown off from his body by the grenades. The piece that had died, and left behind the feeling of emptiness in his soul. Cole was still in there. No.... that wasn't right either. Cole had never been in there. Cole had died in the blast. The Acolyte that had awoken was not Cole. He had Cole's face (scarred as it was), and he had Cole's memories, his experiences, and perhaps even Cole's mannerisms. But these did not make up who Cole was. Cole had comrades. Cole had been whole. Cole had aspirations and dreams. Dreams tempered by the Emperor's cause, of course! But dreams nonetheless. Aspirations nonetheless.

The Acolyte had only duty. He was a tool. A weapon. A sword to ward away the Emperor's foes. A shield to guard its people. Personal goals and aspirations had been purged from him by the fire.

Speaking of swords....

Cole had wielded one. Forged in his own blood, and baptized in an Ork's throat, as any good blade should have. It was linked to him, and by extension, the Acolyte. He extended a hand. Cole had etched a rune into the blade. Marked it with his psychic signature. It had been his blade. The Acolyte called to the signature. Called the blade to him. He closed his eye to focus. A ripple passed through the Warp, and the ground beneath the Acolyte's bare feet grew cold, a chill wave clawing out from him and covering the ground in a frost, as the veil between the material world and that beyond, destabilized by the battle that had happened here, trembled. Then the Acolyte felt the hilt of the sword in his hand, and he looked down upon it.

Its blade, previously a gleaming silver, was cracked, and stained black with the blood of the devil it had pierced. The Acolyte remembered that well. Cole had run the blade straight through the beast's heart, marring the shining steel irreparably. Sparks sizzled on the hilt, as the machine spirits that powered the psychic matrix inlaid in the weapon whimpered in agony. The tip had been broken off, and it was streaked with soot and dents. The Acolyte looked at the sword for a time, and then into the pit one last time. His final farewell to Cole. Taking his former self's blade in hand, he then turned and began to walk away.

He would use Cole's resources. Use the influence Cole had worked so hard to gather, to pursue Cole's ideals. To destroy the darkness wherever it touched. To drive away the shadows that despoiled the noble Imperium of Man. To do his duty. And....

A final image came to his mind. It was the woman again. Long blonde tresses cascading down. Fair skin like porcelain, wearing a dress of shimmering blue silks. A look of mixed irritation and disappointment in her eyes. A promise had been made. A promise that would be kept.

The Acolyte focused on this image for a time, as he lifted his head. He would recover. Perhaps not fully. The burns were so viciously severe, that he doubted even his connection to the Warp, and the unnatural powers he drew from it would be able to completely heal him from this battle. There would be scars. There may be lingering damage, that would plague him the rest of his life. But he would recover. His strength would return. And he would set about a crusade against the darkness with unyielding tenacity and will. He would put heresy to the torch and heretics to the sword. He would not permit Xenos or the dredging scum that festered in the deepest depths of the Imperium to fluorish. He would destroy the enemies of the Imperium. Whether the Inquisition would take note of the Acolyte or not, he would serve his purpose. He was a weapon.

This purpose could not fill the void in his soul. It would not bring Cole back. Cole was dead. But the Acolyte lived. And he had inherited Cole's will. He did not smile as he limped from Cole's tomb, but his spirits were briefly buoyed. He could not dally here. He had to recover as soon as possible. Find some decent clothes. Make sure his power base was intact. Find a new name. A steel filled the Acolyte's eyes, and an ice covered his heart, growing harder with each clumsy step he took.

There was work to be done.

[Prince Zahn]

Hey guys, cool thread! I'm also writing a story as of late in my free time, I thought I'd put up the first chapter to get some feedback if anybody wants to read it and tell me what they think.
It's called "Her Tears For Argent": Google Docs link

[Flying Turtle]

I'll bite! And try to hang around and critique stuff.

I submit my pre-existing thread for my current piece I'm working on, Virial's Story [Working Title]. (It's also on my DeviantArt, same profile name [Absol197], if you want something slightly cleaner than a GitP thread )

I'm looking for comments, critiques, reviews, etc. Basically anything tht you notice that might make it better. Also - questions about the world raised but not answered. A lot I probably do have answers for and they just haven't made it into the text yet, ut some I might not have answers for yet, and knowing what the question is is half the battle!

I'm also looking for suggestions on what scenes to tackle next, so anything you might want to see, et me know and I'll try to work it up.

In return, as I said, I'll review other pieces posted here as I have the time. I'd ask that you tell me what specifically you're wanting to have reviewed, and what level of ferocity in my reviews you want. General levels are: Light, Medium, Rough, Vicious, and Puree. I'l admit I'm not an expert at providing the latter two, so that could be pratice for me as well!

For my own piece, reviews in the Medium to Rough range would be appreciated.

Alright, finished it, or at least I'm caught up to the postlude. First off let me start by saying I intentionally avoided reading both other people's comments and the primer and non canon sections. I wanted to experience the story not in a vacuum per say but in the typical context of a published story as if you ever get this published that will be the way most people experience it.

I love the overall plot structure. It starts off familiar enough, seemingly everyday young person discovers they are in fact the chosen one destined to save the world etc, etc, but when you took it past the save the world plan to show the fall out from said plan it caught me by surprise and really elevated the story as a whole.

I'm also a big fan of your magic system. At first I wasn't wild about it because it felt overly complicated. Why bother with all the distinctions between divine powers, craft, and innate abilities? But then you introduced the naraka and I immediate understood that it was all to justify the loss of some but not all powers once a Mauna becomes naraka. I also like how you made the different naraka in the story specialize in different areas to overcome their deficiencies. From Oros specializing in Craft to Jor specializing in fire breathing it really helps justify the naraka as a threat to the Mauna despite the Mauna superior suite of abilities. If you add more fights I would highly recommend doubling down on the various strategies both sides employ to work around these strength and weaknesses as the battle between Brax, Virial, Jor, and Oros is granted quite a bit of depth by these considerations.

Now while your plot moves along at a brisk pace, I can't help but feel the story would benefit from some more character moments. Take for example the confrontation between Tam and Chrissy early on. This is suppose to be an emotional moment when two close friends have a massive falling out, but I kinda of didn't care. In fact in anything I was just sort of annoyed with the way both of them handled the situation. Chrissy shutting Tam out for weeks on end and Tam offering little to no sympathy for her friend once she learned the truth made it seem like these two weren't really all that close to begin with, which I don't think was your goal. Fortunately, I don't think fixing this would be all that hard. Just let the reader see more of what the two of them are normally like around each other. You wouldn't even need to add a new scene if you don't want to. Just expand the scene where the two of them go out for Tam's birthday. Show us the two of them having a good time, enjoying one another's company, and demonstrating just how close the bond between the two of them really is.

I would also like to see a lot more of Virial and Brax's training together. We do get to see plenty of their relationship but it would be interesting to see how their relationship started and it would be a great time for you to do some much needed world building. You could weave in more explanations for the magic system, introduce more Mauna and other magical creatures and really give us an idea how this society works. A lot of stuff, the fey, the leeches, the other Mauna and naraka, is touched on but never fully explored. Jor in particular needs some attention. When you first mention him he is set up as a serious threat but when he actually shows up not only is he dealt with fairly easily he's killed. It just seems anticlimactic.

As for the prose you are very good at letting us see inside Virial's head in a way that feels we are reading like genuine thoughts but you have a tendency to jump right into scenes with out spending much time describing the current setting. This isn't a big problem when you're just working with scenes that are both simple and mundane but when you're describing more complex or fantastical scenes it becomes confusing and disappointing. For example I had a pretty constant mild confusion nagging at the back of my mind during Lost and Found because I wasn't sure exactly how everyone was laid out in the tunnel during the fight. Most of the homeless people are hiding behind Chrissy for protection, with some like Sarge being closer than others, but how close are they? They're in a tunnel and she is after all a dragon so I kept imagining them being crushed or at least pushed around by her during the fight but there was almost no mention of this. Just how big is this tunnel that it can comfortable hold a dragon fighting a leech and a whole collection of spectators who are some how both close enough were they are blocked from attack by the leech but not so close that they need to worry about getting caught in the dragon's path? Is this a drainage tunnel, a train tunnel, a service tunnel? So many questions, all distracting from the action.

The later scenes once Chrissy has joined her fellow Mauna also suffer from a lack of detail but instead of confusing, it just sort of disappoints. These are structures built to house giant lizard like creatures that predate mankind by millennia if not longer. How different are they from those made by humans? I can't help but think they should be completely alien and it was a major disappointment that you gave them such bare bones descriptions. One of the best things about fantasy stories is the fact that you are no longer bound to the laws of the real world. You can give us breathtakingly wonders of impossible natures. You can stupefy your audience with scenes we can never see in the real world and if you do we will never want to put your story down because that means leaving your marvelous creation.

My finally comment is even more of a matter of personal taste than my preceding ones but the swearing censorship can be jarring at times. Usually only when characters are swearing a lot. I would recommend either getting rid of the censorship, keeping the censorship but toning down some of the cuss heavy areas, or just censoring yourself in a more organic way. Instead of directly quoting a swearing character, describe their swearing. Mention them cussing under they breath or shouting obscenities with out actually quoting them. I am a big fan of the latter because while it doesn't work in every situation it does occasionally allow you to be humorous with your censorship by dryly describing your obscenities in unmistakable detail. Instead of having a character yell "f--k'" you can have your narration say something like 'after screaming a choice synonym for sexual intimacy she...'. To me at least that has a certain dry charm to it, but like I said this final suggestion is almost entirely a matter of personal taste.

All in all you have the bones and some of the meat of a really great story. You just need to flesh it out more

[Absol197]

Thank you very much for the honest critique . Some of these things (lack of description of the Mauna's architecture, more of Vi and Brax and Vi and Tam) I'm already working on in other pieces that I haven't posted yet. Incidentally, I don't know if you read Naming, seeing as it's unfinished, but it is part of the canon and is pretty much the start of Vi and Brax's relationship. Although you mention the architecture not being well-described, so I'm thinking you might have. Part of the issue is the way I started this project - small, disconnected scenes that had to be within a certain size limit - made more extensive descriptions difficult, but now that I've changed what my goals are I think some of those knots will come out on their own. But thanks for pointing them out, because it lets me know that I've got to focus on it.

And the swearing thing...yeah. On my DeviantArt I don't censor them at all. The only reason it's censored here is because the board literally has a censor - if I wrote the words out (as I want to) then the board would turn them into a series of asterisks. So that's not something I'm doing because I want to, but because I have to. But I do like your idea about sometimes describing it in humorlessly dry detail . I'll try and do that.

I have a lot of trouble with descriptions, and I think the tunnel scene you mentioned is a prime example of that. Giving paragraph upon paragraph of description is boring to me, but blending it in with the action and dialogue in a way that doesn't blur both and make them difficult to understand is still something I'm working on. I'll focus more on that.

Although the tunnel fight also suffers from the fact that I have trouble expressing just how large the Mauna are. Vi at that point is just over 4 feet tall "at the withers." Which is about the size of a large lion or tiger. She's longer than a big cat would be, sure, but that's much smaller than most people think when they hear "dragon." I've had trouble with their proportion and size descriptions all around, basically. I'm trying to get some art commissioned right now so I can see it, get some numbers fixed (I'm very mathematical), and hopefully be able to solidify some of those descriptions.

And as a final incidental, the monster in Lost and Found is actually a vampire . Nar was just using a derogatory for them because he doesn't like them and "vampire" is too many syllables .

[Xanyo]

I have something I'm working on, but I can't come up with a real plot for the life of me. I've set the scene, solidified the timeline, introduced some characters, and put in a bit of politics, but I can't make an actual plot. I've got a medieval fantasy world, a country with a (moderately) evil emperor, a war, and a rebellious group, but I can't tie things together. I'm trying to keep the idea of who is the protagonist and who is the antagonist as a gray area. So far it's mostly just politics. I've got the scene fleshed out, I just need a plot. Any ideas/suggestions/tips?

[Flying Turtle]

I have something I'm working on, but I can't come up with a real plot for the life of me. I've set the scene, solidified the timeline, introduced some characters, and put in a bit of politics, but I can't make an actual plot. I've got a medieval fantasy world, a country with a (moderately) evil emperor, a war, and a rebellious group, but I can't tie things together. I'm trying to keep the idea of who is the protagonist and who is the antagonist as a gray area. So far it's mostly just politics. I've got the scene fleshed out, I just need a plot. Any ideas/suggestions/tips?

Spoiler

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Well, personally I've always been a real big fan of heroes with ambition. So something interesting you could do is have a prominent character, not necessarily the protagonist, but also not necessarily not the protagonist, be a commoner who seeks to rise up in life and they decide to do so by becoming a servant to a particularly powerful noble. They're goal however is not to ingratiate themselves to said noble but actually use their status as a servant to gather private information that they can then use to advance they're own ends. Servants notice everything but no one notices servants. Their could be a build up as they gain influence with the other servants and therefore increase they're ability to gather information and before long they begin disrupting the status quo and nobles are forced to acknowledge them as a threat. They could make an interesting main character but if you didn't want to they're disruption could easily be a inciting incident for the plot. Maybe the main character is another servant. Or a noble in the house they are a servant in. Or perhaps a member of a rival house that is now forced to work with them to take down an enemy. So many potential character dynamics. If your main character is a noble you could have the be scornful of the servant and resent the need for their help. You could have them be kind to the servant to highlight their positive qualities. You could have the main character be another servant who is first terrified by this peer who seems so intent on rocking the boat but eventually comes to see it as good. Really you have lots of options with this set up but personally what I like about it is it works with most politic situations giving you lots of freedom while also giving you a plot element that distinguishes your story from other political medieval fantasies. See in most political medieval fantasies the main characters are nobles because that is what it takes to influence politics in that setting but with this set up you have a significant character who is not just a commoner but they actually draw their power from being a commoner. This lets introduce political machinations and plot twists that normally wouldn't be possible.

Hope at least something in that rambling post is useful.

Character epilogue from my last Dark Heresy campaign (As the campaign in question didn't really get a satisfying conclusion I figured I'd try my hand at writing one). May as well use this as an opportunity to improve my narrative writing.

Spoiler: Character Epilogue

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Darkness. Impenetrable darkness. That was what the Acolyte awoke to. His thoughts were laboured and slow. Confused. Then the pain struck. An agonizing pain that burned across every nerve in his body. He tried to scream, but found he was without a voice. Something was pressing on his chest, and stealing away his breath. What had happened? Where was he? His mind struggled to remember. Struggled to focus, but every moment he thought he had a hold on a clear thought it slipped away again. Instinctively he struggled against the weight on his chest, it shifted. Just a hair, before the effort became too much and the Acolyte slumped down again in the darkness. An acrid, burning smell was in his nostrils. Some part of him recognized it as the smell of charred human flesh. Who was burning? What had happened?

The Acolyte strained his ears to catch any sounds, but there was nothing. He strained his eyes to see if he could pierce the veil of shadow surrounding him. Dimly he could make out approximate shapes, but they were beyond his comprehension, and he could not be certain if he was truly seeing, or if his fevered and disoriented mind was crafting phantoms to give him hope. Still the questions circled endlessly in his mind. What had happened? Where was he? Why was he in such pain? He could sense the answers at the back of his consciousness, but they proved elusive to his worn and tired mind, distracted by the pain. He was certain he would have been writhing had he the room to move. Screaming had he the strength to scream. Trapped in this nightmare. Alone in the darkness.

At some point, the Acolyte felt something on his face. Stinging and wet. It was water. Dimly he could hear the sound of acid rain drizzling onto the rubble that held him pinned. That was a small comfort to him. Despite the pain it caused as it picked at his burnt flesh, it was a welcome relief from the monotony of the darkness and his own confused thoughts. It also meant that there was a flow of air to where he was, and that he wouldn't die. It gave focus to his thoughts; Allowed him to reach into the recesses of his mind. Who was he? Where was he? What had happened?

He began to find scraps of memory buried there. A face. A name. He saw a stone faced man who radiated power, a maul crackling with energy in both hands. He saw a woman, with long brown hair, clad in Imperial battle regalia. A soldier, with scarlet hair; A pair of blades flashing about her like lightning. Other faces came to him too. Other names.

Frost. Lanate. Utopia. Serenity.

His mind attributed great importance to these words, but he could not fathom it, even with his renewed focus. The Acolyte tried to calm himself, assured that he would recall in time. But with every passing moment, he felt his focus ebb, and the thoughts and memories slip away again into the darkness that surrounded him. Though he willed himself to be patient, frustration now eroded his mind. The ceaseless pain did not give him a moment's peace. Though the rain water which dripped onto his face gave him something to concentrate on, something with which to take the edge from the horrific pain wracking him, it was an ever present entity. A contant companion, mocking him and taunting him. A distraction which withheld the memories he so desperately sought from him. The Acolyte hated that pain now. Despised it with all his being. Hated it as he hated the great weight pressing upon him. With all his hatred he fruitlessly willed the stones upon him to move, and for a brief, fevered instant, the Acolyte swore he could feel the weight that pinned him to his tomb shift. He was near certain he had heard the creak and groan of rock grinding on rock. He at once gave pause, and listened further. Mentally willed his nerves to be as attentive as they might be, to detect the slightest shift in the debris that bound him.

The Acolyte heard nothing but the pattering of rain. The Acolyte felt nothing but the pain of his wounds and the weight of the stones. A rasping breath drew from his mouth as he slipped again into despair, and felt his eyes close. Perhaps if he allowed it to be, he might die in his sleep, and put an end to this monotonous and cruel hell that trapped him. An escape from his torment.

Sleep took him, and his mind wandered amidst a labyrinth of memories. More images flashed through his mind at a dizzying pace. A dark skinned scoundrel, a cocky grin on his face, and a pair of pistols in his hands. A hulking greenskinned beast. A raven haired woman, rifle roaring, a blazing fireball at her back. An old man, screaming in agony, his features twisting and warping. A huge, armour clad figure collapsing in an occult circle, his life torn away by the abomination that formed before him. Next a woman, youthful with flowing golden hair, a sharp gaze piercing through him. There was something he'd done. A promise he'd made.

Sacarius. Elizabeth. Valerion. Sylith. More names that struck a chord within the Acolyte's mind.

A final figure appeared in his mind. This was not a face that he had seen in person. It was a tapestry he had seen once. Long, long ago. A valiant knight, gilded in shining armor. Flowing black hair, a blazing sword in hand. A golden halo of power emanated from him. knight stood, stalwart and invulnerable against the encroaching darkness, the bones of his enemies broken to dust beneath his feet. There was no name that came to mind when this image surfaced in his mind, not even a word. It was a feeling. Not one that the dreaming man could quite grasp though. It was more than simply hope, it was more than obedience. It was faith. It was loyalty.

It was duty.

The Acolyte's eyes opened. A spark had ignited within his mind. His very soul. He remembered now. The memories came rushing back to him, some still foggy, others clear as crystal. Yes... he remembered them now. His comrades. Brothers and sisters in arms whom he had fought beside. Bled beside. In his mind's eye, he saw their final moments. He saw the stone faced man.... The Inquisitor. He saw him fall, betrayed by his closest ally. He saw the war goddess fall, a final grin on her lips as she expended her final breath to strike down the traitor who had slain their lord. The scoundrel... yes. He saw him as well, and the red haired soldier, disappear in a blaze of fire and shrapnel. His last memories in fact.

He was an Acolyte of the Imperium's Holy Inquisition. He had seen terrible things, and fought even worse, to find himself here. They had fought their way through a Hive City. To the cathedral... They had staged a tremendous battle, against an enemy that had been the epitome of evil. He remembered. The beast had been bested. His blade had been at the monster's throat. The end was nigh. But the creature had used the last of its power to bring down the cathedral upon them. His fellow Acolyte had ended it. He remembered him stripping his grenade-laden jacket. Removing the pin. Hurling it at the demon. Calling at him to run.

It had not been enough. The blast had consumed everything in sight. He had been lost.

The Acolyte stared into the darkness, absorbing his resurrected memories. Though pain still seared through him, he was rapt in thought and did not notice. He remembered who he was. Perhaps. He thought for a moment. Perhaps he was still there. That this debris crushing him, was the cathedral. A single eye glared. Then it burned. The debris trembled, and shifted as the Psyker's will began what his scorched and useless muscles could not. But the stones pinning him were heavy, and there were many of them. For an instant, he almost doubted himself. The memory of the golden haired woman surfaced in his mind again.

"Stop."

That was what she had told him the last time he had second guessed himself. That was what she had told him when he had thought him lesser than the challenge before him.

The Psyker's eyes had been burning. Now it blazed, an ethereal, unnatural light pouring from the socket. His nose gushed with hot blood. Yet even this might not have been enough to shift the weighted stones from his body, had not this burst of power driven the stones at the top away. The weight lightened. Not by much. Not by much at all. But it was by just enough that the Psyker's final reserves of power could push the next uppermost rocks away. And the layer beneath that. And then the layer beneath that. Finally, at last, he could see the light. The triumphant, smog-coated skies of the Hive City. The acid rain stinging his face. Aggravating his burns. The bright azure flame that burned in his skull died down, as it drove the final weight from his chest, and the Acolyte breathed deeply. A deep, admittedly painful and hacking excuse for a breath, but it was as though it was the first breath of a new life. He paused a moment, after taking this breath. Contemplating.

New life.

Rather than the exuberance he had expected to feel after breaking free of his stone prison, there was a hollowness within the Acolyte. He drew breath as living men did. His eyes saw the world as living men did. He felt pain, as living men did as well. But.... for what? Was this really? Living? Was he alive? Or had his body simply failed to stop? For yes, life flowed through his veins, but for what purpose? Surely... surely his comrades that had accompanied him into battle were dead. The soldier... the scoundrel... To think that they would have survived the blast was unrealistically hopeful. The Acolyte's eye closed in a different kind of pain. What was left for him then?

Scorched limbs attempted to move. To find purchase on the nearby terrain. But they were weak. Very weak. His injuries were hardly minor. He could see now, that burns covered almost his entire body. What armor he had worn into battle had been burnt away, leaving the scorched flesh beneath exposed. Shrapnel had ripped out muscle and skin, leaving gleaming white bone visible in some places. He could not see his face, but he imagined it had suffered similarly. He briefly considered that perhaps the fire had seared his bleeding injuries shut, as they had formed.

The cleansing flame. It burns away the impure.

A few days ago, the Acolyte might have smiled at this macabre silver lining, but now found his lips unmoving from a grim, hard, line. Smiling seemed beyond him now, as it dawned on him just how alone he felt. A single phrase helped him to focus his mind. A single phrase lifted from some ancient Imperium primer he had perused in his old quarters aboard his Inquistor's ship.

"The only true fear is dying without your duty done."

Was his duty done? Truly? Had he finished all he had set out to do? The Acolyte thought on this long and hard, as he willed his agonized limbs to move. Inch by inch, they crawled along the ground, pulling him slowly, ever so slowly, free of the wreckage. Progress was agonizingly slow, but it gave him time to think. Time enough, that by the time he reached the top, he had reached a conclusion.

No. The Acolyte had not done all he had set out to do. He had not yet done all that he could to serve the Imperium. Indeed, not only had he not yet finished his task, he realized, he had barely begun. This journey. This deadly journey, with so many near misses, so many losses, and so many harrowing experiences, had served only to set the stage for the real good he might do. When he had first set out on this mission, he had been naive. Inexperienced. Weak. Powerless. Through these trials he had gained power. Gained influence. Gained allies. Gained resources. Was it only now? Now at the very moment where he could begin his own battle against the darkness that his battle was to end? His battle. Not the battles of another.

The Acolyte stumbled as he removed himself from the depression, and leaned against a broken pillar, breath coming in short, whispy gasps, burnt lungs screaming for air after such a meager feat. His single good eye took in his surroundings. The cathedral was a ruin. Nothing was left of the second floor, save for some fragments of masonry, that had once been the outer wall. It was marked by battle. There was nobody here. No doubt, after knowledge of the abomination that had been summoned here spread to those who were worthy, and requiring of such knowledge it had been quickly quarantined. Perhaps it would even be razed, burnt and cleansed. That would be proper, and he knew that it was the same order he would have given, were he in a position to do so. The Acolyte was alone. A name came to his mind, as he rested, his strength expended by the climb.

Cole.

That was his name. No. No wait. That wasn't right. The Acolyte's eye fell back to the pit out of which he had climbed. But he hadn't. He hadn't climbed from the pit. His physical shell had, yes, but a piece of him was still down there, and not merely the pieces that had been blown off from his body by the grenades. The piece that had died, and left behind the feeling of emptiness in his soul. Cole was still in there. No.... that wasn't right either. Cole had never been in there. Cole had died in the blast. The Acolyte that had awoken was not Cole. He had Cole's face (scarred as it was), and he had Cole's memories, his experiences, and perhaps even Cole's mannerisms. But these did not make up who Cole was. Cole had comrades. Cole had been whole. Cole had aspirations and dreams. Dreams tempered by the Emperor's cause, of course! But dreams nonetheless. Aspirations nonetheless.

The Acolyte had only duty. He was a tool. A weapon. A sword to ward away the Emperor's foes. A shield to guard its people. Personal goals and aspirations had been purged from him by the fire.

Speaking of swords....

Cole had wielded one. Forged in his own blood, and baptized in an Ork's throat, as any good blade should have. It was linked to him, and by extension, the Acolyte. He extended a hand. Cole had etched a rune into the blade. Marked it with his psychic signature. It had been his blade. The Acolyte called to the signature. Called the blade to him. He closed his eye to focus. A ripple passed through the Warp, and the ground beneath the Acolyte's bare feet grew cold, a chill wave clawing out from him and covering the ground in a frost, as the veil between the material world and that beyond, destabilized by the battle that had happened here, trembled. Then the Acolyte felt the hilt of the sword in his hand, and he looked down upon it.

Its blade, previously a gleaming silver, was cracked, and stained black with the blood of the devil it had pierced. The Acolyte remembered that well. Cole had run the blade straight through the beast's heart, marring the shining steel irreparably. Sparks sizzled on the hilt, as the machine spirits that powered the psychic matrix inlaid in the weapon whimpered in agony. The tip had been broken off, and it was streaked with soot and dents. The Acolyte looked at the sword for a time, and then into the pit one last time. His final farewell to Cole. Taking his former self's blade in hand, he then turned and began to walk away.

He would use Cole's resources. Use the influence Cole had worked so hard to gather, to pursue Cole's ideals. To destroy the darkness wherever it touched. To drive away the shadows that despoiled the noble Imperium of Man. To do his duty. And....

A final image came to his mind. It was the woman again. Long blonde tresses cascading down. Fair skin like porcelain, wearing a dress of shimmering blue silks. A look of mixed irritation and disappointment in her eyes. A promise had been made. A promise that would be kept.

The Acolyte focused on this image for a time, as he lifted his head. He would recover. Perhaps not fully. The burns were so viciously severe, that he doubted even his connection to the Warp, and the unnatural powers he drew from it would be able to completely heal him from this battle. There would be scars. There may be lingering damage, that would plague him the rest of his life. But he would recover. His strength would return. And he would set about a crusade against the darkness with unyielding tenacity and will. He would put heresy to the torch and heretics to the sword. He would not permit Xenos or the dredging scum that festered in the deepest depths of the Imperium to fluorish. He would destroy the enemies of the Imperium. Whether the Inquisition would take note of the Acolyte or not, he would serve his purpose. He was a weapon.

This purpose could not fill the void in his soul. It would not bring Cole back. Cole was dead. But the Acolyte lived. And he had inherited Cole's will. He did not smile as he limped from Cole's tomb, but his spirits were briefly buoyed. He could not dally here. He had to recover as soon as possible. Find some decent clothes. Make sure his power base was intact. Find a new name. A steel filled the Acolyte's eyes, and an ice covered his heart, growing harder with each clumsy step he took.

There was work to be done.

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So let me start by saying I am not familiar with WH40K or Dark Heresy. I only know Dark Heresy is WH40K because I googled it. As a result all of the plot and setting references were utterly lost on me. As such I am going to be focusing exclusively on prose, which means I am going to nit pick like none as ever picked a nit before.

As a whole your prose is great. I was especially impressed with the way you linger on descriptions for they exact right amount of time. With passages containing a lot of description, like this one, there is always a danger that you'll spend too much time on something, leaving the reader saying "Alright I get, can we please move one now?" I, however, never thought that at any point while reading this which is pretty impressive given how much description there actually was.


That being said I did notice two very minor of a problem with sentence structure that oddly enough stem from two of your greatest strengths.

First of all you seem to have an over reliance on repetition, particularly repetition of short simple sentence structures. For example

"A dark skinned scoundrel, a cocky grin on his face, and a pair of pistols in his hands. A hulking greenskinned beast. A raven haired woman, rifle roaring, a blazing fireball at her back. An old man, screaming in agony, his features twisting and warping. A huge, armour clad figure collapsing in an occult circle, his life torn away by the abomination that formed before him. Next a woman, youthful with flowing golden hair, a sharp gaze piercing through him. There was something he'd done. A promise he'd made."


You reuse the same sentence structure over and over again in this paragraph making most sentences start with "A" and then describing a person before starting up another sentence. Repetitions of sentence structure like this is actually good as it reinforces that all these different things are part of the same group or category but you use it so often through out your writing and use it for so long that it starts to feel like you are just listing stuff off past a certain point and my eyes start to glaze over. Here is another example

"It was a feeling. Not one that the dreaming man could quite grasp though. It was more than simply hope, it was more than obedience. It was faith. It was loyalty.

It was duty."

Similar situation only now you are starting sentences with "It was" instead of "A". And on its own, this paragraph is actually a great piece of writing but after going through the preceding paragraphs, many of which employ a similar form of repetition, I was simply tired of it.

The second minor structural problem stems from your use of short sentences. This use occasionally makes your writing seem disjointed and redundant. For example

"His thoughts were laboured and slow. Confused. Then the pain struck. An agonizing pain that burned across every nerve in his body."

Personally I prefer

His thoughts were laboured and slow, mired in confusion. Then the pain struck, burning across every nerve in his body.

By combining the last two sentences I was able to use the same description but only needed to reference the pain once, helping it flow better. And by combining the second two I was able to create a more nuanced picture for the reader. The thing about descriptors is you can only do so much with them when you keep them separated. You are limiting yourself to the basic definition of the descriptor. If you use them in tandem, however, new impressions begin to emerge. By combining the first two sentences and including the word mire I create a relationship between the words, laboured, slow, and confusion. The confusion is the cause of the former two. It is something that he is struggling with and that struggle is what makes things slow and laboured. This may not have been the specific description you were going for but as an example I think it illustrates how letting descriptors play off one another allows finer nuances to shine through and helps you create a more realized picture.

Too be sure there is a place for short and sweet descriptions. They are a powerful tool and you definitely know how to use them but, much like the above mentioned repetitious sentence structure, you tend to use them a little too often.

If I may get even more pretentious, sentence structure, whether it is short or long, repetitious or varied, is a collection of tools and it is important to know when to use which tool. In my experience, both repetition and shorter sentences are best in short intense burst. Keep them around long enough to communicate your idea but then swap them out before things start to feel too much like you are just listing stuff.

As I alluded to earlier I actually think these two faults stem from your strength with these two particular tools. You really are quite good with them and when you used right they really elevate the writing as a whole.

[Prince Zahn]

Hey guys, cool thread! I'm also writing a story as of late in my free time, I thought I'd put up the first chapter to get some feedback if anybody wants to read it and tell me what they think.
It's called "Her Tears For Argent": Google Docs link

Bump. I seem to have been overlooked. I would really like to get some feedback, know where I could improve, or just know if it's boring. It's Victorian fantasy, arguably with touches of steampunk.

[Xanyo]

Bump. I seem to have been overlooked. I would really like to get some feedback, know where I could improve, or just know if it's boring. It's Victorian fantasy, arguably with touches of steampunk.

Interestingly enough, I have a bit I'm working on in a steampunk setting. Same as before though, I've got no plot. Or, for that matter, more than a couple pages. Least I've managed to moderately introduce the general setting, I think.


I like how you've put clues and such so that the reader infers what she looks like, as in first person you can't see yourself too well. Of course, it'll be better once more has happened.

[Prince Zahn]

Interestingly enough, I have a bit I'm working on in a steampunk setting. Same as before though, I've got no plot. Or, for that matter, more than a couple pages. Least I've managed to moderately introduce the general setting, I think.

I wish I could help you brainstorm . It's not a guarantee that I'd have what to contribute, but even if I would, your link won't open. You need to give permission to [view/comment/edit].

I like how you've put clues and such so that the reader infers what she looks like, as in first person you can't see yourself too well. Of course, it'll be better once more has happened.

Thanks! People who learned it in lit class might groan but I think that within Alice hides a little inspiration from the short story "Very Old Man With Enormous Wings" , where the introspection comes from the things that conspire around the "angel", as it were. And that frankly we can only picture what he looks like too.

Now that you mention it, I wish I was consistent with that throughout the other chapters in the works ^^; i want to fix it so it will in the future.

[Prince Zahn]

Interestingly enough, I have a bit I'm working on in a steampunk setting. Same as before though, I've got no plot. Or, for that matter, more than a couple pages. Least I've managed to moderately introduce the general setting, I think.

Well, I would say that what you do have feels rather colorful.

Have you given any thought to why this island is so important? or why there really aren't any people on the island (/anymore)?
is there something wrong with the island? what secrets or dangers lie hidden there?
perhaps, if you are stuck, it would be easier for you to start at a different point. alternatively, you might begin here, but proceed by telling of the journey and challenges that led up to reaching the island, because the best stories are those where everything goes wrong until it finally goes right.

[Xanyo]

The reason why there's nobody on the island is simple - in this setting, there is approximately two miles of thick fog everywhere. That's not an island, it's a mountain. And it's not part of any range, likely an island mountain that wasn't all that hospitable, just a barren rock. Most people live on mountain ranges, and not everyone has an airship capable of traveling far enough out of their way to explore.

[Prince Zahn]

The reason why there's nobody on the island is simple - in this setting, there is approximately two miles of thick fog everywhere. That's not an island, it's a mountain. And it's not part of any range, likely an island mountain that wasn't all that hospitable, just a barren rock. Most people live on mountain ranges, and not everyone has an airship capable of traveling far enough out of their way to explore.

well then, you will have to find a reason why this barren mountain is so important, or why it becomes so important, and build off of that.

do your sky sailors build on this land? do they try to unearth it's secrets? do they find something incredible on it? (or, alternatively, something that was best left alone?) those are just sample prompts for overarching plots - "they find the island in the clouds, and upon it they build the foundation of their _____" or "They find the island that appears to be a barren rock on the surface, however..." "The heroes discover _____ on a mysterious, barren island above the clouds, which inevitably causes much conflict among the crew/ with others who discover their secrets/ want it / want to destroy it."

[Bartmanhomer]

I made a Yu-Gi-Oh Fan Fiction story called Yu-Gi-Oh Inferno. forum.duelingnetwork.com/index.php?/topic/188985-yu-gi-oh-inferno

[Flying Turtle]

Bump. I seem to have been overlooked. I would really like to get some feedback, know where I could improve, or just know if it's boring. It's Victorian fantasy, arguably with touches of steampunk.

Whoops, sorry about that.

Starting off with the mechanical stuff, your formatting seems to change halfway through the chapter. Starting with page four you stop indenting your paragraphs. If this was meant to communicate something I didn't pick up on it. I am also not entirely sure what the purpose of the octothorpes is. You seem to use them for scene transitions but for my taste they are a little intrusive for that. You could just as easily get by with a text break.

Early on you also have a bit of difficulty with your narration tense. A few times the narrations slips into present only to slide back into past a moment later. For example:

Dr Albury has genuinely caught my interest with that remark, was he really suggesting that I was going to have a friend? He has never even let me play outside of his surgery... (Emphasis mine)

and

My arm was pounding as I ran to my little bed. Though, frankly, I don’t know how I’ll get any sleep tonight. (Emphasis mine)


Both of these sentences are in present tense but because your story is framed as a past tense narration by Alice they should be in past tense like the rest of her narration. Fortunately, this problem only crops up a few times and disappears later on in the chapter so it should be easy to fix.

Now as for the story itself, so far it certainly gives off a sort of tragic, possibly horrific, vibe. Personally I have been conditioned by art and history to associate industrial revolution England with human tragedy, especially when paired with a plotline containing questionable scientific research, and you do a great job leaning on that. Everythign about your setting consistently reinforces this sensation of exploitation and human squalor. The draft in Alice's bedroom, the use of physical punishment in a game of Simon Says, the recollection of cold nights on the London streets. There always seems to be at least one lingering reminder that this is not a good situation, even if Alice doesn't realize it, which makes her naive narration all the more heartbreaking.

Unfortunately of your description are odd, in such a way that they took me out of the story. For example:

The stranger’s hand was as cold as the last shard of winter remaining in March.

So, how cold was it? March is not a month known for winter. In fact, as you your self point out, it is the end of winter. I read this and suddenly I'm trying to determine how cold March is too me. There isn't a quick answer to this question so at best your readers gloss over it with out extracting much meaning and at worst you send their minds on a tangent away from your story.

Another example is:

...he gave me a guilty smirk in return.

What's a guilty smirk? A smirk is a cocky or at the very least confident expression, while guilt is an admission of fault, of some sort of failing. These two words seem at odds.

One last example

My nightgown was drenched from the puddles, burdening on my feet.

How is it "burdening on" her feet? Burden, at least to my mind, is a word denoting a sense of weight pressing down. But a nightgown doesn't really press down on the feet. It may brush them, it may even get caught in the but it doesn't really pull or press down on them. Once again the descriptors you use just don't seem to match up in a clear way

Descriptions should stand out, they should be novel so they leave an impact on the reader, but when they aren't clear that novelty suddenly becomes a distraction from the rest of the scene.

The occasionally odd description aside you are very prudent about what you deem worthy of description and it really lets you have your cake and eat it too in terms of pacing and description. Pacing and heavy description are often at odds with one another as the latter tends to significantly slow the former. However, despite the detail heavy and wordy voice of your narration, the scene kept moving a nice clip. And after rereading a couple of sections I figured out why. You have a knack for ignoring the right things. All through out the walk with the stranger you describe the weather, the moon, and the night as a whole, but not until they get to the bridge do you actually bother to describe London itself. This was great, because I don't need to know about buildings or the street or what have you. Descriptions of those may set the scene but they don't build atmosphere. But you know what did build atmosphere (pun unintended) , all those bits about the rain and fog. You do the same thing with your description of Alice's room, focusing almost exclusively on the draft and not wasting any time on furniture or other pointless details and as a result scenes pass by at just the right speed.

[Bartmanhomer]

I'm also writing a Dungeons and Dragons Fan-Fiction story. It's still in the planning stages.

[Prince Zahn]

Whoops, sorry about that.

Starting off with the mechanical stuff, your formatting seems to change halfway through the chapter. Starting with page four you stop indenting your paragraphs. If this was meant to communicate something I didn't pick up on it. I am also not entirely sure what the purpose of the octothorpes is. You seem to use them for scene transitions but for my taste they are a little intrusive for that. You could just as easily get by with a text break.

Early on you also have a bit of difficulty with your narration tense. A few times the narrations slips into present only to slide back into past a moment later. For example:

Dr Albury has genuinely caught my interest with that remark, was he really suggesting that I was going to have a friend? He has never even let me play outside of his surgery... (Emphasis mine)

and

My arm was pounding as I ran to my little bed. Though, frankly, I don’t know how I’ll get any sleep tonight. (Emphasis mine)


Both of these sentences are in present tense but because your story is framed as a past tense narration by Alice they should be in past tense like the rest of her narration. Fortunately, this problem only crops up a few times and disappears later on in the chapter so it should be easy to fix.

Now as for the story itself, so far it certainly gives off a sort of tragic, possibly horrific, vibe. Personally I have been conditioned by art and history to associate industrial revolution England with human tragedy, especially when paired with a plotline containing questionable scientific research, and you do a great job leaning on that. Everythign about your setting consistently reinforces this sensation of exploitation and human squalor. The draft in Alice's bedroom, the use of physical punishment in a game of Simon Says, the recollection of cold nights on the London streets. There always seems to be at least one lingering reminder that this is not a good situation, even if Alice doesn't realize it, which makes her naive narration all the more heartbreaking.

Unfortunately of your description are odd, in such a way that they took me out of the story. For example:

The stranger’s hand was as cold as the last shard of winter remaining in March.

So, how cold was it? March is not a month known for winter. In fact, as you your self point out, it is the end of winter. I read this and suddenly I'm trying to determine how cold March is too me. There isn't a quick answer to this question so at best your readers gloss over it with out extracting much meaning and at worst you send their minds on a tangent away from your story.

Another example is:

...he gave me a guilty smirk in return.

What's a guilty smirk? A smirk is a cocky or at the very least confident expression, while guilt is an admission of fault, of some sort of failing. These two words seem at odds.

One last example

My nightgown was drenched from the puddles, burdening on my feet.

How is it "burdening on" her feet? Burden, at least to my mind, is a word denoting a sense of weight pressing down. But a nightgown doesn't really press down on the feet. It may brush them, it may even get caught in the but it doesn't really pull or press down on them. Once again the descriptors you use just don't seem to match up in a clear way

Descriptions should stand out, they should be novel so they leave an impact on the reader, but when they aren't clear that novelty suddenly becomes a distraction from the rest of the scene.

The occasionally odd description aside you are very prudent about what you deem worthy of description and it really lets you have your cake and eat it too in terms of pacing and description. Pacing and heavy description are often at odds with one another as the latter tends to significantly slow the former. However, despite the detail heavy and wordy voice of your narration, the scene kept moving a nice clip. And after rereading a couple of sections I figured out why. You have a knack for ignoring the right things. All through out the walk with the stranger you describe the weather, the moon, and the night as a whole, but not until they get to the bridge do you actually bother to describe London itself. This was great, because I don't need to know about buildings or the street or what have you. Descriptions of those may set the scene but they don't build atmosphere. But you know what did build atmosphere (pun unintended) , all those bits about the rain and fog. You do the same thing with your description of Alice's room, focusing almost exclusively on the draft and not wasting any time on furniture or other pointless details and as a result scenes pass by at just the right speed.

Oh my goodness, that is a lot of feedback to go by! Thank you so much!
I will be certain to address the faults, you can be certain of that, but more importantly I'm so glad to see my work appreciated and honestly reviewed. thank you for your feedback, I'll look into how I can improve it!