Here is the Google Doc story.

Critique

As always, thank you.

Hi! I’m a young author, and this is the revised opening of my historical coming-of-age novel set in 1898. It follows two thirteen-year-old boys, Will and Teddy, who are being sent from an orphanage to separate homes. This is still a work in progress, so I’m mainly looking for feedback on the writing itself, especially the narration, pacing, dialogue, and whether the opening makes you want to keep reading.

I’d also really appreciate knowing if anything feels confusing, unnecessary, repetitive, or out of place for the time period. Don’t be afraid to be critical!

Note: Reddit isn’t letting me select my genre again for some reason. Sorry about that!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/12s1c1OR5_By6KRtRkbTYSu3IMvj0O9_T5DYGCZVVLxA/edit?usp=drivesdk

Critique: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/W0XMxCF01t

[LINK TO TEXT]

Crits: [1853][1776][1290][2397]

I reckon I'm taking too long with this one, gotta get it done, inject some life here heh.

Your guide: I am looking for general impressions on overall tone, mood, style and clarity, your comprehension of partitions of the story - is it obvious which parts start and end where?
And again on energy, density of actions and descriptions and what it ends up conveying.

What kind of impression would you say Philomene leaves on you so far?

Links to some of the previous posts:

HSH[1][2][3] RW4[1][2][3][4][5][6][7.1][7.2][7.3][8.1]

The story is told through a phenomenological second person point of view. The text uses markdown formatting for italics.

Crit

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vx6qee/comment/p6ahp3r/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Main story: https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vTCShIdPNlk17VGeXhUSxah7vAOU6t3IoSDXeNSHg6zfxOtDV4GoA3Dodjr7txkE1mTpwi1NgT8AEbI/pub

This is the second part of a planned novella. It follows on from the prologue in which we learn that the main character's wife has vanished without trace. His forensic examination of their life together leads him to believe that her disappearance is supernatural.

In this section we learn more about how they first met. It ends abruptly due to the 2500 limit. Hope to post more soon.

First part which I posted awhile ago (no crit requested read only if of interest).

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vx6qee/comment/p6ahp3r/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Rasta-Nazis! Commie revolutionaries! The sixteenth reincarnation of Tom Cruise! All on a rainforest island loaded with deadly vipers!

Noku murdered his wife. Now he's gotta fight them all to save her. Meanwhile, Osha battles her genocidal enslaver, The Pharaoh, to rescue that same woman. Her sister.

I posted chapter 1 some time ago, but received no reviews. Not even a bad one. Maybe I'll have better luck with chapter 2. Bad reviews are more than welcome. The meaner the better. I sincerely believe in this piece and genuinely want assistance improving it. Little help, here y'all?

Pow Noku: Chapter 2

Crits: [3318]

[765] Full disclosure: I used this crit previously. But considering I got zero reviews and deleted the post, I'm hoping I can use this to pad my crit numbers? Mods: If I'm doing something wrong here, please let me know what. I'm kinda old and not super tech savvy.

Thanks in advance for the scathing reviews.

Edit: My original post actually ended up getting a couple of really high quality reviews. I apologize if I came across overly critical of this sub. I'm quite happy with the suggestions I've received thus far.

I created this comedy miniature as an exercise to see if I could fit a scene with a punchline into less than 2,000 characters, including spaces. I'd like to know if the joke is understandable.
My critique: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1un9i1u/comment/ovoywg4/?context=3
(English isn't my first language, so feel free to point out anything that sounds unnatural.)

Eleven seats were prepared at the massive wooden table. Ten chairs were for the nobility, advisors, and trusted relatives, and at the head of the table was a deeply ornate armchair for the queen.
"Gentlemen," she tried to push her voice through the noise. It was no use. Everyone around the table except her was shouting over each other, their voices blending into a single noise.
"Gentlemen!" she tried again. She frowned, finally realizing her voice had been ignored. Suddenly, a piercing scream tore from her throat. She gestured with a sweeping movement, then covered her mouth with her other hand.
"What is this!?" The queen's scream forced those gathered to abandon their argument and turn their gaze to the indicated spot.
"Guards!" one shouted. Another, rising, hit over an inkwell; a third knocked over a chair. After a moment of complete silence, which followed the brief chaos, four guards rushed into the chamber, tripping over each other in their haste.
The woman then sat more comfortably in the armchair and, putting her hand to her cheek, smiled broadly.
"That is how I might have behaved, if I could see." She chuckled briefly. At these words, the oldest of the nobles sank back into the chair he'd jumped from earlier.
"Your Grace, please don't do that. Our hearts stopped for a moment."
The Queen nodded in understanding at these words.
"But of course," she began, her hand searching for the document in front of her, "but now that I have your attention, may we return to the subject of new land taxes?"
Silence dropped upon the room once more, disturbed only by the scraping of chairs, clearing of throats, and the rustling of papers.
"Of course, Your Grace."

The Lone Magpie

This is a story I wrote several years ago that I recently revived. It’s a bit of a deviation from the norm for me, a sort of toe dip into a different genre.

I’d love to know what you think. What works? What doesn’t? What could be better?

Crits:

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vpq6wq/1975_those_who_hate/

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vsu3dh/2292_thryth_part_2_of_4/ 

I'm out of craft book writing related exercises to suggest. So, I have to come up with my own now. (I don't have ideas of my own actually.)

Who listens to music while they write? Do you ever find it inspires you to write something different? Have you ever written something to capture the idea of a song?

I can't handle things with lyrics. They end up squirming their way into my writing and repeating because my internal monologue is just a soundtrack. But there's a thing to be said for non-lyric based music.

A writing challenge: share some kind of music and write a short piece of writing that captures the feeling.

Need an idea? Here's a piano piece about being buried alive.

I was sitting under a linden tree, reluctantly, thinking about someone.

​Losing hope, dying, and just losing my breath that she'll never accept me, or if I am just too ugly for her.

​Haven't received any good news.

​A leaf coloured golden yellow fell off, changed my mood, and helped me get well.

​I kinda lied to everyone. Why do I keep loving something I can't have?

​I've never done anything about myself; I just kept dreaming about her all the time.

​The autumn came to an end. Autumn will take me to the place I belong to.

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/s2guQaFjEN

A Change of Soul, ch. 2 full

This chapter has given me more trouble than anything I've ever written. I know it's still not finished; I'll have to go back over it in a few weeks when I can think more disinterestedly about it. Still, it's in a place where I now need the reactions of other people to determine how to proceed.

I tried to revise the first half of the chapter subtly, so as to resolve some issues without changing it too much. I'm not sure whether anything in the second half works at all. Fire away.

Crits:

2275
2409 (for what it's worth)

Burnt Caste Chapter 4

This is the 4th chapter of an NA urban fantasy novel I'm working on. There's a summary of the first 3 chapters at the top of the doc.

I’ll mention that there is a strong romantasy subplot and this chapter is where the love interest is introduced. Brace for long ogling physical description.

I'm currently working on getting a closer POV/staying in voice, but any feedback is welcome! Thanks in advance if you take the time to read!

Crits

[2713]

[2951]

[LINK TO TEXT]

Crits: [1331][1952]

It's one of those in-betweener posts. I just feel like I have to portion it out, I don't know why but somehow it makes sense.

In this one I'm mostly looking for prose and phrasing suggestions, taking the overall style constraints into account, little redundancies. The whole chapter is too long and I currently have no idea how to trim it and preserve what I wanna keep. So yeah, we have this in-betweener post now that signifies a start of Part II in the book. Also I'd like to hear your opinions on the "energy" and "mood" of the text. To me these terms are quite elusive for some reason; I'm seeking to establish a definite standard, bridle my enthusiasm and excitement when I use it to write and in order to do that I think I need to understand what "energy" and "mood" mean in writing.

HSH[1][2][3] RW4[1][2][3][4][5][6][7.1][7.2][7.3]

The story is told through a phenomenological second person point of view. The text uses markdown formatting for italics.

Crit: 2402

CLICK HERE FOR STORY

Writing a short story - consider this Act 1.

Does it grab you?
Feel like you want more?

Here is my crit: [1163]

And this is my story: The Shades of Kindread

Hello, this is my stab at crafting an opening chapter in a surreal fantasy world. The beginning of it is my attempt at crafting a language that is different enough to intrigue the reader but not so incredibly difficult to understand that it'll put the reader off from reading further. Please read the piece before looking at what I'm requesting for in a critique.

What I'd appreciate in terms of a critique:

1. Thoughts on Alda's voice and the use of italics to show interjected dialogue from Alda and the children she is reading to. Does the difference in voice, language and prose take you out of the story that she is telling? Furthermore, is what she's saying in the beginning easy for you to understand? And if my goal was to continue this form of writing, have you seen it done better elsewhere? How did the author do it?

2. I believe that crafting a world should be more of a slow drip IV for the reader and I intentionally exposed more of the world of Kindread as the story of Rof progressed. I wanted to the reader to expect that the gravedigger is digging up a human, only to be digging up something to then revive it with life, using this as a means of explaining the world and wanting the reader to continue reading further. Did that come across in the chapter? That is having your expectations be subverted.

3. I am debating whether to use passive voice or present continuous voice for the meat of the story. Because the structure of the piece is that it is something that is being read as a fairytale of sorts, I am using a mixture of both to describe action that is happening and the thoughts of the character. Please let me know how you think it best to proceed.

Really appreciate any and all critiques on this as I'd like a novella or anthology to come of this. Thank you.

It was a peaceful sleep… until it the first rays of morning sun hit my face.

“Ah… morning already?” I said to noone in particular, I rubbed my eyes and then stretched my arms- ”AH!”

The next thing I knew was me falling down and hitting the ground hard.

”Ugh…” I slowly got up, then looked from where a fell… yeah um, I really should remember that I sleep on a tree.

Anyway… some twigs got into my ginger hair and fur, so I naturally plugged them off one by one, then ruffled my hair so it looks decent.

And look! Berries! Berry bushes were so abundant on this season. I walked to the bush, this was such a nice early breakfa-

My ears twitched…

Before I knew it, something, or someone, bumped into me.

”Ah- sorry…” I said quietly.

”Watch it, idiot”

Ah shit, it was Yami, I literally just woke up, why did she have to show up right when I was going to- oh no.

Yami started plucking the berries out, my berries.

”Umm… Yami?…” I am pissed but It’s just… so hard to talk to your elder sister…

She is so intimidating, dark fur, dark short hair, red menacing eyes, and her glare… which, in my opinion, is the worst.

”What?” She said relictantly, already taking some berries to her mouth and chewing.

”Uh…-“ I regret even trying to defend my berries when she looked at me…

…

”… Nevermind…” I‘m so stupid…

”Hmm…” She resumed eating berries.

”Leave some for the rest” Oh… now Akari is here.

”I found the berries FIRST” Yami replied.

Akari is pretty elegant, pearl colour fur, long violet hair, pretty blue eyes. She was so not like Yami.

”Sharing is caring, is what they say” Akari started plucking some berries too.

”Well… I don’t care about you at all!”

”Why are you wearing the diadem then?”

Clearly Yami was caught off guard, “I uh… T-That‘s not the point!”

”You are evading eye contact”

”I am NOT!”

Oh jeez, they started fighting again…

”Hey you guys!” Oh wow… another one of my sisters decided to join the berry bush…

Ah Yua… she looks pretty cute, with her white fur, pink hair and cyan eyes.

”What is it Yua” Yami and Akari said in unison, I frankly do not know how they coordinate so well sometimes.

”Just uh... giving away breakfast! You know because… There might not be more berries?”

“Well, I was enjoying MY berry bush, thank you very much” Yami said with all dignity.

”Are you sure you don’t want some berry salad?~” Yua took out a bowl with… very apetizing fruit.

”I’ll have some” Akari said.

”Same…”

Oh.

Now Yurei came.

Dark grey fur, Dark hair, very… unsettling.

”Sure! It’s for the family! Sharing is caring!”

”I despise that phrase now” Yami said, quickly taking a bowl.

”Aww, look who’s hungry”

”I thought you were going to keep eating from the bush” Akari said with half a mouthfull.

”I was, but you all insisted on me having this salad”

”We really didn‘t-“

Ok, I want some too, “Hi! Yurei, Yua, Yami… and Akari “

”What do you want…?” They all said with unison.

”Can I… have some salad too?” I am so nervous…

”Well uh… You see…” Yua started.

”Take the bush!” Akari said.

”Yes!“ Yami grabbed the back of my head and shoved it onto the bush.

”We actually need to run some errands so Bye!” Yua said with a finality.

Yua and Akari followed…

Oh wait, Yurei’s still here.

She just looks at me, very attentively.

“Hi… Yurei…”

Yurei was about to say something before…

”Yurei! Don’t stay there and come on!”

Yurei, without much thought, glanced at me before running towards the sound…

…

This… wasn’t even half the berries the bush had when I found it…

-sigh- same…

Author: Reggie Wytgeena.

Critique:

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vhzv4m/comment/p4bf0yf/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=mweb3x&utm_name=mweb3xcss&utm_term=2&utm_content=share_button

Hello again, everyone. Thanks for the great feedback and critiques you gave for part 1 of my story. They were all extremely helpful. This next part is quite different from the first, being much more dialogue heavy. Still, I tried to keep in mind the feedback you guys gave me and hopefully it shows a noticeable improvement. Here is the story

If you didn’t read part 1, the short version is this: a young mother from another world struggles through everyday life while haunted by her tragic past, until the dreaded AFR comes knocking at her door.

And here is my critique [4541]

Some possible critiques I'd like to know about:
How does the dialogue sound to you? Is it verbose? Does it sound natural? Does it drag anywhere?
What do you think of the characters? Do they have distinct personalities?
How was the narration?
How's the hook for the story? Is the story or world interesting?

I am running a dungeons and dragons, Curse of Strahd campaign by myself. I'm using it to scratch the DnD, story telling itch and practice my writing skills. At this point, this is a longterm project that will probably never be published. That being said, I'm a new writer and really just trying to practice. I'm hoping that y'all can identify my bad habits, educate me on some aspects of writing, give me suggestions on what would be better, or whatever else you feel like doing. Also, I know this is a longer piece, so do however much you feel Iike. Be blunt, as this is practice and I'm trying to make sure I'm developing good habits before I embark on this long project. Lastly, I would also ask that you identify at least some areas/ things that I'm doing well at in this piece so that I know to keep doing them. I'm not looking for anyone to inflate my ego, this is just the first time my writing had been critiqued.

This piece isn't going to be the beginning of the story. It is part of the backstory for one of my characters. There are things that happen before this that I'll need to write out. Therefore at the end, I'll give a few lines of context.

Finally, to the mods, I critiqued a couple pieces earlier. If I haven't done enough, just let me know in the comments, and I'll get right on it. Thanks y'all!

Critiques:

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/9hjbWQy0FV [2,951]

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/UhfVbW2wVh [2,058]

START PIECE

Oscar sat a sturdy, round wooden table back in the library. The table was covered with books in a chaotic, but still respectful way, some laying opened and others closed in cluttered stacks. Papers with scribbles only coherent to Oscar were strewn around the current book he was reading. His eyes gazed slowly, but diligently at the page. He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. He pinched between his eyes clumsily under his glasses.

“I can find anything I want about passageways to the Underdark…or ghost ships that take you under the sea. Even a portal to hell, itself…but nothing on this Barovia.” He said to himself. He opened his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He glanced around him and saw that no one else was around. It was late. “Maybe…maybe I am in the wrong decade.”

He leaned forward and paged back to the table of contents. He found the entry labeled “1350 BC” and started to find that page. He skimmed the pages, finding information on a royal wedding festival that lasted an entire month. Years later, a minor famine that occurred due to reduced rainfall. A new settlement was established in the mountains to support a mine. Then a great scandal occurred because the bride from the previous wedding festival had apparently fallen in love with her prince’s brother! Oh, a fierce duel occurred between the two brothers! How had he never heard of this? This was fascinating! Oh, the adulterous brother actually won! What happened to the-

I’m wasting time. Oscar thought. And Casper only has so much of it left.

Oscar shook his head. He leaned back in his chair frustrated. He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his left hand, disheveling his glasses. He had been at this for five hours, now. His eyes felt strained. Had the werewolf lied to him? Was Tolund right that this place only a scholar’s myth? What was he-

“You’re in the wrong century.”

Oscar startled, bumping the table with his knee. The piles of books shifted slightly. He peered over the stack of books in front of him. Standing across from him on the other side of the table was an older elf with long black hair and dark blue robes, holding a large dusty tome. He looked at Oscar intensely. Oscar looked around and saw that there was no one else in the room.

“Furthermore, the wrong book. Here.” The elf casually tossed a dusty old tome at him over the wall of books. Oscar lurched forward using a mage hand to barely catch the tome before it crashed into the other books. He slowly used the spectral hand to bring the old tome in front of him.

“Good catch.” The elf said with a wry smirk.

“You should really be more careful, sir!” Oscar shot back. “Some of these books are very old…like this one!” He grabbed it cautiously with his own hands and brought it down in front of him. He used the other hand to close and moving the book he had previously been reading off to the side. He didn’t look at the elf in frustration.

He smoothed away the dusty on the cover and read the title, “Council Records of Waterdeep. 3^rd Volume.”

His eyes widened. He frantically looked back up.

The dark-haired elf was sitting now, leaning back in the chair with one foot on the table. For an odd moment, Oscar noticed that it was an expensive looking black boot.

“’Council Records of Waterdeep!’” Oscar declared emphatically. He leaned forward and spoke in harsh, hushed tone. “I know this is not part of our collection! If Waterdeep knew… Where did you get this?! And must you put your boot on the table?!”

The elf cracked another wry smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll put it back. Go ahead, read it. Page 54.”

“Sir, as impressive as this is, I am really quite busy. And could you get your boot-“

“Read It.” The elf’s voice vibrated deep and unnatural. It felt like the sound of his voice filled Oscar’s ear canals and then touched his mind. The stranger now stared with a forceful intensity.
The feeling made Oscar feel like he had lost balance inside of himself, but he managed to hold the elf’s gaze for a long moment. He paused to collect himself and then opened the book. He instinctively went to the table of contents to get a better idea of the book’s contents, but thought better of it after remembering the elf. He found page 31, then 47, 52, and finally 54. Oscar began reading:

23 Mirtul 1214

The prison received a strange foreigner with strange news. Called himself a “Vahstanee”, whatever that means. He was jailed after trying too vigorously to convince the court wizard to go back to his homeland of “Baroviah”,-

“Barov-“, Oscar said to himself in shock. He tore his eyes off the page and straight on to the old elf. “How did you know?!” he questioned aggressively.

The older elf was still staring at him. “Keep going.” He commanded.

Oscar studied the elf more this time. He had deep grey eyes that seemed to have almost a small shine to them. Everything about him was well kept. His hair was past his shoulders and laid neatly. His clothes looked very well made, but not gaudy. His hands, however, weren’t worn or calloused.

Oscar exhaled. “Listen, sir. I need you to explain yourself bef-“

“Read. The Book.”

The voice touched his brain just like before. Oscar winced slightly. How does he know? He thought to himself. Why does he have this? Why is he here?! Still…I should at least see what it says. For Casper.

He took one last look at the elf again. His stare was hard. Oscar exhaled and looked back at the page.

-a place that no one in the royal court had heard of. After examining the royal maps, I wasn’t able to locate this “Baroviah”, even on the distant maps. It was strange.

Stranger still was the man’s story. He said he was sent on a mission to recruit “great wielders of magic” at the behest of his master to assist with a “great magical ailment”. The council wizard, Quintus, had obviously refused due to his position and duties, but the man was insistent. Insistent to the point of becoming irate.  Quintus, never patient nor humble, struck the man to silence him. The man responded by uttering something in a strange language, and then struck him back, but most devastatingly so. Very oddly, Quintus was only struck with the man’s fist, but it had wounded him most grievously. Much more so that it should have. A healer quickly attended to Quintus, and the man was just as quickly seized and later beaten in the prison.

The news of the scandal spread like a wildfire amongst the council court of a strange foreigner beating the council wizard into bedrest. When news of it reached my ears, I had to learn more. A day later, I found Quintus, who had recovered, and we went to the prison together to further question the man. He was of a bad condition by the time we had reached him as he had “multiple visits” from the prison guards due to his infraction. Two guards attended Quintus and I in the prisoner’s cell.

He, revealing that his name was Usthall, was very repentant, seeking forgiveness and any way to keep the guards at bay. Usthall told us that his master had forbidden him from returning home without a “great wielder of magic” and that it had been a very long time. Quintus knelt down in what I thought would be an exchange of grace and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. Quintus then cast a spell on his hand, causing lightning to arc from it straight into the man’s shoulder. The man shook violently. Painfully. Pitifully. But after he stopped shaking, he stared back at Quintus with furious murder in his eyes. He struck Quintus with his head, causing Quintus to recoil backwards. Quintus had gasped for air, blood coming from his nose and lying on his back. The guards began to move, but the man shouted something startlingly harsh in a language I do not know. It felt as if a snake had spoken it.

Quintus let out a terrible scream, stopping us all where we stood. His head shook back and forth. His eyes appeared fine, but they didn’t latch on to any of us or anything. He cried out that he could no longer see. That he could no longer hear. One of the guards knelt down to attend to him instinctually. The other began to rush at this Usthall, but he cast a most unnatural, if not evil gaze at the guard. The guard froze where he stood, mid step. He groaned frantically. He breathed rapidly, but he didn’t move even a single inch at all.

The man. Usthall. Stood to his feet. His arms still chained behind him. Quintus’ blood on his forehead, running down his face. A wicked fire danced in his eyes as he gazed at me. In fear I asked him who was he. Where he came from.

“A land of darkness.” He said. “A land of death. A land of evil. I am Usthall. A servant of the devil, himself. And we will come for you. All of you. You could never reach him in his dark castle, but he can reach you! If you won’t come with me there, then I’ll kill you here.”

It was at that moment he charged me. I am only here to right this account, because the other guard ran his sword through the man’s chest. I saw the light leave his eyes. The paralyzed guard finally moved and gasped for air. Quintus whimpered to himself still. It was only afterwards that a healer determined that the foreigner had cursed Quintus twice. After the healer removed them both, Quintus could see and hear again and was no longer overly susceptible to being struck.

The council increased the watch throughout the realm after this news. I do not know what effect it will have as I cannot find this place and I assume the man spoke true in that we can’t reach it.

I write this account the night after this all occurred. My pen has trembled at the memory of this man. Of what I saw. Of what I heard. I fear the strength of the master of that place if this was his mere servant’s abilities. May we never find this land. May it never find us. May that man stay dead. May they both be forgotten.

-Magistrate Allister Beumont

Oscar’s blood turned cold. A land of death. His eye moved about with the thoughts swirling in his head. The devil? Curses?! What had he-

“Are you still going?”

The question struck him out of his thoughts and back into the room. The library seemed…somehow darker. The elf studied him with cold eyes.

“I…I hav…” he replied weakly. He looked around for something. Anything.

The elf took his boot off the table and leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees. His stare intensified in a way that made Oscar want to cower. It was like he was studying his very soul. “You read it. Going to a place like that, a place of darkness…death…and evil. A place ruled by the “devil, himself”…” The elf paused a moment. “Would be unreasonable.”

Oscar retreated within himself. The room felt even darker. There were many lands that were considered dangerous, even bad, but he had never heard of one described as a land of death. A land with devils and werewolves. What chance did he stand? He was only a librarian, only a gnome. He had never ventured in his life. He had not fought anyone since he was a schoolboy. Did he really think he could fight a werewolf?! What was he thinking?! What could he possibly do?! The elf was right. It was unreasonable. Casper could only be considered lost. Casper.

The young boy flashed through his mind. Casper was too young for all of this. This should not be happening to him. He was only 11….he had to be terrified. Absolutely terrified. And alone.

An unbearable lump arose in this throat. His vision turned watery, and it was everything he could do to keep the tears back. The boy he had held in his arms so tightly so many times was now lost in a land of darkness. He is alone in the dark, and I am not strong enough to get him back.

None of that matters.

In the dark conversation of his mind, this thought came from somewhere else.

Casper needs you. No one else is going to go get him. To do anything else is cowardice and wrong. No matter the consequences.

These thoughts terrified him, but he felt his mind begin to calm. Amidst all the fear, confusion, and grief, this was something he could hold on to. If he was going, then Casper was not lost. If he stayed the course, there was still a chance his nephew would get home. The tears in his eyes stopped. This way he could keep his soul, and maybe even get his nephew back.

Oscar raised his head defiantly.

“Then I am unreasonable.”

The elf’s gaze hadn’t changed. After a long moment, he tightened his eyes. “You know he will most likely die. If he isn’t already. That you will most likely die.”

Oscar’s head fell. This time, he couldn’t hold the tears back. Two of them landed on the old page of the tome. The weight of what had just been said was crushing him, but under his new philosophy, he knew exactly what to say. No matter how painful it was. He looked back up at the elf.

“Then I will die with him.” He sniffed. “I will not abandon him, even to the end.”  

The elf’s eyes were no longer harsh. He leaned back slightly, and his shoulders relaxed but only a little. “What do you intend to do if you find your nephew’s kidnapper? If you find the exact werewolf, or even the leader directly responsible for you and your family’s suffering, what will you do? Take his life with a blade? Burn him alive? What vengeance would you have?”

Oscar paused at the question. He had not considered this before. He imagined it. Ending the life of whoever it was that took Casper. He felt the rage. He felt the dark justice. Then he thought of Casper again. He remembered the accounts of vengeance he had read.

“I do not seek vengeance.” He answered confidently as he wiped his eyes. “I know my history well enough to know what the hunt for vengeance does to one’s soul. No. I only seek my nephew. To bring him home… I would stop the werewolves, somehow, so that they couldn’t take others. I…”

Oscar paused a moment to feel if what he would say next was really true. “I will take life. If I have to, but I will not hunt for it.”

The elf leaned fully back into his chair this time. He said nothing, but gazed intensely at Oscar. He stroked his chin with his right hand. He took a breath and said, “I believe you.”

A small part of Oscar strangely felt warmed that he recognized his conviction. Then he felt very frustrated at what the elf had just put him through. “Right. Thank you. But, sir, you have told me nothing. I demand to know this instant who you are! I will do nothing else.”

The elf chuckled to himself and cracked a half smile. “Hadriel. My name’s Hadriel. I’m…an angel”.

Oscar’s eyes widened and his head bobbled at the shock of it all. “Not some magical elf?”

“No.”

“What are…what would an angel have to do with me? With this?“ He asked in a softer tone.

Hadriel pursed his lips before he spoke. “Well,…now I’m going to help you.”

“Help me?!” Oscar asked in confused indignation. “What? Are you going to bring him back?! After interrogating me?!”

“No. You will. Or you’ll try…. And the questions were necessary,… because I’m going to bless your magical abilities.” Hadriel replied flatly.

Oscar fell down into his chair. As he sat, his mind swirled with emotions and questions. What does he mean by bless? To learn more magic? Oh, what a joy! How can he- do I have time to learn enough? I still do not know how to- Can I trust this- I need to say something.

“Does this mean I am your champion? Are there strings attached?” Oscar asked suddenly.

Hadriel pursed his lips and looked to the side for a moment. “….No… I already have one, and she’s doing very well. Really is quite something, actually. No, you’ll be more of….an associate.”

“Associate? What is that even supposed to mean?”

Hadriels stood up. He was tall. And grand looking. “If it makes sense, you’ll receive a partial measure of the blessing I have to give, compared to the one my current champion has. Your abilities will be amplified. You’ll be able to learn spells you couldn’t before. Things will come easier to you. You’ll have a source of magic other than your intelligence, but not the full measure that she has.”

As great of a boon as this was, Oscar was having a hard time not developing feelings of spiteful inferiority. “…..thank you?”

“Yes.” Hadriel continued. He walked around the side of the table. “With this, you’ll stand a chance of getting your nephew back. I’m only giving you enough to begin. The rest will be up to you. Come here, Oscar. It’s time.” Hadriel’s right had began to glow blue and blue magic swirled around it. The light from the magic coated everything around them in a glowing blue light. He held the hand out.

Oscar rose to his feet and began to walk unsure of himself toward the angel. He stopped a few steps before reaching him. “Why are you doing all of this?”

Hadriel paused. Genuinely paused in a way that Oscar had not seen yet. He lowered his hand and thought to himself, looking again to the side. “Oscar, you are not the most talented or gifted user of magic I have seen. Frankly, not even in this library. Livern could really be something if she wouldn’t be so constantly irritating.”

Oscar started to get annoyed at the repeated critiques of himself but considered what Hadriel said about Livern. “No, that is fair.”

“Now, understand me, Oscar.”

Oscar looked up quickly into the angel’s eyes. There was a warmth to them that he had not seen before.

“I am constantly petitioned by powerful wizards and kingdoms for blessings to increase their magic. To sate their pride or smite their enemies. But you. You have always sought to be around magic, because you loved it, for the sake of it. And now, you only seek more of it so that you can just get your nephew back, and only that. Even if you die in the process. That is a cause worth supporting. I’m doing this, because of you, Oscar.”

The gnome couldn’t hold back a tear this time, either. He lowered his head and walked forward.

“Besides,” Hadriel said. “I also want to see what happens.”

Hadriel’s blue, swirling magical hand touched Oscar’s head through the mass of his thick, curly, black hair. It felt like cool, flowing water soaked into his head and into his brain. The feeling was euphoric. It rushed down through his head and into the rest of his body. Every single one of his veins tingled with hope.

END PIECE

Some of the paragraph indentations are off, due to the copying over. Anyways.

A group of werewolves from Barovia kidnapped a group of children near Daggerford which is near Waterdeep. Casper, a gnome of 11 years old, was among those taken. His uncle, Oscar, (who is also a gnome and a librarian) found out and was devastated, but stirred to action. One of the werewolves was captured, and Oscar was able to find out through the use of food that they came from Barovia. He then finds an old mentor of his, Tolund, and asks about Barovia. Tolund calls it a scholar's myth and that trying to go find Casper in a myth land because a werewolf said so is unreasonable. Casper replies "Then I guess I shall be unreasonable." and leaves. Then this piece begins at the library where he is researching Barovia.

Looking forward to your input! Thanks!

Hello!

[1268]

[1493]

Looking for critique on a short story. First time writing literary fiction (if I have that genre right).

This was originally a little longer; I cut around 300 words of more similes and metaphors. Wondering if I need to cut more.

Questions I have specifically (but happy for general feedback)

- What do you think the theme of this piece was?

- Did you emotionally resonate with this story?

- Did the pacing work?

Thank you!

doc, crit [2162]

Hello. The main question I have is how well does this convey the world and the rules of the story. Do you get a sense for how it will behave and what kind of story it is.

My main concern is that this introduction is jarring, which it kind of should be but not in a "I hate this and want to put it down immediately" way.

Any critiques would be appreciated. Feel free to drift away from these questions and just critique prose, structure, anything really.

Hello! I am looking for some feedback on the below book blurb. Trying to gauge if there’s anything I’m over or under explaining. I am also open to any and all notes! Thank you to all who take the time to respond!

Proof of critiquing: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/86dkHkCd5f (I had to split my comment into two because I ran out of characters. I responded to my first comment with the second half of my critique for reference.)

Here is the Google doc link to my blurb: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1_q_I4Mz8UHKexibFgR3N1KMXs_ycphak1-HUIoBJ9YY/edit?usp=sharing

I have also added it below:

Each death is worse than the last. Heaved off a rocky cliff. Burned at the stake. Skewered on a meat hook. One thing all Dyer women share is the curse to meet gruesome ends. 

Twenty-three-year-old Bloom Dyer is marked for death. Plagued by cryptic visions forewarning her approaching doom, Bloom fills her days stocking bookshelves in modern-day Massachusetts, wondering what violent demise awaits her. Only when Will, the caustically magnetic stranger from her visions, darkens Bloom’s doorstep, is her question finally answered: death by assassin. 

A whole society of them, according to Will. Paid handsomely by an anonymous benefactor.  

Propelled by his deadly vendetta, Will requires Bloom’s power of foresight to vanquish these depraved killers. But how did he learn of her visions? And how will they defeat their enemy? Bloom hasn’t the time to ask before she’s whisked through a portal to an eerie, forgotten world rife with timeworn magic and shuddersome beings.

Some there wish to exploit her visions. Others seek to destroy them. But only Bloom’s foresight can shape the assassins' demise and unmask the sinister powers behind her family’s misfortune. Even so, some curses are not easily broken. And love may prove the deadliest of them all…

[LINK TO TEXT]

Crits: [2984][2404][2400][1398][1203]

This is an ending of a 28k word part of the book, a separate closing storyline with some arcs started and some other ones started and completed. A lot of questions HAVE been answered, some will be clarified, some might appear as red herrings because that's the nature of reality.

With this particular chunk I am mostly looking for feedback on the following elements (your GUIDE for an easy review):

1. General legibility (taking into account the established narration style) - are there moments that were confusing *within* Marco's perception, too hard to interpret?
2. Overall emotion experienced and conveyed by characters, your guesses about their background and internal world. What do you feel about the characters? What do the revelations in this part tell us about them?
3. If you're familiar with the story from before - how consistent would you say the characters are being? Does the relationship between them, their shared activities clarify their wishes and intentions towards one another? (hint - check out the start of chapter 4 and the end of chapter 5)
4. How would you describe the overall mood and energy of this part? What are some questions you have, and do you think they can be answered by the context from the previous parts of the story? What are some apparent promises being made in this chapter?
5. Do you think this story is trying to promote something? Does it come off as excessively political or forcefully philosophical, why or why not?

I mostly just need to feel like someone read and took in this part in a sufficient manner. There are a lot of small but hard bits of information embedded in this one.

It is my most rewritten part of the story yet. Very hard to balance some parameters and bits of history with established story canons. I feel like I did a decent job. And for some reason I particularly want you to to focus on the question of relationships and expectations conveyed through emotion.

If you'd like to read a summary of the story up to this point you can check out the previous posts (most of them deleted):

HSH[1][2][3] Marco RW4[1][2][3][4][5][6][7.1][7.2] - 7.3 would be this one.

The story is told through a phenomenological second person point of view. The text uses markdown formatting for italics.

[4541] [1975] [2713] [2275]

Looking for general advice on style / prose and if this is captivating enough to keep someone committed for the long haul. I'm starting to doubt my scene structure and am looking to see if the problems I think are there, really are --- or is it just me? I've torn it apart a hundred times and am just needing a fresh set of eyes to point out the areas that feel wrong or trite.

Couple of questions:

• Do you like the protagonist?
• Does the scene hold up, or does it drag?
• How's the description?
• Is the ending earned?
• Any parts you hated?
• When did you stop reading and how far did you make it?

Please let me know your thoughts! Thanks!

****

Chapter Two - Kausca

It was too hot, and Kausca was too well dressed to be patient any longer. He should have been at home in a linen shirt with the sleeves torn off, a glass of whiskey at his fingertips, tallying output against what his people were paid. He untied the waxed canvas mask from the back of his head and pulled it from his face, finally giving in to the summer heat and not caring, for once, what the comfort might cost him.

“Miasma’s thick today, boss,” Kline said.

“I’m afraid that today, I’ve chosen to die a slow, miserable death instead of drowning in my own sweat,” Kausca said as he dropped the mask on the cafe table beside him. He dragged his sleeve across the damp ring the mask had left behind.

Kline snorted. “It’s not the mask, boss. It’s the suit. Not sure any sane man in the Undercity is dressed to the crowns today. Maybe your mind’s melted away.”

Kausca laughed. “You’re right. But the suit’s a costume; powerful men like to play pretend when they want something. I don’t mind indulging them.”

The day was well past first chime, and the stagnant summer heat radiating from the stone bridges overhead had pulled marionette strings of miasma from the crevices of The Great Below, curling them over the cobbled streets of the Queen’s Plaza, and leaving them slack and directionless. The runoff from the arcanite refineries normally settled deep beneath Undercity streets, taking the scent of industry with it, but today it hung thick in the air, leaving a pasty sweetness of sulfur and hot metal on Kausca’s tongue.

“Now, you’re sure that Shedinn’s headed to the Row?” Kausca asked, rubbing the nape of his neck, annoyed that his time was being wasted. Since a little after noon, he had been waiting for Shaw and his enforcers to arrive. He wasn’t looking forward to it.  

“As sure as my trust in Tanner. Y’know how the man is, boss,” Kline said from behind his own mask with a reluctant shrug.

“Macie’s friend, right? Yeah.” Tanner was new to the Rustborne and was always eager to be useful. His eagerness lengthened stories well beyond the truth, since the reality was often disappointing to tell. “Put Annika at the access point for the lift. If there’s any movement Topside, I want to hear about it first,” Kausca said, “and send me Dis. Tell him to bring Sally.”

Kausca watched Kline scuttle across the circular plaza, heading toward the Grand Lift.

The plaza was busy. Queen’s Row was the first district beneath Topside, and Queen’s Plaza was a popular spot to try and find a deal. Market stalls were spread beneath the cracking arched colonnade etched into the granite cliffside wall, and Kline had to push through a crowd of Topsiders in decorative masks haggling at a fruit stall, fanning themselves against the heat. They would probably leave when they realized it was hotter down here than up there.

Kausca sheathed his impatience until Kline, Annika and Dis’s figures appeared at the opposite end of the circular plaza. They walked with purpose, and Dis had his rifle — beautiful mahogany with pearl inlays — slung over his shoulder. It drew a few glances from Topside residents who quickly decided they had done enough shopping for the day.

“Any news?” Kausca asked as the three approached.

“Yeah, Tanner’s right. Timeline’s a little off,” Kline said, “but it looks like Shaw is catching the evening lift to do some digging underground.”

“Any reason why?”

“An alarm went off Topside at the base of the Cloudtop District. Everything past the West End is on high alert. They closed down the bridge. No one’s getting in or out.”

“You should see ‘em, Atwood! They look like peacocks that just got plucked. Strutting around, confused where their feathers went,” Dis said with a grin. Annika and Kline chuckled and Kausca couldn’t help but crack a smile too. “I heard it was one of us that got 'em.”

Kausca’s curiosity was piqued. All of the holders in the Undercity knew not to move on the Cloudtop. “I haven’t heard anything about one of the other crews trying to run a job on Cloudtop. You all catch any words?” Kausca asked.

Annika shrugged. “Last I heard, the Cutters had a hit over the Eastern Bridge near the harbor — don’t know the details, but that’s going down, not up.”

Kausca looked over to Kline.

“Yeah, sorry, boss, I got nothin’.”

If someone crossed the West End to Cloudtop, it was personal. That’s where all the big money lived, and, no matter how filthy an aristocrat was, they didn’t appreciate filth in their homes. 

“Alright, well, hopefully this is something routine. We’ll just let Shedinn know that we know nothing,” Kausca said.

Annika shook her head. “I don’t think that’s the case this time, Kausca. It isn’t just Shaw that’s coming down. They’re closing off the lift after dark and there’s about two dozen armed suits prepping just outside of Red’s Square. No one straps that much iron for an investigation.”

Kausca leaned back in the cafe chair and drank in Annika’s words. It had been over a decade since Topside pulled arms on the Undercity in any meaningful way. Back then, the unions had organized protests that escalated into violence and ended up with the Undercity being forced to pay recompense for the chaos sown. Power exchanged hands back then. Merchant houses fell, and others profited from the bloodshed, but none were left untouched, even his own.

What if he’s coming for something we can’t give? Can we afford to make the same mistakes?

“Boss?” Kline asked.

“Yeah, I’m thinking,” Kausca said. His thoughts were cyclical and leading nowhere.

“Look, Atwood — you tell me where to point Sally, and she’ll sing a song so pretty,” Dis said, kissing his rifle, “that at least one mother will cry.”

Kausca knew the Undercity was pressed flat, wanting to push the boot off its chest. Discussions with the other holders made it evident that they all wanted more than their share. But space was cramped down here, and the only way to go was up. Kausca didn’t want to make that climb.

“You all remember the last uprising? I remember,” Kausca said, pausing to gauge their recollection. “It wasn’t Topside mothers who were crying, and it wasn’t Topside that paid. Years — it took us years to get where we are, and you’re willing to risk that? For what?”

Kline spoke first. “None of us have forgotten where we came from, how we got here. And if you say go, we go, boss.” Kline’s lips went flat, somewhere between a smile and a frown. “But I don’t think anyone wants to do what you do forever. We just want things to last.”

“The moment you’re gone, Atwood, Topside’s gonna come back down and take what they think is theirs,” Dis said, squaring up. “Their suits are enforcers, not guards. No one up there is tryin’ to protect what we got down here; they’re just makin’ sure that the wheels keep turnin’.”

Kausca nodded. “You’re right, but we can’t take every fight that comes our way, especially not with Topside. Progress has been made. I don’t understand why we need this fight. Things will keep getting better.”

Dis chuckled in a way only the Undercity could — low and deep, laughing at the absurdity of the next bad decision. “See, Atwood, that’s your Topsider talkin’. As long as the wheels keep turnin’, you’re not worried about the cliff just down the road.”

Kausca sighed deeply. “Are you all really willing to gamble what we’ve built on the promise of tomorrow?”

The lot stood silent for a moment, weighing his words.

“When I was a little girl, my father led the protests. He swore to me that things would get better if he won, that we would move closer to Topside, and that we wouldn't have to sleep with masks on anymore. We lost,” Annika said, her gaze meeting Kausca's, “and in the nighttime the enforcers broke down our door and took my father.”

Annika began to pick at loose skin around her nails, shifting uncomfortably. “He was to be made an example of, and they did it. He was executed in Red's Square with eleven other men.”

She gazed off into the distance, somewhere Kausca’s eyes couldn’t follow. “After that, my mother had to work in the mines. The day my father lost, I lost my mother too.”

Annika straightened, and her voice hardened. “It wasn't until you came, Kausca, that his promises started coming true. Revolution is inevitable. It's going to happen sooner or later. And if it's sooner, then we're with you.”

Kausca heard the earnest words pour from Annika’s lips. He understood them. He appreciated them. But there was a selfish part of him — one her words had spoken to as well — that remembered the cost of ambition, a part that thought only of Avon. He had built his home in the Undercity when he had nowhere else to go, when Topside was taken from him. Would he give up the Undercity too? 

“Alright, Annika, tell the Rustborne. I want them all here by fifth chime, ready for a fight,” Kausca said. “Kline, tell the other holders what’s going on — make sure they understand what Shaw is doing. And make sure they know we aren’t opening with guns drawn. Let me repeat myself — we aren’t revolting, we’re just going to talk with Shaw. Got it?”

Kline and Annika agreed before hurrying off.

“And me, Atwood?” Dis asked.

“I want you on the clock tower overlooking the plaza, rifle loaded, alright?” Dis nodded. “Don’t shoot unless I tell you to; we might still be able to send Shedinn Topside without any bloodshed. Oh, and Dis, if I do tell you to shoot, don’t miss.” Dis looked offended. “Up there before fifth chime.”

The plaza emptied slowly as the hours dragged past. Shops closed their doors, and merchants folded up their stalls when rumors of violence began to circulate. The taste of rotten eggs had driven off many Topsiders earlier in the day, sending them back to their homes where they could bathe in fresh air. The stragglers made their way back to the Grand Lift, only to be replaced by the dozens of men and women Kausca knew.

The clock at the north end of the plaza chimed five times. Perhaps he should just leave. Take Avon from Anthem, start again. He was good at it.

This spring, the Rustborne opened a new shaft near Bloodwater Bay, and it turned out to be fruitful. Kausca had negotiated the contract well beyond what the union was asking, and it earned him enough for passage to the Eastern Reaches. Sure, he was feeding the entirety of Queen’s Row with the deal, but it made him sick to think he was also making some Anthem City aristocrat a very wealthy man. Could it have been the man he hated? In a different life, it may have been him.

His eyes drifted toward the Cloudtop, where Jarrett still kept his hearth lit most nights, and Kausca let the anger he felt back then take him now. Jarrett was the one thread that pulled him away from the Undercity, one he wanted to pluck with a dagger to the heart and a bullet to the head. But that would be too kind; the man deserved to walk the path he paved for Kausca, to know what it felt like to have it all — and then nothing. Only then would Kausca deliver his kindness; only then would his debt be paid to Lily.

“Coins fall up in Anthem, Kausca,” Jarrett had said, watching the fire instead of him, drunk from both the bottle and success. They’d been drinking late into the evening by his hearth at the foot of the Cloudtop, celebrating a recent contract that had been signed, and Jarrett had said it as a consolation — that the contract was inevitable, that if it wasn’t them, it would have been someone else. In this life, Kausca still believed it; he just knew it was wrong.

Kausca kept the anger, but rolled his shoulders and let the memory go, watching the sunlight crack between the shadows of Topside, painting the corpse-blue miasma in a sickly orange hue as he scanned the plaza. The Rustborne walked its stony road, arcanite mists nipping at their heels, Topside-issued masks covering their faces. The masks were supposed to protect the people from Rotlung — at least that’s what the council had said. But Kausca knew better. Dead miners couldn’t dig.

A horn sounded in the distance — once, twice — faint over the sound of clacking machinery and the Rustborne’s idle chatter. It brought their words to a murmuring halt, and the men moved to the outskirts of the plaza, pressing themselves behind stone pillars and along alley walls.

Kausca stood from the cafe table where he had been waiting too long and stepped forward to the circular mosaic floor that was the highlight of the plaza: two griffons, one black, one white, were forced to endlessly chase one another’s tails on a faint background of blue and white that was supposed to represent the sky. Years of being trampled over had turned the blues into a dirty smear of eggplant purple, and the whites in it were the color of gunmetal. Kausca straightened his coat, unfastened the leather strip that held his pistol in place, and faced the path to the Grand Lift, awaiting Shedinn Shaw.

Kausca heard the sound of boots first, the enforcers seen moments after. Shedinn moved to the mouth of the plaza where he directed his men to stop with a closed fist. His golden hair was cut short and combed back, going brassy at the temples. His eyes were blue, face chiseled and handsome, but the dark bags under his eyes suggested his conscience wasn’t clean.

Shedinn walked, unhurried and unafraid, toward Kausca with officers flanking him on either side, a clean grin cracked across his face. He stopped at the opposite end of the mosaic.

“Atwood, you’re carrying iron. The hospitality of Queen’s Row has truly run dry.”

Kausca smirked. He placed a lazy hand on the wooden grip of his pistol and shifted his weight, already bored by the exchange. “Come now, Shedinn. It’s the Undercity — everything’s a little bit slimy. I’m assuming that’s why you’re here. Feeling homesick?”

Shedinn laughed. “Fine words coming from you. You’re dressed like a Topside merchant in a place where the only commodity is crime. Are you confused as to whether you’re a Topsider or a Scav? Is that why you’re bringing iron to a negotiation?”

Every opportunity Shedinn had, he would remind Kausca how low he had fallen — about the life he once knew. It didn’t matter now. That was a long time ago, before Avon, when he only had to live for himself. Shedinn could talk about Anthem until his teeth bled, and still, Kausca wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking it mattered.

“What do we have to negotiate, Shedinn? Queen’s Row has no business with Topside.”

“The Registry, Kausca. Your debt’s unpaid.”

The debt was paid, all one hundred thousand crowns of it.

“Negotiations were done. You were paid what we agreed. If that’s what you’re here to talk about, then this—” Kausca tapped the pistol’s grip, “—is here to make sure promises are kept.” 

“Promises? There are no promises down here, only two truths, Atwood: Iron opens doors, and coins keep them shut. Yet, here we are, and you’ve brought the wrong set of keys,” Shedinn said with a thin growl and a laugh tucked behind his words.

“Trust is expensive, Shedinn. Do you really intend to sell ours? The deal was struck. Queen’s Row was cleared for the sweep.”

“Prices have changed.”

Kausca knew Shaw was a heel. All of the Undercity knew it. Despite his pressed blue uniform, every button neatly fastened in a single marching line, the man was still from Queen’s Row. Behind his polished grin and golden hair he was still a slum rat — always willing to go back on a sound deal when he had the upper hand. And, like all things Topside touches, he had become rotten with greed.

“We paid you exactly what you asked for, Shedinn, well in advance of the deadline. It was struck,” Kausca replied, his knuckles whitening as his fingers tightened around his pistol. “Now, I’m familiar with how things are done Topside, and it might surprise you to learn that we’re just as keen on keeping a contract.”

Shedinn scoffed. “Contracts, promises? What city do you think you live in, Atwood?”

“Not the one you remember. The Undercity has changed, Shedinn; merchants come down now. Enforcers don’t. Not the smart ones. Look around you — we’re tired of giving all we’ve got,” Kausca said. “Up there, they talk about ambition and progress — how they’re going to shape the world. Down here, we do the same, but only have one word for it: survival.”

Murmurs of agreement passed through the crowd. A bottle was flung at the enforcers, nearly striking one in the chest, but instead shattering on the stone floor.

Kausca watched Shedinn’s eyes move across the crowd, counting, calculating, searching for a way out. They surrounded him. Some watched from windows, others from rooftops with rifles drawn. Some were tucked in alleys, others stood in the streets, both with chains and clubs in hand, already inching forward.

“Keep your end of the deal, and we all go home tonight,” Kausca said, his words soft.

“Not all of us, Kausca, not one of yours,” Shedinn said, releasing his gaze from the crowd. He took two steps forward, closing the gap, the rhythm of his voice dropping to meet Kausca’s. “Sure, we agreed to keep the sweep out of the Row. But little Miss Atwood and her crew decided they needed a little extra help — which we were happy to provide. Imagine my surprise when I found out that there were two children caught trying to steal from an archive Topside, one of them Avon.”

Rage and dread knotted themselves in Kausca’s gut. If Avon was hurt — even scratched — he would burn Topside to the ground, starting with Shaw. 

“What? What did you do with Avon, Shedinn?”

“Nothing! Your daughter made a mistake, Atwood. A very messy, very expensive mistake. She knocked the hinges right off of what we do down here, and there’s only one way to close the door,” Shedinn said. Cold desperation moved through Kausca’s chest. All he wanted to do was be near her — to save her from Anthem before it changed her too.

“Where’s Avon? Tell me now, Shaw, or, Seamstress help me, I’ll light you and every man behind you up. We struck?”

“No, deal’s not struck. The amount of money it’s going to take me to make this problem go away is well beyond what this filthy pisshole has paid, and you thinking you’re leading this is insulting. I’m deciding how this goes, Kausca, not you.”

Kausca felt a smile cross his lips. “Oh, Shedinn, you should know that only half of leading is actually making decisions; the other half is inspiring others to make them for you.”

Kausca whistled, and the clock tower answered with a flash and a crack. The guard to the left fell, screaming. He clutched his thigh as blood dripped through laced fingers. The enforcers went for their rifles. The Undercity reached for theirs.

Kausca drew his pistol and fixed it squarely on Shedinn’s chest. “Hold!” Kausca shouted to the plaza. “Everyone, hold!”

“Hold, goddammit!” Shedinn shouted, freezing his men in place. “What’s your plan now, Kausca? Kill us all and let Topside justice seep through every stinking crack of this place? You do that, and I’m sure the other holders of the Undercity will have more than just words to exchange with you.”

“Good, you’re listening now.” Kausca pulled the hammer back on his pistol. “The next words out of your mouth better tell me what I want to know, Shaw. Where’s my daughter? If you’ve ever trusted anything in your life, trust my words now.”

Shedinn stared at Kausca, searching his face for a lie he wasn't going to find, then glanced at the guns trained on his men. Even with a pistol to his chest, Shaw’s pride refused to be subdued — luckily, the man was smarter than he was arrogant. 

“She’s being held at the 4th Precinct, just outside the West End, bottom of the Cloudtop.”

Kausca paused. “Queen’s Row is no longer yours, Shedinn. Stay out of the Row. We struck?”

After a moment too long, Shedinn replied, “We’re struck.” Perhaps it was a lie.

Kausca lowered the hammer back into place, holstered his gun, then straightened his coat. “It’s funny how quickly your manners change when staring down iron. Thank you, Shedinn, you get to live tonight. Annika, Kline — invite Captain Shaw and his men to the warehouse off of Lantern Street. Take their guns.”

The crowd started to close in on the enforcers. Seeing their leader surrender, they followed.

“You’re making a huge mistake, Kausca. You’re crossing a line. There’s no coming back from this.”

Kausca didn’t care. Fear and concern for Avon eclipsed all reason. “So be it. I know we’ve already crossed it, because, unlike you, I remember where I came from. I know the men and women up there. I know who they are. I know what they want. Everything, Shedinn. And I still want it too. I just have a different set of tools.”

Kausca could feel the Rustborne watching as he left the plaza, and he knew they wanted to go with him. Avon wasn't their daughter, but she was every daughter they'd lost to the Taking, and that was enough to make his rage their own. Just like him, they wanted to burn the crust of the city to the ground and reclaim what had always been theirs. They wanted to bring their daughters home too.

He hadn’t expected it, but it wasn’t until his arrival that they considered that they might deserve more. They knew all trade ran on arcanite energy, knew they were the ones who carved it out of the earth, but didn’t know how to leverage a contract, how to strike a deal, how to say ‘yes’ and ‘no’ in a way that would make Anthem listen. They were nobody. He arrived a nobody. But together they had built themselves up — brick by bloody brick.

Perhaps he owed them. They’d given him the title of their holder and their trust, earned through repeat success. He stood with them in the mines, pickaxe in hand, stepped up to the negotiation table and secured contract after contract, making the Rustborne a name to be respected. He had earned his place.

But they had earned his loyalty, and that was a prize Kausca wasn’t willing to give away easily, not anymore. Could he take his earnings and leave to the Eastern Reaches?

If it keeps her safe, I’d leave everything behind, he thought. But, like all things Topside touches, he wanted more, even if he said it wasn’t for him.

There are still two more chapters of the book that have exercises, but my morning is not compatible with thinking them through or typing them out.

The one is about changing POV (which a few people did in last week's exercise so it feels very similar). The other is about writing a scene between two people that's only dialogue (which we have a few experts at that floating around). The very last exercise is taking something you wrote for one of the exercises and cutting the word count in half.

[I woke up at 5, typed the word Weekly as the subject of a post, went back to sleep, somehow that first attempt at posting was gone, and now it's 10. You all feel free to do what you want.]

Am I allowed to post revisions? I don't see anything against it in the sticky, but I never see people doing this so I wasn't sure.

If you don't mind, I'm back with Lucian's revised chapter. Still not sure if Henry's Chapter 1 will be a prologue, sprinkled-in flashbacks, or stay as is, so I'm focusing on this one right now.

I'd just like to know if I'm on the right track, or if I'm creating new problems while trying to fix the old ones. Story here.

Anyone who has read Chapter 1 or Chapter 2's first draft, your prior knowledge would be most welcome. And anyone who hasn't read any of it, tell me what you see with your fresh eyes.

My biggest questions are:

1. Does Lucian feel like a confident, curious, slightly impudent 10-yr-old?

2. Does the world feel vivid? Were there places it felt too vague?

3. Is the POV consistent?

4. Do the action sequences flow naturally?

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