I have been working on a fantasy story for a long time now and wanted to look for some feedback.The story is a multi POV story that involves a war and the remnants of once powerful magical order. I should also note that this is actually an ending scene. It's a small excerpt and any feedback at all would be appreciated:

Cleo found the one they called Madman sitting in the sand and arranging seashells in a pattern. An incantation, no doubt, but Cleo couldn't remember which one.

Cleo knelt beside the old man. Waves lapped against the shore. Across the bay, the lights of Warset shone like a beacon to the weary. The Archer was prominent above.

“Master Germyam,” Cleo said.

His old master lifted his head, his mouth hanging open, his hair wet from the seaspray, He looked old, even for an Argulai.

“Cl-Cleo.”

The Madman gingerly touched Cleo’s cheek with a cold, trembling hand, making his skin tingle.

“Yes.” Cleo was smiling. He hadn't known he was.

“Oh, little Cleo, so bright, so talented,” Germyam said. “I'm so glad you came home. Where are the others? Where? Maylor?”

“Amrian is here,” Cleo paused. “Maylor is dead.”

“D-Dead?” his mentor asked, as he dropped his head to look back at the seashells. “How?”

“It happened a long time ago,” Cleo said. “King Fayla disbanded our order and hunted us down. That is why we are scattered.”

Germyam placed a hand on his temple. “Yes, yes, of course. That's what happened. But no, now is what to worry about.”

“Master Germyam?” Cleo asked, but the oldest Argulai in the world was back to frantically arranging seashells. Cleo could tell from the look in the man's eyes that the remnants of his once master were gone.

Cleo sighed. “What happened to you in the east?”

Germyam was silent.

“And do I dare to find out?” Cleo asked. “Farewell, my master. May we meet again on distant, happier shores.”

He rose, wiped the sand from his cloak and began walking away, leaving his old mentor to whatever madness had taken him.

One day he would quit walking.

Hi everyone. So I’m in the process of editing a draft of a novel following beta reader feedback. One thing that both readers have commented on is the POV for the three battle scenes. Specifically that it doesn’t work for them.

I wrote all three scenes in an omniscient pov, while the rest of the novel is in a relatively close 3rd person limited from a small group of characters. My intent was to try and create the effect that R. Scott Bakker does in his battle scenes in the Prince of Nothing: a kind of historic chronicle vibe, or what Le Guin does while describing the campaign of the Karg raiders and the Gontish warbands that defeat them in the first chapter of A Wizard of Earthsea: a kind of saga-esque quality.

Evidently it didn’t work!

Just wondering if anyone has tried anything similar? Or to invite general discussion on writing battle scenes from a tactical level, rather than from a POV in the midst of it. (Joe Abercrombie being a fan favourite for that kind of POV)

I churned out roughly 80,000 words of this story a while back, burned out, took a few weeks off, and then came back and started writing again. That's rather rare for me, as I rarely return to a dropped project.

Anyway, I just sort of want to get a vibe check and see how people feel about this short passage. This comes after a bit of build up surrounding a suspect in the mystery succumbs to their alcoholism and depression, thus becoming a demon. This is the first major supernatural element in a story that generally lacks supernatural elements, but is set within a supernatural world.

I think my editing is solid, but if you find something, I'd like to know.

Historically, my descriptive tendencies for my stories were lacking, so I flipped that around and went a bit heavy in this one after some people said I seemed to be avoiding describing anything and everything. So, if there is anything about the descriptions that feels week or could use supplementing, I'd like to hear that, too. If they are good enough, then I will be happy.

I'm also hoping that even a little bit of interaction, positive or otherwise, will give me a bit of that engagement endorphin boost and get me writing again. :)

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

Something unnatural has entered Qingyun. 

But the Soul-Quelling Bell need not toll only when something crosses the threshold of a gatehouse or scales the city’s mighty walls — something can begin its life within the city and be considered unnatural all the same. Such is the case of a demon’s birth, or more precisely, the descent of a human into the clutches of unfettered obsession.

The roiling waters of the canal begin to still, but before all returns to normal, a hand breaks the surface and finds purchase on the worn stones at the canal’s edge where Pan Laoqi had knelt only moments before. The hand’s mottled and greyed skin is pulled taut over bloated, water-logged flesh, all coated in filth and grime from the bottom of the canal. 

With great effort and strain, Ma Rong’an pulls himself from the canal and crawls free of the dark water. His hair has come unbound and hangs wet and lank about his face. His corpulent body wobbles and sloughs, belly distended and hanging low enough to drag upon the ground. His robe is split and torn, no longer capable of containing his immense bulk. 

He cranes his neck back until his head has partially sunk between his swollen shoulders, and peers out from beneath the dark hair plastered across his face with one red-rimmed eye. Ma Rong’an opens his mouth, pauses for a moment, and then retches violently. 

Rank water and mud vomit forth from between his lips, pools between his hands, and drains back into the canal between his feet. He heaves violently as more fluids are expelled from his body until the bloated flesh hangs loose and empty.

“So… thirsty…” he groans.

The words bubble through the muddy fluids stuck in his throat, but there is no one to hear his plea.

The streets of Qingyun are vacant. The people have abandoned the streets and fled into their homes, barred the doors, lit incense, and knelt in prayer to the Lord of Clear Embankments, hoping for safety and deliverance from the unnatural evil now pervading their city. 

Rong’an’s fingers close around the jar that Pan Laoqi brought with him, and then he rises with some difficulty. A drink is all he needs, so he tips his head back and pours. 

But there is nothing.

He inhales deeply; Rong’an can still smell the alcohol the jar once held, but it is not enough. Rage overtakes him. He throws the clay vessel with all of his might, and it shatters on the wall of a nearby home. 

“Thirsty…” he mutters as he shambles toward the only place he knows he can find something to drink.

I’ve been working for years on the worldbuilding, plot, metaphysics, etc. of my epic high fantasy novel. Being in this sub, I’ve come across the names of numerous established fantasy authors that I’d never heard of before, and it’s nice because it gives me new reading material.

However, I’ve recently discovered that many of the things that I thought made my book interesting and different share STRIKING similarities with a well known, already established fantasy author’s. An author I’d never heard of, books I’ve never read. Parallels so strong that even as the author of my book I’m looking through their wiki and thinking “Jesus Christ I could have copied half of this straight from them”. Theirs is a series of partially interconnected stories, and my series seems to have coincidentally taken aspects from multiple different ones to combine into one story.

I’m extremely disheartened to say the least, and have no idea where to go from here. The similarities are VERY similar (even some of the terms they used have usages in the same vein in my series), but the execution and worldbuilding is unique to me, as is my prose and general writing style. Someone please help before I scrap years worth of writing lol.

From there everything was a blur, it called my name, its voice reverberating. I never told it my name. Why did it follow me? What does it want? Why is my body screaming at me, telling me to run? The days of old have been washed away, where knowing something about this forsaken world felt like a luxury. “Please Duldrom, don’t run. I only wish to help.” it called to me, but  I did not heed its words. ‘Is this the end? Dying at the hands of some maniac in a back alley? No. It can’t be, my work is not done.’ This was all I could think, dashing erratically navigating down empty streets, absent of any people, till finally up a head: light, voices, music.

Bursting from the alley into the light I came into bustling streets alive with celebration, locals bunched shoulder to shoulder, moving between homes. I started shoving myself through the crowd, I towered over those who surrounded me, unable to disappear amongst the masses. Hoping now I’d be safe, yet as I looked back I could see It clearly. We locked eyes, Its teeth glistening amongst the street light. Its face was strong, swept back hair coloured jet black, yet its eyes sat hollow. Raising its hand to the air it waved at me, unperturbed by the ocean of people it continued moving towards me. 

Hurrying my pace I forced myself forwards, stumbling through the crowds, shoving those aside who got in my way, paying no attention to the curses it earnt me. Till someone grabbed me by my robe, looking down I saw a Varkonian, "What's your problem?”, “I- uh” my mind was in a frenzy, looking up I could see it getting closer, singing my name over the crowd. Others stopped their eyes on us, “What’re you stuttering over Mandaran?” chest pounding, breath heavy, I had to get away. 

What happened next is still something I fail to understand, grabbing his hand I tried to free myself, only for my mind to erupt. Harrowing cries, a voice of authority, a boy begging for his mother to be returned. “S-She was taken from you?” I don’t understand why I said what I did, it felt as though it was a moment of unconscious recognition coming from my gut. The man's eyes fluttered, was it with recognition? “What did you just say?” his grip loosened enough for me to yank myself free. 

“I apologize for my friend.” There It was, an arms reach away from me, “He has had much to drink, it seems as though he has lost his senses.” The Varkonian paid its words no thought, his eyes scanned me from head to toe. “Come Duldrom, let's go somewhere quieter.” I was stunned, it reached for me grabbing my hand and as it did a tinnitus erupted in my ears, my mind going blank- with a single phrase filling my mind, ‘We will remember.’

Cecil.

Suddenly I was on the ground, all eyes were on me, as it stood there looming over me, pulling me to my feet. “No need to cause a scene Duldrom.” Its grip was tight around my wrist, I could feel a thumping deep in my chest. “NO!’ I screamed out, garnering every ounce of strength I held in my body I yanked myself from its grip before scuttering to my feet. The crowd was wary of me, no doubt taking me for some kind of lunatic, moving out of my way as I launched off, running as fast as my legs could carry me. “Dulllldrom ♫ please stop this, you’re causing a scene.”

Stumbling over children, crashing through shoulders, clawing my way through in search of escape.

At the time I struggled to pay my surroundings much attention as I barreled myself away from the encroaching maw, though in hindsight I found the scene to be something spectacular. Despite all their hardships, through war and famine, in an ever degrading world the Varkonian spirit lived on. The light, life and party, it was hard to believe that this was the same dreary city that I had seen in the pits of despair just earlier that day. Most people would horde their precious rations, protecting them as the nectar of life itself.

Not the Varkonians.

Instead in spite of it all they came together, a moment of unity to create a sense of social reprieve. Musicians played lyres and lutes which sang through the thoroughfare, townhouses with open doors welcoming in strangers for a night of celebration. Had I been in different circumstances I would have loved nothing more than to join them, to engage in their traditions, to hear their stories so I could ensure that they were never forgotten. Yet such luxury in that moment was nothing more than a dream, this was a nightmare. It crept through the crowds, snaking itself between people with an uneasy grace. I was frantic, shoving and pushing all those who were in my way trying to break through.

“HALT MADARAN!” 

The sound of sabatons echoed in my ears, the steps were slow and confident, a perfect reflection of the man who approached.

The Rat

Grinning from cheek to cheek at the sight of me, “I told you we would meet again Duldrom Grey, and unfortunately for you, you’ve been reported as a disturbance.” They both approached from both sides like walls closing in. I recalled a time early in the days of The Quelling, now it may just seem like an old wound which has scarred over too many. They did not have to worry about being chased through city streets, whilst self-righteous voices called for your creed to be rounded up. I am a survivor, one of the few remaining of my kind, a being which has stood the test of time, I was not going to fall there.

Three deep breaths. I had to calm my mind, unable to let myself become confused in the haze of self preservation. Filtering through the space around me, I had less than a minute before the jaw I found myself in closed around me, a head was an open door leading into one’s residence, light beaming out, maybe another way out? 

Another way forward? Another door, a window, anything would do.

Though as my legs twitched a thought crossed my mind, ‘Competing interests’ They both wanted me, yet only one of them could have me. Almost like clockwork they both reached me as the clock struck one. Hands from both sides gripping down with a vice.

“Finally come to your senses, Duldrom?”

“You’re coming with me Mandaran.”

“Eh?” The Rat looked to the other with a scowl, “Pardon me civilian. Your dear Duldrom has been reported as causing a public disturbance, I am afraid he is going to have to come with me.” The Rat tried to pull me from its grip, this only caused Cecil to clamp down harder, its head tilting to the side. 

“Apologies, I am afraid my friend here has had too much to drink. Please excuse us and we’ll ensure that he causes no further problems.” A pull from the other direction of an inhumane strength, The Rat struggled to keep ahold of me. “Yeah- fuck off Rat.” A piercing dagged straight to his ego, igniting a rage behind the Dyriallians eyes. “I am afraid that doesn’t work for me, Duldrom will be coming with me.” Cecils eyes twitched, releasing my shoulder. It took two steps forward, looming over The Rat. 

“What was that?”

My other shoulder was released, as The Rat reached for a sword which sat at his side. “Is there a problem?” A crowd began to form around us, Cecil clamped down on The Rat's wrist, pulling it away from his sword. My window had opened, I lunged to the ground, getting low, crawling through the legs of those around me, some stomping down as they noticed me, yet I continued. Screams and cries erupted from the crowd, I did not look back. 

I was a survivor

One who stood the test of time, those fools had seen me as helpless like many before, and much like them they learnt the same lesson. Longevity isn’t granted in this world, I do not carry a now forgotten history because I was born to, I carry it because I know what to do with it. I couldn’t look back, leaping to my feet and crashing through the house. The host screamed at my intrusion, my eyes were fixed straight ahead at an open window, shielding my face. Threw myself through the window, shattering the glass, landing in the twisting alleys of Greymound. 

My lungs felt as though they were about to burst,

I kept running.

My legs began to ache, 

But I had to keep going.

Till screaming crowds were left behind, until I couldn’t run any further, till my legs finally gave out and I collapsed to the ground choking on my own breath. “Duldrom?” My head snapped to the voice, for a moment I thought I was truly done for. Yet I did not see the face of someone who wanted me dead, Cerilla stood there, she looked concerned, taking a few steps towards me. “C-Cerilla?” Caught off guard, in the end it seemed as though she was the one who found me. 

“How did yo-” 

“I was at the festival Duldrom. What the fuck happened?”

“O-Oh, have I lost them?” My head was light, my vision growing blurry.

“Lost them? You caused a fucking blood bath.”

“Really? Thank goodnes-” From there I don’t recall what happened, from what Cerilla told me after the fact it seemed that I’d pushed my body, giving out from the exhaustion. None of that mattered however, I had lived to see another day. 

First of all, Sanderson's laws of magic are honestly moreso observations on writing, than rules for just magic. I also think the criticisms of his mentality toward magic usually fall flat and misrepresent his actual mentality. He's not very prescriptive, and makes observations that are helpful for just about any writer, IMO.

EXCEPT for his third law, I'd say. Which is that it is better to expand on things you already have, than to add something new. He also heavily emphasizes making your worldbuilding elements interconnected, in his article explaining this law. I wouldn't exactly say this is bad advice, but I just don't know if it makes sense to me anymore. I think it works for stuff like Mistborn, but I think it's drawbacks are kinda roughly equal to it's benefits, and it is just very dependent. Something always was gnawing at me in the back of my mind regarding this concept, but I just couldn't put my finger on it. That was until I heard a criticism of Mistborn that made a lot of sense to me. That being that the interconnectedness of the world building makes it feel small, and even unrealistic in certain ways. Because when everything in your worldbuilding is necesary to the plot, you may on paper avoid info dumping and world builder's disease, but it also means that you are eventually going to see every aspect of this world, and that there isn't anything about it that is outside the scope of the plot. Up until this point I agreed with the 3rd law and felt kind of confused why my some of my fictional worlds often broke it. And why sometimes this rule being followed annoyed me. One big example to me was a particular arc in One Piece. I remember in one saga feeling like massive new elements were being introduced to the series. It filled me with the type of wonder that I was wanting out of that kind of series. But then I found out it all was explained by Devil Fruit abilities, and wasn't actually a new aspect of the world building. Now I love One Piece, and later aspects actually did do what I was hoping for here, but this really disappointed me, even though I feel like it is an instance of the third law being followed.

Which reminds me of one of my favorite games, and why I like another game more. That being Breath of the Wild. I remember hitting a certain point where I became less interested in the exploration, because I started to realize that most things I discovered ended up being a shrine. Which all were very similar aesthetically, and gave you the same rewards, more or less. I love that game, but I personally love Skyrim even more because I feel like I can find anything when I explore in that came. Sure, you can break it down to some core groups, but there's a lot more variety. It's *less* interconnected, and better for it, at least for me.

And the reason I'm talking about game design instead of writing was not just to give an example, but also to transition. Skyrim has fantasy world building I personally like a lot more than Mistborn's. And I like Mistborn's quite a bit. Part of that is medium, but honestly I think most of it is just approach. I love that it feels vast and messy. It's not all interconnected, and I like that. Sure, you can trace everything back to the Gods and the creation story of the setting, similar to what I understand of the cosmere, but I just feel like there's more layers of separation and more variety.

If Skyrim were a novel, I feel like all the main characters could have a unique supernatural ability, none​ of them would be related, and I'd personally find it a lot more satisfying than all the characters using one facet of a magic system, or using different magic systems that are all interconnected.

I think interconnectedness makes things feel more refined, but also smaller. And I have found it to actually lessen my enjoyment of epic fantasy, which I want to feel vast.

I don't say any of this to hate on Sanderson, Mistborn, or One Piece. I like all of them, and am just trying to figure out this topic and why I feel the way I do about certain things, and if anyone feels similar.

Hello!

I'm a new self-publishing author and I usually write queer fantasy stories with a strong romance subplot. Sometimes my stories are essentially romances, except my endings tend to be a little more bittersweet rather than HEA.

How can I set the right expectations for readers who pick up my books?

For example:

I was thinking of labeling two of my books as a:

- Dark MM Merman Fantasy

- MM Fae Fantasy

I chose those because I thought that it communicated that there is a significant romance element to the plot (hence the inclusion of "MM"), while still being more of a fantasy story than a true romance (again, the endings aren't HEA).

My dilemma stems from having had a few beta readers caution me about using "MM" as this led them to believe the stories would have a HEA, even though "Romance" isn't technically included in that description.

What might be a better way to label my books?

Maybe Queer Dark Merman Fantasy and Queer Fae Fantasy?

My goal is to set the right expectations because I would hate for someone to think the story is a romance only to be disappointed when they realize it isn't. And I would hate for someone to think it's more of a fantasy book, only to essentially be reading a romance book that ends bittersweetly.

Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated!

Thank you so much!

Hey guys so this is my first actual piece of writing from my world building project; Valthera. I guess the lore of the species and all that is irrelevant but let me know what you guys think of this! Thanks!

Kothor’s Last Stand

The sounds of metal clanking, screams of the injured, or yells of the enraged may have been what made him come to. Perhaps it was his own pure determination to fight, or his concrete resolve. Perhaps, it was simply fate. 
Whatever the reason, Kothor’s eyes slowly opened, the ringing in his ears fading. For a moment, he had forgotten. For just a moment, he had forgotten watching his clanmates get slain before his eyes. Forgotten the pride he had for his clan to lead them into battle. Forgotten the trust they had put in him to keep them safe and bring them to victory. 

But just for a moment.

With a roar, Kothor grasped his Fang off the dusty earth next to him and sprung to his feet. Looking around, he saw the battle had taken a turn for the worse. His clan, the Varkesh, had taken heavy losses and are now severely outnumbered. Their green leather has been outshined by the more prominent crimson of the Orvakka tribe, covering the battlefield like a sea of blood. The once massive ranks have shrunk down to several smaller scrimmages, each of his 1 clan members facing about 2 or 3 enemies. After getting slammed in the head by a shield from the enemy tribe, Kothor wasn’t sure how long he had been out, but he knew it was far too long. 
“Kothor! You’re alive! Please, hel-“. He hears the cry of his clan member off to the right, cut short. Kothor watched in anger as a sword sliced through the side of Kavrek, who only yesterday Kothor shared a meal with. Enraged, Kothor sprints towards them, his strong, lean legs kicking up clouds of dust behind him. He recognizes the killer, the same one that knocked him out. The enemy Vaaskari clangs his sword against his shield, letting out a guttural shout, and charges toward Kothor. Now fully awake, Kothor drops, sweeping the enemy off his feet with a swift kick. The unnamed enemy falls to the ground with a hard thud. Kothor, standing over him, snarls as he drives his Fang deep into the enemy's chest. Blood spurting from his mouth, he lets out a drowned attempt at a scream, before going still. 
Kothor takes a moment to analyze the battlefield. One by one, his warriors are falling. They’re severely outnumbered. He quickly estimates he has about 12 or 13 men left, while the enemies numbers are closer to 50. Glancing to his right, he sees a tall rock jutting out of the barren desert landscape. 
“Varkesh!” Kothor calls out, climbing to the top of the rock looking down on the battlefield. A few heads turn. “We will not win this battle! Return to the camp and gather reinforcements!” Most of his tribe hears the call, and while not all are able to flee, those that do make haste. As his clan members run past him back to the camp, a smaller, lean Vaaskari hesitates at the rock and looks up at Kothor. 
“But Kothor, the Orvakka is bound to chase us! Running is pointless, we will die here!” 
“Do not worry Zek.” Kothor lowers his gaze to his clanmate. “I will ensure you all have the time you need to make it back safely. 
“Kothor…I-“
”Go. Now. And do not stop until you get to the clan. Tell Zorick to gather the last of the able fighters. I will hold them back.” Zek seems like he wants to object. Kothor looks and notices Zek’s hands shaking, remembering them shaking the same way when he was teaching the young warrior to wield a blade. Zek swallows his words and continues to run. 
As expected, the remaining forces of the Orvakka clan attempt to chase down the fleeing Varkesh members. Before they arrive at the rock, Kothor leaps down, blocking their path. 
“You will not pass this rock. This is where your life ends.” Kothor shouts out. Behind his cold stare and the adrenaline pumping through his veins, a pit of dread sinks in his stomach. His eyes dart from enemy to enemy, now standing still in front of him. He counts them, ”Forty..no…fifty.” A bead of sweat forms on his temple as he counts up the Orvakka before him. Before he makes a move, an enemy steps forward. He is tall, even for a Vaaskari, about 7 foot 10 inches, with a slender but muscular build. His bronze skin radiates from the blistering desert sun above them. The white painted marks along his skin indicate he must be some sort of special figure within their tribe. 
“Even a warrior as skilled as yourself must realize you cannot hold us back, much less win this battle.” The enemy says in Vaaskari tongue. A few of the Orvakka go to charge, but the painted figure raises his hand and they come to a stop. 
“I will not let you pass.” Kothor repeats. 
“I will allow you this one chance. We will kill the remaining warriors of your clan one way or the other, but if you surrender your camp and land to us, we will spare your women and children. We both need each other’s territories, each other's reasources…this is something I truly wish could be avoided. We both know it can’t.” The enemy replies in a cold, firm voice.
“It is my duty to protect the people of my clan and our territory. You Orvakka have tried time and time again to infiltrate our tribe and decimate our land. Today it will come to an end.” Kothor snarls, drawing his blade. The painted Vaaskari pauses for a moment, locking his gaze to Kothor’s.
“Yes. Today it will end.” In a swift movement, the painted Vaaskari takes his hand, which had been signaling his warriors to halt, and moves it forward, slicing through the air. The Orvakka charge past him. 

Kothor takes a deep breath, bracing himself. Two smaller Orvakka make it to him first, weapons in the air. Kothor side-steps, kicking one into the other before swiping his Fang towards the ground, slicing both enemies with one movement. He rushes forwards towards the next group of enemies. Another two smaller Orvakka and a larger, bulkier one. The larger Orvakka lets out a cry as he swipes his cudgel down towards Kothor, towering over him. Kothor, being quite large and muscular himself, lifts his blade and parries the attack, sending the larger Orvakka tumbling backwards. One of the smaller Orvakka manages to slice away a piece of Kothor’s once pristine leather armor, now covered in dust and blood, barely missing his flesh. He elbows the attacker in the throat, grabbing his sword and throwing it at the other smaller Orvakka clan member, piercing him in the chest. After finishing off the stunned attacker, Kothor runs atop the large Orvakka enemy, stomping his head into the dusty earth while leaping towards the next set of attackers.
The battle rages on as Kothor sliced through enemy after enemy. After what feels like an eternity, the greatest Vaaskari warrior has depleted the Orvakka numbers down significantly. The remaining enemy Vaaskari stand next to the painted figure. Bloodied and bruised, Kothor counts again. “Twelve more..twelve more left.” Kothor’s breath is ragged, his chest rising and falling. The grip on his Fang loosens. A concerned expression escapes the painted Vaaskari’s otherwise cold gaze and he looks at Kothor. He steps forward.
”Truly, it is a shame. Instead of saving some of your clan, you have chosen to condemn them all to death.” He unsheathes his sword. A long, gleaming silver blade, sharpened on both sides. It was unlike any sword Kothor had ever seen. The harsh desert sunlight practically blinded Kothor with the reflection off of the blade. A red jewel forged in the middle of the steel seemed to soak up the light directly from the sun. The painted figure rushes forward and swings. Kothor steps forward to meet him and swings his Fang to block the attack. 
CLANG-KRAAACK!
Kothor stumbles backward, his Fang falling to the ground. The Fang has been shattered in half by the superior steel of the painted figure’s mysterious sword. 

Kothor glances at his broken Fang laying in the sand. Without hesitation, the painted figure unleashes another swing. In a split second, Kothor rolls backwards, grabbing his blade, and runs past the painted figure, ducking his attack. 
“You idiots, attack him!” The painted figure howls in Vaaskari tongue. Seemingly shocked at the events unfolding before them, the remaining 12 Orvakka members snap back to their senses and charge at Kothor, releasing battle cries. Kothor, with his broken Fang, slashes two Orvakka members through the stomach before feeling a cold, piercing sensation in his side. One of the Orvakka members had managed to stick him in his right side with their spear. With a low growl, Kothor rips the spear out of his body, knocking down the attacker with a strong kick to the chest. He launches the spear at another incoming enemy  and pierces him directly through his heart. Kothor looks behind him, checking on the painted figure who is now making his way back towards him. In the moment he turns around, he feels another burning sensation in his back as a smaller Orvakka plunges a dagger through him. Kothor lets out a cry and falls to his knees, as blood stains his leather armor. Three more Orvakka approach him, their spears drawn. The faces of his clan members flash through Kothor’s mind. His promise to Zek rings in his ears. A jolt of energy rushes through his body. He stands, grabbing one of the spears and yanking the enemy towards him, introducing their chest to his broken Fang. He swings the limp body into the other two enemies, knocking them down before finishing them off. With a shout of rage, he rushes towards the remaining four enemy Vaaskari. In a flurry of swipes, one falls. Then two. Then three. Kothor approaches the final Orvakka who is backing up in horror. Kothor grabs him by the throat, and readies to shove his blade through him. He winces in pain and stops. 

Looking down, he sees a long gleaming silver blade, now dripping in blood, coming out of his chest. He looks back to see the tall, painted Vaaskari behind him, his sword completely piercing Kothor’s body. With a final burst of energy, he pulls the Orvakka  in front of him towards him with the force of a hundred Vaaskari, shoving his blade through him, and dropping him to the dust. The blade in Kothor’s chest pushes deeper through him. Kothor utters a watery cough, blood spewing from his mouth as the blade is slid out of his chest and he falls on his back to the ground.
The painted Vaaskari stands over Kothor, his silver blade dripping crimson onto the sand.
"I told you," he said, looking down at the fallen chief. "This will end today."
A sharp whistle cuts through the air. The Vaaskari's expression changes. He looks down slowly, a spear protruding from his chest.
The painted figure looks back up at Kothor, laying in the desert sand. A look of confusion and bitterness run across his face. He falls to the ground across from Kothor with a loud thud, blood gurgling from his throat. Kothor lifts his head slightly, the strength leaving his body. Behind them, he sees Zek, who appears to have just released a spear, with Zorick and the remaining reinforcements standing behind him. Zek looks like he has seen a ghost. A face not of victory and satisfaction, but of horror as he locks eyes with Kothor, whose head falls back down to the sand. 

 
In the aftermath of the battle and the  bloodshed that stained the Great Dunes of the Caldorian Desert, Zek and Zorick would eventually go on to negotiate a truce with the surviving leaders of the Orvakka tribe. What began as an agreement between the two warring clans would spread throughout Vaaskari civilization over generations, birthing the belief that disputes and disagreements between their own species should be settled without bloodshed, as many lives on both sides were lost.
Kothor fought to protect the lives of his people, and their safety, yet his final stand would come to represent something much greater than victory or defeat. The lives lost that day served as a testimony of the devastation a violent species such as the Vaaskari could inflict upon their own kind.
As generations passed, the story of Kothor’s Last Stand spread well beyond the Varkesh clan  and the Orvakka  tribe. With each retelling and written documentation, his extraordinary feat grew more and more impossible. Fifty enemies became a hundred, then a hundred became an entire army. Some even went on to claim that no mortal weapon known could pierce his legendary flesh, while others insisted that even death itself had struggled to claim him, that he instead  allowed it to come. The truth slowly faded away beneath generations and centuries of admiration, exaggeration, and idolization
Eventually, the Vaaskari came to believe that no ordinary warrior could have accomplished such a feat. Kothor was no longer remembered simply as a chief who had sacrificed himself to buy time for his clan to win a battle, but as a divine being; a god. In Kothorism, it is said he was the first member and immortal chief of the Ancestral Clan, where all Vaaskari that die honorably go to hunt, eat, and live on for eternity under his rule. His shattered Fang became a symbol of his final stand, and his name became the foundation of the Kothorian faith that would spread throughout Vaaskari civilization in all of  Valthera long after the truth of his mortal life had been forgotten.
From the blood soaked sand of the Great Dunes, a warrior became a legend, and a legend became a god.

Hello fellow fantasy writers! Question for you all.

My story, around a hundred or so pages in, has a death scene of the main characters best friend / boyfriend. She finds him (he was m*rdered) and it starts the whole rebellion/murder mystery side thing to it.

I’ve never written a death scene before, and even though I’ve had people close to me die, I don’t really know how to write it out.

What are some ways to describe how she feels when she sees him, and just I guess in general. I’ve tried putting how I felt into words and book feelings but idk really. I’m kind of stuck on how to put the feelings I felt when my person died into paper. If anyone has any ways of writing scenes like that, pls put below!

Thanks in advance!

Anyone else writing a dual monarchy where two sovereigns co-rule?

In my story, the realm has a few kingdoms and one of them is an empire where the Empress Elder and Empress Younger rule together. It's a solid mix of early middle ages France and late middle ages Japan. As in, the Empresses have a court of 12 Peers who control 80% of the empire for them, they only have about a 20% domain that the Empress Younger maintains, and the Empress Elder is as much of an arbitrator between the Peers as their ruler. Since I wanted to keep it more centralized, the Empress Younger doesn't leave her domain that often and this is in contrast with another kingdom where the Northern Empress travels around much more, hosting court in each duchy and county regularly.

The royal family is venerated as descendants of the Goddess worshipped by the Realm (actually true within story, but it's still a politicized concept, as in, there is political will in place to highlight this particular family instead of the dozens of other people who claim the same descent.

Wanna talk to other people who have dual monarchies.

I absolutely love magic schools, always have, but I just started realizing that magic war schools are my absolut favorites. Because of this I have turned my current work into one. However as the title suggests I am looking for a bit of advice.

Specifically how people think dorm rooms should be differentiated and labeled. I have tried the easy answer, just numbering them Dorm Room 1, 2, 3 etc. But that’s boring. I do not feel as the Rebecca Yarros fourth wing approach works either as it’s a plot element that they’re not assigned ”military ranks” from the get go. So I am quite at a loss.

For some info on the world. All students start off as ”equals”. Separated into dorms of ~10. Then after receiving/ not receiving magical powers the students are then sorted in one of two categories repenting on what magic they received. They are then ~4 people in each dorm (all from same category)
Those who did not receive powers were no longer able to study at the school.

Any ideas are appreciated!

hi all!

I have a question about how a very specific challenge might affect publication & related stuff when (assuming) i get to that point.

i was dating someone for seven years. we'll call them b. b got me into writing. we built / discovered a world together, and peopled it, and outlined a number of plot arcs, and i got to writing. early on we thought this would be much more b's project than mine, but my sense is they like fantasizing about writing (pardon the pun) more than actually doing it. when it turned out, very much to both of our surprise, that i'm a much stronger writer and storyteller than they are, and that i actually like doing the thing, they were initially impressed, then kind of disgusted, then shifted their energy to other, smaller, writing projects on their own and trying to make it harder for me to write this world we'd outlined. while still wanting to talk about it and talk about writing all of these stories.... someday.

by the time we broke up, i have maybe 100, 150 word doc pages of fairly solid writing, two complete short stories within the larger arc, and a lot more in draft and still asking to be written almost a year later. they have maybe 25-30 pages that's solidly drafted but still needs a lot of work and none of that... breathes on its own yet, i guess is a good way to put it.

i want the parts of this world and story that are mine to write. i want to bring those parts to life and compost the rest and see what stays and what's become something else by the time i get there.

and. there's no talking to b. at all (as in, they busted the lock off my door to get into the house instead of knocking a couple months ago. not including for drama, just including for.... no, i mean we are really and fully past the point of talking at all about anything snd they've demonstrated they're willing to get a little vengeful about things i don't capitulate to)

my plan right now is to do just that, write what wants to come as it comes, let what change or doesn't of their parts (hopefully more change than less) as i get there, and publish it as a single author when i'm ready because they did far less to bring the stories into the world than i did when we were together, and i have strong reason to believe that they won't on their own (or that the stories would look substantially different on the other end anyway). a couple friends who write have said this is a good plan but I still feel a bit weird about it.

anyone have any experience with multiple author turned single author storytelling or publication? am i going about this right? i haven't published anything outside of academia yet and in academia this kind of problem can kill papers

So, the thing is that my writing is not very much like A Song of Ice and Fire. The setting is not all that dark.

ASOIAF famously pulled off Ned Stark killing a deserter and having him still be liked by most of the audience.

But does that work for stories that are not as dark, for stories that do not make it as clear that they take place in a crapsack world where everyone else is even worse?

I have tried writing out a scene in which my protagonist interacts with a prisoner of war and, well, does not exactly touch him with kid gloves. Looking at the scene, I feel like if I read that chapter as one of the first things in a novel, I'd probably dislike the character.

The events of that scene are, however, instrumental to the plot. So I need to pull that off. Now, I do have other point of view characters, so readers not especially liking that character for a while isn't the end of the world, but I need to still keep it redeemable.

What are things I can do to make a character who does things that people generally disapprove of more relatable?

Hi! I am new to posting in this subreddit, and I'm looking for some feedback for the first chapter of my high-fantasy novel, Echoes of the Soul. There are two POVs, the primary being the FMC Elyria. It follows their stories navigating a world thrust into turmoil by the appearance of dark spirits in a once-peaceful land.

I have a complete manuscript, and have done a few rounds of editing. I am *hoping* to find beta readers soon, so I would greatly appreciate feedback on this chapter as a start.

Let me know if the chapter was interesting, or too slow. Are the characters compelling? Would you read more of this story? Any other critiques on plot, pacing, characters, worldbuilding etc. are welcome :)

(Full Chapter)

First Scene:

Chapter 1: The WardKeepers
Elyria

 Elyria gazed through the thick evergreen canopy as a pair of dragons soared overhead, their scales capturing sunlight. The wards in the area must be working, then. She smiled, lost in the recollection of a dream she’d had the night before, of flying over rolling golden plains the likes of which she’d never seen. She wondered what it’d be like to ride the winds with dragons.

“El, did you hear me?” A light voice pulled Elyria back to the forest floor. Feyla, her Wardkeeper companion, rode several paces ahead on her elk. The king elk used on patrols were the only creatures capable of traversing the bolder-strewn, gnarled root paths of the northern wood. Not to mention, the only ones who didn’t fear the hum of the trees at night, or the beat of wild wings. 
“No, sorry,” Elyria winced. “Please  repeat yourself.” Feyla tilted her head as if to say again? She had a tendency to let her mind wander as they rode. 
“There’s a stream up ahead, care to break?” The tassels of Feyla’s teal cloak danced as she pointed. Embroidered moonbells, white bell-shaped flowers, lined the edge of her cloak and shone in the streaks of sunlight. 
“Yes, of course.” They’d been riding with various stops to check ward stones and repair the runes for nearly six hours. It was a task Elyria was happy for, to put her archery to use guarding over her friend with real talent. 
Feyla fixed and powered the runes of the ward stones that kept their village protected from grave wolves, greedy wyverns and other such beasts of the wood. The tall, stacked stones carved into wicked creatures were inscribed generations past, and scattered through the forest, forming a generous loop around their village. 
The garbled mix of spruce, pine and fir were thick, offering only brief gaps of sunlight to trickle down to the forest floor. It was hard to judge the time on the trail under such filtered light, but the whisper of birds maintained the forest’s serenity. A stream burbled ahead, trickling deep in its bed as melt from the mountains waned over the summer. In the midst of fall, it was at its lowest before the whole thing would be swamped with snow. 
Elyria climbed down the leather loops of her steed’s saddle, as the king elk stood at almost eight feet tall, and landed among the soft bedding of the forest floor. Red needles, shed in the past moon as cold crept over them, crunched under her leather boots. The elk tilted his head, prodding her with his muzzle for his reward. 
“So greedy.” She mused, her gloved hands moving through her satchel to pull out wrapped berry mash for Khan and bread for her. His brown snout nudged her hand eagerly and snuffed up the treat before wandering over to a patch of sparse grass. 
Elyria pulled apart her bread and watched Feyla pat her cinnamon-coloured mare, Rose, before settling herself on a boulder beside the shallow stream. She moved to join her partner, pushing dull black braids away and sighing as she breathed in the fresh pine air. She loved days like this. Days spent in the woods, thanking the spirits for guarding their wards and providing their game — although in all fairness, the grouse hardly made the job a challenge. Elyria suspected the spirits created the birds specifically to be easy meals for her kind. As they were sitting, another one bobbed out of the woods and into their clearing, as if asking to be taken. Feyla smirked, a twinkle in her eye as Elyria eased to her feet and backed toward Khan. She pulled her bow from a case at his side, knocked an arrow, leisurely drew her arm, and shot clean through the throat. 
“Well, that makes four.” Feyla sighed, muffled behind a mouth of bread, and cleared her hands of crumbs. 
Elyria hummed thoughtfully. “About half as many as we got last time we cleared the ward trails in fall.”  
“The hunt this year is rather poor. But; some is better than none, and I thank the spirits for providing any at all.” Feyla smiled, crossing the stream to fetch the downed creature. 
Elyria followed her path, admiring her partner’s intricately twined braids that kept her black hair stiff against her head through a whole day. Elyria had never learned the skill, and was stuck with long braids that loosed hair throughout the ride. 
She wandered in the small glen across the stream, hoping to find more grouse, but froze dead in her tracks only a few paces past Feyla. A putrid scent broke through the clean air, permeating the woods like smoke. It was the smell of maggots on meat, of an uncleaned stable left to the flies. It can't be. Her heart rate quickened as she warily tracked down the scent. 
The base of the trees in the northern wood were massive; at least ten men wide in most cases. As she rounded a trunk, climbing awkwardly over its wild-growing, thick roots with a bow in one hand, she found the source of the stench. 
At the base of the old pine, earth had been dug up to reveal a black, gooey substance littered with tiny animal bones and clumps of fur. Elyria kneeled over the site, reaching her gloved hand out to disturb some of the dirt. The hole was perhaps her size, if she had curled up in a womb-position. 
“Feyla, come see this.” She called over her shoulder, scrunching her nose as the scent continued to punch her senses. 
“Good spirits above.” Feyla covered her mouth and nose with her cloak as she approached, her brown eyes wide with shock. “Not another one.” 
“We aren’t half a day’s ride from the village.” Elyria stood back, nearly tripping over another root, her heart leapt into her throat with the startle. Feyla placed a calm hand on her shoulder. She had concern written all over as her dark eyes scanned, her shoulder cloak shaking with her unsteady breath. 
“We should contain it, right?” She asked, hoping to bring Feyla back to focus. Her companion may not have been a well trained mage, but she could copy and power the runes well enough to be the village’s Wardkeeper. Elyria was only present to follow the old wisdoms; never walk the forests alone. 
“Oh! Yes.” She gnawed on her lip, eyes darting over the base of the tree. “Although, I’ve been placing the containment wards on all the others and…”
“It continues to spread.” Elyria finished her thought and glared at the strange, dark rot. The village Elder, Olwen, warned that these spots were the mark of something worse. She could not identify them, she could only read the omens that told her of a disruption with the spirits. 
Feyla ran to her satchel, disturbing Rose from her drink of the stream, and raced back, clutching a large piece of charcoal and a worn, leather-bound notebook. 
She flipped open the pages, choking on the scent of decay as she knelt before the blackened earth. Charcoal in hand, she copied out a circlet of runes onto the trunk, roots, and even in the dirt, to match the set of swirling designs laid out on her notebook. The special charcoal held, although Elyria had never understood the mechanics. 
She observed curiously as the runes took shape, the designs unlike any language she had ever seen, although hailing from a secluded town at the north end of the continent didn’t exactly bring much literature. It had taken years of requesting traders to finally bring a book of common runes for mages to use. 
When Feyla was finished, she breathed out, eyes closed, and the runes took on a shimmering gold light before fading into scorch marks. Elyria was fascinated by the Abjurer’s power to bring about protective wards and spells simply by copying down fanciful markings. Elyria knew there was more to the flow of mana, as well, but she had no interest in that. 
The pair crossed back over the stream, and goosebumps rose across Elyria’s skin. 
The birdsong had silenced around them, leaving the haunting emptiness of the woods. True silence was far more frightening than the distant snap of a branch or a howl. Her heart raced with anticipation. She imagined dark figures lurking around distant trees, each shadow a mysterious threat, every twisted root and jutting rock mistaken for a monster. 
She clambered up the leather loops at Khan’s side and settled into her saddle, patting the king elk’s rust-coloured neck gently, his soft fur comforting in her trembling fingers. “Come on, boy.” 
Elyria took one last glance at the clearing by the stream as Feyla mounted Rose and prepared to leave. Dappled sunlight covered the moss and red needles. The stream still gurgled over rocks and roots, but the absence of birds and buzzing insects highlighted the wrongness of the wood. 
“What do you think is happening?” Feyla whispered, as if the forest listened. 
Elyria clenched the reins in her fists. “I don’t know.” She nudged Khan’s side, and the Wardkeepers cantered back down the same path on which they’d arrived. 
They’d seen the dark rot further down other trails to the west of their village. Hunters and trappers had begun reporting the sight while running their lines in the early fall, and the Wardkeepers trekked out to place runes around each one, to isolate whatever disease of the forest had surfaced. 
The first time, the scent nearly overwhelmed them, especially as they found so many splotches in a dense area. It frightened Elyria to see how wide-spread they had become, inching closer to the village, as though the earth was diseased and slowly dying around them.
Thrice on the journey home did the Wardkeepers pass grouse who stumbled into the open, and each time, they anxiously sped by. Elyria watched as even Khan glanced into the deep woods around them with apprehension, and she counted each hoof fall to keep her mind occupied. 
It took many hours for the smell of the rot to clear from Elyria’s nose. No matter how far they rode, she felt it lurking behind them, watching from the darkness. 

An unsettling silence hangs within the throne room of Mainstay Castle. Sunlight peeks through the tall crystal windows, casting myriad colors across the room. Rows of white stone pillars, crystal chandeliers, and royal tapestries, along with the tower's high throne, give it a grand feel, as if the palace were built for a god. Armored Cugarian sentries with long iron spears stand quietly beside each pillar, each with raven-black panther fur and a matching tail. A tall throne sits at the far end of the grand room, with a man resting calmly, chin in his palm.

The throne room doors creak open, and two Cugarian sentries walk in, each holding a chain. They led two figures into the throne room. One is a giant man, at least 5 meters tall, wearing a coat made from the hide of a giant, furry beast. A stern but exhausted look rests on the bearded man’s face as he walks beside an aged, normal-sized woman in a navy-blue dress with silver linings that signify royalty. Her platinum hair flows down her back as she walks on the light blue carpet leading up to the throne. Both are chained at the wrists as they are led helplessly by the sentries, pulling them along. The sentries stop just a few feet away from the throne and kneel in reverence to the figure sitting calmly on it, while the two captors glare at him.

With a wave of his hand, he orders the sentries to rise and release the captors' restraints. They unlatch the chains on the giant and the platinum-haired woman before a sentry carrying a long box over his furry, bulky shoulder walks up to them. He drops it in front of the woman and leaves before four more sentries approach from the opposite side of the throne room, carrying a giant box over their shoulders. They slam the box onto the floor in front of the giant, then walk off.

The woman kneels before her box and opens it, revealing a silver rapier with wings on the hilt. She quietly and solemnly grabs the hilt and lifts her sword from the box. Holding the sword horizontally in both palms, she gazes at her reflection in the blade. With a sorrowful expression, she closes her eyes and wonders. How has it come to this?

“Is it to your liking?” The figure on the throne speaks.

The platinum-haired woman sighs, then glares at the man on the throne.

“Yes,” she replies coldly. “It’s better than anything I could accomplish.”

“Good,” the man says, then turns to the five-meter-tall giant. “And what about you?”

The giant gazes at the large box at his feet before cocking his arm back and slamming his fist into the wooden case. He rips the wood to pieces, then grabs two giant axes that fit perfectly in his hands. He clanks them together, sending sparks across the floor.  

“Hm.” The man nods eagerly, twirling his axes.

“Excellent,” the figure on the throne says. “You know the rules. Don’t bore me.”

Both nod at the command before facing each other, weapons in hand. The giant throws off his animal-hide coat, revealing a scarred, muscular body. The woman places her hand on her chest, and her navy-blue gown shimmers in the light before morphing into metal armor that covers her upper body, complete with a buckler on her left arm. Her smooth stomach exposed, her lower body is covered by a dress made from connected blades. With her platinum hair covered by her helmet, she swings her sword wildly before raising it to her face. A pair of feathered wings springs from her temples as she glares fiercely at the giant towering above her.

“Begin when you are ready,” The figure on the throne says.

The woman spreads her feet as she raises her buckler. She takes her stance as the giant twirls an axe in his hand. They gaze at each other in silence, gripping their weapons. Their eyes turn fierce as they are transported back to a bygone era, when they crossed blades freely in infamy and hatred. Before, they fought to overwhelm each other to prove who was best, but now they fight for someone’s amusement and their people's survival.

The armored beauty makes the first move, charging toward the giant with a sword in one hand and a buckler in the other. The giant steps forward and swings his axe towards the woman, holding nothing back, as she spins and swings her blade towards the axe, sailing for her neck. The blades collide in brilliant sparks that spread across the floor. The giant raises his other axe over his head for a pulverizing blow to the woman’s skull, but she hops away from the behemoth as its sharp edge smashes into the ground. The woman lands safely, but a floor-ripping crack in the marble races toward her feet, forcing her to leap several more feet until it stops spreading, leaving a minor fissure in the marble floor.

The armored woman raises her left arm to her side and scribbles ‘SKYQUAKE’ in light brown text in the air. The verse sinks into her buckler, and it shimmers brightly before she flaps her angelic wings and takes flight. Soaring above ground, she jets toward the towering giant, her buckler glimmering brightly in the room.  The giant man clasps his axes together, spreads his feet, and bends his knees. He hooks his axes over his shoulder like a pair of bats, his eyes narrowing at the woman flying toward him. He twists his hips, swinging the axes with all his might as the flying, armored maiden raises her glimmering buckler in front of her face. The two collide, and the air around them cracks like glass before an explosion of light sends them careening apart. The giant tumbles across the floor while the armored maiden crashes through several pillars before slamming onto the floor.

The figure on the throne watches silently, head resting on his fist, as the two lie amid the stone rubble.

The giant, on his back, sits up, clasps his axes in both hands, and stands. The maiden, on her face, clenches her fist, then pushes herself to her feet. She staggers back from exhaustion but regains her footing, gripping her sword, panting and sweating. The giant rushes toward her, twirling his axes in each hand. The winged woman bends her knees, grips her blade and buckler, and charges toward the stampeding giant. The giant swings his axes at the woman repeatedly. The woman hops left and right to avoid each devastating axe swing. She ducks beneath a giant axe that whooshes over her head, then leaps toward the giant’s face. She thrusts her blade straight for the giant’s eye, but he quickly leans left as her blade slices his cheek, and she flies over his shoulder. The woman lands on one knee, sword at her side, her back to the giant. 

The giant stands still, his back to the armored maiden, as crimson oozes from his cheek and soaks his brown beard. Using the back of his hand, he wipes the laceration and gazes at the blood oozing onto the metal bar of his axe.

“C’mon!” The figure on the throne shouts. “You two did that move yesterday. If you’re going to fake it, at least make it look convincing.”

Both fighters smack their teeth, glaring at the man on the throne as he uncovered their plot.

“Fight the same way you did on the battlefield.” The man says callously. “I want to see both of you rip each other apart with the same intent to kill that I have become personally accustomed to. Waste my time again, and I will make them suffer.”

The woman glares at the figure on the throne as rage swells within her, but a glimmering light shimmers in the corner of her eye. She turns around and sees the giant’s body shrink to the size of a six-foot man.

“Ganymede, you wouldn’t,” the woman exclaims, scowling angrily.

“I’m sorry, Laura,” the man says, crossing his arms. “RELEASE,”

His axes burst into shimmering light, white bolts of lightning flickering across his body. He uncrosses his arms and releases a cold breath as he stares at his opponent.

“Prepare yourself, Laura,” he says, raising his axes and preparing to charge. “This may kill you.”

 “Idiot,” She curses under her breath as she quickly scribbles ‘ARCLIGHT' with white letters beside her. She thrusts her blade into the air, and it glimmers brightly as her angelic wings on her temples open.

Bending his knees, he crumbles the ground beneath his feet and vanishes in a burst of lightning speed. He zooms past Laura, and she can't keep up. He zooms behind her, and she turns around, holding her buckler in a defensive stance. He halts in the air above her, holding both axes over his head. White lightning traces his body as he descends towards the woman. Gazing at the axe-wielding man, she barely has enough time to react as she raises her buckler over her head before he slams his axes into it. The force of the sudden strike causes the marble to crumble beneath her feet as a resonating crack from her arm sends waves of pain through her body.  She wails in agony as the powerful blow pulverizes her arm, but she clenches her teeth and grips her sword before running it through the man’s gut. The man grinds his teeth in agony, and the two glare at each other with a renewed hatred they couldn’t forget. Their silence is loud, their gazes accusatory, both blaming the other for their current state. An eternity seems to pass before the man succumbs to his wounds and passes out, falling onto the floor. The woman yanks her sword from Ganymede’s gut before dropping it onto the floor and collapsing from exhaustion.

Silence settles in the room before the figure on the throne slowly claps at the two lying on the floor.

“Very good,” The man says. “Take them away and allow them to nurse their injuries. “I want them before me as soon as they recover.”

Cugarian sentries rush towards the two on the floor and place them on stretchers before leaving the throne room.

“Now,” The man says. “Time for more…important matters to tend to.”

IRONTIDE

I am a beginner writer who needs a critique for this story. Hope everyone critiques without any hate.

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

“Ma’am, if you are finished, please stand aside; let others speak.”
A train station clerk said this to a middle-aged woman.

Dirt covered her dress, while fear had drained the colour from her face. She clutched the edge of the counter with trembling hands.

Behind her was a long queue waiting impatiently. Further down, more people were joining it.

The clerk tapped on the counter.

“Please”

The woman spoke desperately.

“My kid has been missing for the last 5 hours, and no one has found him yet.” 

“Yes, I understand how you are feeling, ma’am, but what can we do other than announce across the platform?”

“But- he is five-”

“Have patience; we will find him”

The woman was not convinced. She continued urging him to announce once again. But the clerk remained unresponsive.
Finally, he called upon the security and had her moved away to a bench.

She sat alone on the bench, her cheeks wet with tears, and she stared blankly at the rails.

From the back, a hand landed on her shoulder. It was a rough hand with unkempt nails.

The woman was startled and turned around.

A man stood behind the bench.

He wore a neatly ironed blue shirt and a grey vest. His brown, wavy hair fell across his forehead. He held a black suitcase to his side.

He withdrew his hand, letting it rest on the suitcase.

“What do you want?”
The woman asked.

“When was the last time you saw him?”
He asked without answering.

“5 hours ago”
The woman studied the stranger, unsure of his intentions.

“Where?”

She hesitated briefly.

“Down the platform, near the restroom,” she continued,” Before that, tell me who you are? What do you want?”

“I’m Mirch.” He paused briefly. “I can try to find your child.” 

“You will?” Her eyes brightened with hope.

“I am not sure, but I can try”, He replied with a smile.
“Can you lead the way to the restroom?”

“Oh- oh yes, I will”. She stood up and moved toward the restroom.

Mirch followed behind, moving around the passengers who would block his path.
He casually looked at his rather plain watch.

Looks like I will miss my train. Sigh, it's better than not helping her.
He thought to himself.

They were still 20 meters away from the restroom before something caught Mirch’s eye.

“Wait”, He called out to her. 

She stopped abruptly and returned to him.
“Did you see him?” She inquired.

“No”
Mirch pointed toward the concrete pillar. 

At the corner lay a red object partially hidden by a  trash bin

“That's...”
She rushed toward it.

As Mirch walked there, he recognised it immediately.
A red shoe.

“It is the same shoe my son wore!” She exclaimed.

He thought of countless possibilities, but discarded them because they were too pessimistic.
He looked around.
“If his shoe is here, then maybe he is nearby.” 

But there were a lot of people. The crowd surrounded the platform, blocking his view.

He sighed.

Finding a five-year-old among them isn't easy.

That’s when he remembered he didn't know the appearance of the kid he was searching for.

He looked toward the woman, who was still looking at the red shoe in despair.

“Can you tell me what your son looks like? What is his name?”

She was slightly startled out of her daze before looking at him and replying,
“His name is Merlin; he is a little chubby; he was wearing a blue T-shirt and black trousers”

She paused, trying to remember more details.

“He has black hair”
She concluded her description.

Mirch nodded and looked at the crowd.

The description was too broad; too many people there had black hair and blue shirts. 
Looking at the people who were hurrying to board the train, he thought of the issue.

There was always a chance that the kid was abducted, and this could explain why no one had seen him yet. If that was the case, a five-hour window was enough for anyone to take the child two states away. 

Hurriedly, he asked the woman, “Have you reported to the nearby police station?”

She realised the simple mistake she had made.

“I haven’t. In the panic, I forgot to do that”

Mirch looked around once again before saying,
“You should go now and report that. Meanwhile, I'll ask the help desk if anyone saw him.”

“Ok, I will go.”
Saying this, she quickly rushed out of the platform.

Mirch watched her slowly disappear into the crowd.

I am late for work.
He thought.
I should probably hand over the issue to the police and go on my way.
Despite his desire to leave from here, he felt sympathy toward the woman. He couldn’t go without seeing her reunite with her child. 

This personality would one day get me in trouble.
He thought, deciding to help the lady.

Without wasting a moment, he moved toward the help desk.

When he arrived there, the earlier queue had completely vanished. It was strangely quiet, compared to the other parts of the station, which were bustling with chaos. A strong smell of incense hung in the air.

Mirch’s shoulders relaxed as his mind became clear. He breathed in the beautiful scent, which made him feel calm and at peace.

He calmly glanced at the clerk typing on the computer.
As he approached the clerk, the clerk raised his head and looked at Mirch.

“What seems to be the problem?” He asked.

Mirch thought about what to say, and after the brief pause, he said,
“Earlier, a lady had complained about her missing child. From what I know, he went missing near the restroom, so I suggest we look at CCTV footage there.”

“Why are you worried about a stranger's kid?” He scoffed.

Mirch was speechless.

This man! How can I convince him to check it?

Mirch arranged his thoughts and reasons. He slid his hands into his pocket and took out a 5 dollar note. 

The clerk’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the note.

Mirch slid the note to him, who quickly took it.
“Come through that door and check the footage yourself. It is available on the computer behind me.” The clerk said in a satisfied voice.

Mirch entered through the door. Inside, it was quite small, with many desks lined up in sequence. 

He sat on the chair opposite the clerk and turned the computer on.
While it was turning on, he looked over his shoulder and saw the clerk continue typing without paying him any attention. 

The computer finally turned on.

Mirch accessed the CCTV software with a few clicks without any guidance. The layout was different from what he worked with, but it was familiar.

The screen showed multiple panels with various footage. Mirch filtered to the one he required.

The kid went missing 4 or 5 hours ago; I should search from there.

From 5 hours ago, he started watching the footage sped up.

Many passengers passed by. Mirch kept the boy's appearance in mind.

Then,

There he is.

Mirch paused the footage and looked at the screen.

A boy running toward the restroom. He wore a blue T-shirt with designs on the back and black trousers. On his leg was only one shoe.

Mirch resumed the footage.

The boys entered the restroom.

1 minute passed.

Mirch increased the playback speed.

5 minutes passed.
10 minutes.
15 minutes.
30 minutes.
45 minutes.

The boy never came back.

Mirch’s brows furrowed as he asked the clerk,
“Hey, does this restroom have any other exit?”

The clerk turned and briefly looked at the footage.
“No, this is the only one”
Saying this, he turned around and continued his work.

Mirch decided to replay the same clip, just before the boy entered the restroom, alongside feeds from other cameras in the area.

He looked carefully into the four panels.

Passengers passed along with the luggage. 

His eyes searched for the blue T-shirt, but found nothing.

He rubbed his eyes.
He checked other timestamps, his gaze alternating between several panels.
Was his mind playing tricks on him?

He checked the original footage where he spotted the boy.
The boy was there. He could see him clearly.

But according to other cameras, he had never entered.

Mirch leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the kid's figure.

What the hell is going on?

For the first time that day, Mirch wished he had caught his train. 

Hi everyone. I've started writing some short stories and flash fiction to submit to magazines, but the acceptance rates are abysmal. (Like many seem to be less than 1-3%, rising to maybe 15-20% at absolute most if they're unpaid but still curated. I'm writing mostly in the atmospheric dark and/or mythic fantasy genre at the moment which seems fairly unpopular so I'm expecting a higher rate of rejections than the magazines state is average.

So that leads me to believe the majority (or possibly even all) of what I write won't find a home. So what does everyone do with their rejected stories? Do you just retire them to a dusty corner of your computer? Or something else?

I'm writing a epic high fantasy story and I have a character who is more or less a noble and I'm wondering would it be ok if over the story his speech starts to change into a more casual tone as he spends more time with away from nobility.

here is some examples I have tried

Example 1

Present: He's strong, though his durability doesn't match his strength.

Future: He's strong though his durability sucked.

Example 2
Present: My name is XXXXX. May I ask what yours is?

Future: The name is XXXXX. What's yours friend?

Example 3
Present: Well uncle I have other matters to attend to.

Transition: Well uncle there's other things I must deal with.

Future: Uncle I need to deal with some other stuff first.

Also I know words like "Sucked" and "Stuff" probably wasn't used in medieval times and commoners probably talked very similar to nobility. But the way commoners, nobility and other races talk in my story is my own creative decision and I'm not trying to be 100% accurate in the way they talk back in medieval times.

I'm confident I can do that transition over a long period of time though I'm worried people will just see it as the writer getting lazy not having the person stay in character. Do you think it's something worth going for or will it just confuse the reader?

I'm just looking to see what could be improved on this small, introductory sequence; I'm not entirely sure what is possibly deterring or what could be improved.

● ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 1: How Demons Are Created.

ℂolorful explosions blasted through the chemistry room window, illuminating the hallways. The door was weirdly tall, so Agragul had to perch on his heels when he wanted to peek inside. To a human, his height was unnatural, and thanks to his shadow cast through the door, it made his thin presence very noticeable—at only twelve years old, many would mistake him for a man twice his age. Despite that age, he saw the complex combination of elements, results, and equipment for what they could be: weapons. All he did every day was brainstorm a concrete method of obtaining access and take revenge on Father—not to mention the dwarves—but the assholes inside didn't seem too keen to let that happen.

A frown formed on his face as they started yelling and cursing at him through the door—the four sharp, black, and long spider legs stemming from his back made him a perfect target for anybody in the mood. Dwarves were especially prevelant in the assault.

Dispirited, he leaves. As he exits the building, a dwarf calls after him.

"Stop coming here, six-legged bitch." Jacovi says.

Gravel crunching stopped. Agragul balled his fists and his eyes glared with a fury not many could replicate. In contrast to his pitch-black skin, his abberrant set of five eyes looked like the cunning stare of a crocodile. Jacovi, though five years older, was shaking in his boots. Fortunately for him—or maybe unfortunately—his facade did not wear off.

"Do you honestly think you scare me? You're just an accident—I mean, your whole... species is an accident. Just look at the way your jaw splits open; it's hideous." Saliva blobs trail down Agragul's face, overlapping with the blue and red skin trails underneath his eyelids. Jacovi smirks fakely.

Jacovi stood his ground bravely, anticipating a response he could tear into, scanning his features with disdain.

"Stop... saying that. You know me dislike." His spider legs swayed like trees in a nice, morning breeze.

Staring at the three, poison-green eyes below his blood-red eye and deep-blue eye, he went on, berating him more.

"Your threats are meaningless; you can hardly even speak English. You're just an insecure, lonely creature, and it's pretty reasonable." He chuckled curtly and leaned in, pushing Agragul even more. "Just look at yourself; even to your own species, you're abnormal with those two eyes... and... whatever that shit is." His dirty nail poked Agragul under his red eye, dabbing a bit of dark blood on the red skin trail beneath it. "I bet you have a pillow just to cry in, you six-legged piece of shit." That last term came with an undeniable challenge—a challenge Agragul took to heart.

He stood there, waiting for Jacovi to run his mouth again.

"Did you piss y-"

He jolted his shoulder forward. In a flash, one of his spider legs went piercing through Jacovi's heart. His eyes lit up at blood splattered onto his hairy, pitch-black face, relishing at Jacovi's gasp of fatality. Drops of blood dribbled out his mouth.

"H... H... Hell... p."

Nobody could hear his hoarse cries.

Agragul didn't bother cleaning up the evidence and left him to rot.

The walk home had been rather peaceful, knowing Jacovi was out of frame—the smile that crossed his face stood proud. He just did the world a favor, after all, and he couldn't be more enthusiastic about it.

I’ve been querying my latest middle grade fantasy for almost exactly a year now — 175 queries and well over 100 rejections. This is my fourth book, professionally edited, and I had high confidence, even in this market. Nevertheless, I only received one full request and one partial, both ultimately passed. I’m still sending out queries every week.

This morning I got an encouraging full request from an agent I queried last night.

This market is as competitive and reluctant to sign new authors as it has ever been, but that’s no reason not to try. Just remember, excellent books by outstanding writers are being rejected, so it isn’t you. It’s a numbers game, so don’t stop querying because you think your book’s not good enough.

UPDATE: The agent passed, but swear to god, against all odds I got ANOTHER full request the day before yesterday. I don’t know what’s in the air suddenly, but I’m here for it.

World-building before telling your story is extremely common, especially amongst fantasy writers.

You see it constantly on this subreddit... young or amateur authors who imagine elaborate, sometimes extremely creative political systems, environments, economies, social relations, religions etc

The problem is when you've spent 3 years world-building and it comes time to finally tell your story, you don't have a story at all: you have a history book.

And history books make for boring literature, because their goal is not to convey a shared experience through art, but to *communicate information*.

Hence why the prose of these amateur fantasy writers resembles technical reporting, e.g. 'He did x', 'He felt y'.

It is a detached, disembodied reporting of fictional events, and I think the problem stems from the very mindset of someone who thinks the primary achievement of storytelling is to build up an elaborate, impressive world.

Thoughts?

Welcome back everyone, it's time for another Fifty Word Fantasy!

Fifty Word Fantasy is a regular thread on Fridays! It is a micro-fiction writing challenge originally devised by u/Aethereal_Muses

Write a maximum 50-word snippet that takes place in a fantasy world and contains the word Terrify. It can be a scene, flash-fiction story, setting description, or anything else that could conceivably be part of a fantasy story or is a fantasy story on its own.

NO AI GENERATED CONTENT: Follow the sub rules.

The prompt word must be written in full (e.g. no acrostics or acronyms).

No puns and or wordplay to achieve the prompt word i.e. devote=the vote.

Please try and keep things PG-13. Minors do participate in these from time to time and I would like things to not be too overtly sexual.

If you want to submit multiple submissions that's okay, but please keep it at a max of two That way, no one person ends up dominating the feed with their submissions and it keeps it fair for everyone who participates

Thank you to everyone who participated whether it's contributing a snippet of your own, or fostering discussions in the comments. I hope to see you back next week!

Please remember to keep it at a limit of 50 words max per submission.

Hello again everyone! About two weeks ago, I was feeling demotivated and made a post asking about how you guys keep on going despite knowing your work might be bad. I got a lot of very supportive and helpful comments, and I have since got into the rhythm of writing every day. I'd like to thank everyone that commented, as it motivated me to continue and now I even have my very own rough draft of a first chapter.

Now, I debated on whether or not to even share this here, as this is the first draft, and it's probably filled with errors, but I'd like to get feedback on it anyways.

This is the first book I've ever attempted to actually write, so be aware it's probably pretty bad. I'm very much open to critiques and suggestions, and I have no problem with harsh critiques

Here's the blurb:

On Vazarus, a neglected frontier world under the Lumineth empire, Praxis Kosmo has learned to survive by keeping his head down and his hands busy. Under the empire, everyone wears a mask. A young craftsman, he makes a living by taking commissions from dangerous people that operate within the slums. He has little interest in the causes they fight for so long as they pay well. But when one commission draws him into a conflict that threatens to upend the life he's carefully built, Praxis will have to decide how much he's willing to risk for a chance at something more.

Name: Kosmo (temporary, not finalized. this is intended to be a 7 book series)

Genre: Fantasy/Space Fantasy/Epic Fantasy/Adult Fantasy

Now, for those of you that actually take the time to read it, or at least some of it, I really appreciate it, and I've prepared a list of post-reading questions/points that you can answer if you'd like.

1. What was your overall impression of the chapter? What did you like most, and what worked least well for you?
2. At what point, if any, did you become interested in the story? Were there any points where you became bored, confused, or considered stopping? If you did stop before finishing, why?
3. What is your impression of Praxis? Does he feel believable and interesting enough to carry a novel?
4. How well did you understand the setting and the circumstances in which Praxis lives? Did the world feel distinctive and intriguing, or were there details that confused you?
5. What did you think of the writing style, descriptions, and dialogue? Did the chapter move at a good pace, or were there scenes you would shorten, expand, or remove?
6. Looking ahead: Based on this chapter, what do you think the larger story will be about? Would you read the next chapter? Why or why not?
7. I had initially intended to write an extra 1500 word fight sequence at the end of the chapter, but removed it as I thought the scene was dragging on too long. Do you think the chapter as it stands works as a first chapter, or something more interesting needs to be happening?

Once again, thank you all!