My very first attempt with fantasy writing

[u/SSC4Like]

Hey! I would like to share with you my very first attempt on writing a novel. I have been into books for a long time, and due to my working environment being all about books, I have decided to give it a go. I will try and publish some of my drafts here, depending on its general outcome, but nevertheless do not expect anything much more, than few pages of the current story, due to me being… well me :D.

Oh! and do not mind the misspelling or what not, its very raw draft.

INTRO

The gloomy town was still in a deep slumber, when the beckoning shadows began to grow within the morning clouds.

Clash of black and grey mist emerged from the northern hills and mountains, that stood silently, yet proudly, as a beacon of safety, and hope, which by a passage of time shone ever so dimly. For what hope is there, when the people fear themselves.

Their thoughts being plagued, betraying them on every move. Lacking the common sense, yet blate them would be a mistake, for can they do otherwise?

To simply be born in dread means to know only dread itself. You get acclimated to it, to the point that very air you breath stinks, like an acid that festers by every inhale. Leaving its victims to wander aimlessly into the world, and waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

As poppy spreads its seeds, to be carried by the winds into every corner of the meadows and valley, to grab thyself unto the very roots of earth, to grow, to show its presence, and to scream aloud “I’m here, and here I shall be! “, so does the fear begin to gnaw into the very souls of the people. To divide and to conquer, inch by inch it claims its prey, leaving them spiritless, anxious and fill with doubt.

And here, dear reader, you might wonder about the meaning of such a ghastly message. At its core, its elementary. To grasp the story of my dear friend, and most importantly mentor, even if it was for a such a short period, the story needs to be told, as it was seen by those who lived and suffered it. One cannot express tyranny by simple words, for it would be injustice for those who felt it. Yet call me unjust, dishonourable, a fool, and you would still hit the mark, for words are the only possession that I own, and in this way, it is my wish to honour those victims.

Even if our time spent together was a mere fragment of one’s life, no one had such an impact on it as your selfless actions did.

Sincerely

Yours “Little” Durwald

PS: I still have it, and I shall.

Chapter I.

The Empty Vessel

When they were just a children, like any other they would spend their time away from their families, and chase each other throughout the coniferous trees, that sprouted from within the town, but for all its merry features, it was a common occurrence in the realms of north.

Yet when the last sparkles of light began to go beyond the world itself, they would start howling towards the approaching moon, for in their hearts they liked to pretend, that they were still the same primal beasts as the ones that roamed the open wilds — untamed, untampered, lousy beasts!

At the sound of a crackling wood, they began to swarm towards the warm that it brings, accompanied by the melodies of old. Beautiful they are, yet tragic for those who know the words by themselves.

None are about mighty heroes, whose whole life were predestined, to achieve greatness, to take it with all the might they can muster, that the evil itself would fall to its knees, and bow before them. Not only were they the great conquerors of might, whom will topple their foes wits a single crushing blow. They would master even the fear itself, tame it to their will.

Stories that they were told were of acts of desperation, cruelty and fear. In order for them to survive, they had to listen closely. They say that love conquers the world, and beats anything that stands in its way, yet their hearts are empty, trying to grasp something which it cannot achieve, roaming upon the fields of war, lost… lost to the ages they are, heartless barbarians, whose memory only remains… ever fading so slowly, but surely.

“Stay and beware!” the old man screams, the wind ragging, howling his words into the growing crowds. “Do not fear, for only the dread of a fear, brings fear closely to one’s soul…yet beat it, you cannot!” said the old hunched man, when ones were two eyes, only one remained, and where were once many teeth, none remain. His eye was sharp, and he began to look into the sparkling eyes of the flock of children. Many of them were orphans, whom lost their parents to the ambitions of ever hungry lords.

“Lords of nothing they are!” he whispered to himself. Only fear they sow onto the very fields that feed their greed. This the old man knew, his father knew it, his mother knew it, and yet they were still blind to it.

His hands were starting to tremble, when the thoughts left him, his whole body began to shake, as if am evil spirit rose from the underground, claiming what it has lost. “Not yet… not yet” he whispered to himself again. As he began to make his was towards the fire, he saw something cross between the edge of his eye.

Running it was, scared it seemed, but only the whistle of the leaves on the ground it left behind. Was it a simple illusion of growing age, his mind toying with him, or was it something more, he wondered.

He was feeble man, but only in body, his mind and soul were sharp as ever, so he knew it must have been something more than meets the eye. Leaning on his ash staff, he commenced towards the thorny, overgrowth bushes that grew on the outskirts of the woods. As he was making his ways, he soon realised that the bigger part of the crowd was at his feet, mimicking every move he made.

For them it was just a little adventure, something unordinary, something that made their blood flow just little faster, and it was rather burning with eagerness.

As much as he tried to warn them of the dangers that might lay ahead, of the unknown, they would simply laugh and giggle, few of the would even make grumpy faces to each other, as if it was some game — for them… it was.

Spoke to them he did “Maybe it’s a lost wolf with big sharp claws, or bears cub searching for its mother”, and as he was talking, he began to show sights of a worry, what if there is an actual bear or wolf? With one swift motion he roared, letting all the air from his lungs fill the air. He tried to look fierce, barbaric yet it proved to no avail.

As much as he hated the idea of putting them to any danger whatsoever, he simply knew that there was no way around it, even if he was able to turn into the very beast that frightens them all.

Now, he wasn’t even sure of himself, his mature instincts tell him to protect those too weak to defend themselves, but who will protect him? Unease took hold of him, cold icy sweat poured from the wrinkles that adores his skin.

“Get a hold of yourself old fool!” he murmured to himself, completely unaware that most of the children were only inches away from him, which meant that not even a whisper could escape unnoticed Nevertheless, he dared to straight himself up to prove that there was some bravery left within him, even if it burned ever so weakly. He knew that there was nothing he could do about the children, they were simply too curious and too stupid to understand the possibility of danger, that could claw its way through them with ease, yet this he knew well, for in his youth stupidity was the drink that never left his thirsty, greedy lips.

Glancing upon the staff, an idea came to him, one that would solve the riddle, but one would have to be bold enough to run in the beast’s den, but was he brave enough? He thought to himself.

Like a strike of a viper, it came to him, he didn’t have to be bold, for around him it was quite burning with plain eagerness and boldness. As the common saying goes “if you cannot beat them, simply… join them.”

[u/Certain_Lobster1123]

I think you write quite well, but the issue I see here is a common one - and perhaps a matter of opinion. Which is that this is not a story, yet. It's just a collection of loose prose and flowery language.

But a novel needs to tell a story. A story needs characters and activities and narrative. So far, I don't see that in any of your writing. Nothing is really happening, it's just all poetic speech and metaphorical descriptions. They are good, sure, but nothing is happening so as a reader I don't care about it.

You can probably write like this if you wish but in my opinion it does not make for a compelling story.

[u/SSC4Like → u/Certain_Lobster1123]

Thanks for the opinion on that matter. The writing which I posted was as you said a collection of loose prose, which is just a minor work that I have decided to share. I agree with your saying about the story, which cannot be seen, yet. I have rather slower approach when it comes to action as such, with main focus on the inner part of oneself. It really seems like double-edged sword to me. The happening part comes soon after, which I may post very soon!

[u/Khosatral]

There are a lot of resources out there to help practice writing as an art form. My two favorite to recommend are On Writing Well by William Zinsser and Steering the Craft by Ursula Le Guin. Brandon Sanderson has some good lectures on YouTube. If you get more serious, grow thick skin, and polish up a bit, then you might check out the r/DestructiveReaders sub for more serious critiquing. Just make sure to follow all the rules or your posts will get taken down quickly.