# Fantasy Story (untitled) [Prologue only]



## JonEd (Feb 1, 2015)

*I had a story written up based off of this same land and similar characters, but I feel that the writing was not up to standard. Now I'm putting my full effort into writing something I believe may be worth publishing, once it is finished. It is extremely short for now, but I will be working on this as much as I can. Please leave some genuinely helpful comments. - Jon
*

*Prologue: The Third Night (rewrite)*


Fire lashed at the castle walls, engulfing the battlements and turrets and the brilliance of the setting sun. Night was upon the city of Mort.


Noise polluted the air like a thick fog. A man ran through the smoke and ash, darting through the streets, his golden hair shone in the light of the burning city.  His lungs were burning, as if the fire around him had crept down his throat, his watering eyes casting the path in front of him in a blurry visage. But even then he could see the charred bodies that lay strewn in the ruined city. 


Every face seemed familiar to him. People he may have helped, or passed in the market. Brave souls he may have fought alongside for the previous two days. Each one was a dagger to the heart, and most looked at him with the same cracked, blackened lips, the same eyes sealed with blood congealed by fire. But some moaned and crawled for a fools hope at life; their bodies stiff and burnt, their wails of death and madness loud against the crackling of the fire. They paid no attention to the man who passed them, their agony blinded them to all but pain and suffering. He gritted his teeth and kept running. Every cry, every scream pulled at his kind heart with grips of guilt and sorrow. 


'They're dead,' he said to himself with a raspy croak. 'They're dead, they're dead, keep running, keep running,' he repeated over and over again. 


Step by stiff step, breath by raspy breath, he continued on, until he was passed the worst of the death. A cold calm settled over him, as the moans of death slowly faded. 


Then his eyes glazed over the burnt husk of a familiar old house collapsing in on itself. The flames had eaten through the doorframe and house, and in that split second it took for him to pass by, he saw. The form of the cartwright he saw so often in the city commons critically eyeing the carts he'd repaired, cradling a boy in his arms. They shared the same lifeless, blood filled eyes of the people in the streets; staring desperately for help they did not come. Their cracked lips were agape, calling for aid that did not answer.  Then they were gone. Swept away by the blur of smoke and burning awnings and faceless corpses.


He kept running, but only fear pushed his aching legs further. Fear of joining the bloody eyed corpses that he had left behind. Burning hair and flesh and boiling blood smothered the city with a stench. The sun set, and a glowing moon rose with a crimson aura. The stars were hidden by a canopy of thick smoke, but a bold, blood-soaked moon pierced the shroud and spilled an eerie luminescence onto the streets of Mort.  


He neared the bridge, with every expectation of exiting at a fast pace, but something pulled him back. He felt himself slowing down as he reached the smooth stone of the bridge, ignoring his screaming instincts to keep going. Invisible chains of memory and love and family brought him to a halt. And against his better judgement, he looked back. The glow from the smouldering heap that was once his home, danced wildly in his silver eyes and roasted in the night time air. Pain and guilt stuck his heart and painted his face, as all he knew turned to ash. 
He placed his hand upon the rough stone pillars of the bridge, and continued watching the city. The sky was now dark, and the castles flames licked at heavens feet. Tears swelled in his eyes, but before a drop could fall, he turned his back and walked away from his burning home. 


________________________________________________________________________​

From the forest, smoke could be seen climbing to the heavens. A young woman was striding down a makeshift path, covered by the shadows of looming trees above. Her long, silver-golden hair was fair; it danced and waved with every small movement. The smell of pine and oak and grass was rich and strong in the forest, it overpowered the smoke in the distance, leaving only the smallest wisp to tickle the nose with a faint odour. Her green eyes glazed over the dark grey cloud of ash in the distance; her face filled with a confliction of wonder and pain, for fire consumed and gave nothing but ash and destruction back. Something she knew all too well.  




*Chapter 1: Winter Roads (first draft)*

Jomm rested his quivering hands over the warmth of the fire. It was midafternoon, but the clouds blocked the sun, and the sky was dark. Heavy winter snows and rain had made the roads treacherous with sleet and sludge. 
For now, the assault of snow and rain had subsided, but the thick canopy of trees that stood above his campsite had caught the rain, and dropped a friendly reminder of winters artillery on his shoulders.
He groaned with pain as he tried to shift his aching muscles. Large bruises covered his arms and legs a deep purple with peppered spots of black and blue. 
The heat of the fire made the burn on his shin sting and pop, and it oozed yellow pus. He grabbed at the singed cloth he had in his knapsack, and applied a fresh bandage to the seared wound. 


His eyes felt heavy with drowsiness. He fought off sleep's grasps with a begrudging and lethargic attitude, yearning to fall under the unconscious spell.  
The sound of footsteps and murmured voices snapped him out of his wearied state. Slowly, he reached for his longbow and quiver, and crept over to a nearby bush, away from the fire and his knapsack. 


'I saw the smoke from the road,' a man said.


'Sure you did,' another replied. 'I think you're losing it, Alva.' 


The two men pushed through the wet foliage, stumbling across Jomm's campsite. They were only shadows, hidden behind the light of the fire. 


'I told you I saw smoke,' Alva said. 'It's a wonder someone managed to get one going in these conditions. I think my bones are frozen.' 


'Who would leave a fire like this?' the other man said. 'Don't they know this whole place could go up in flames?' 


'What are you thick, Kraz? The woods are all damp, there's no way the fire will catch onto any of that.' Alva said. "Hey, look.' he motioned over towards the knapsack.
'Whoever it was, they left their gear.'


'It's ours now,' Kraz said, leaning forward to pick up Jomm's knapsack. 


Jomm quickly nocked an arrow on the bowstring, and stepped out from the bushes. He fired, pinning the knapsack to the ground; the arrow stuck between Kraz's middle and ring fingers. Kraz jumped back, startled. Alva drew a chipped and damaged short sword from the ragged leather scabbard he wore at his waist. 


The fire danced and swayed, and their faces became visible. Alva stood, mouth agape, with dark, deep eyes, and a bulging nose. His teeth were yellow and sharp. A mop of dark, tangled hair fell down to the base of his neck. The sword shook in his hands and his thin arms trembled. 
Kraz's barrel chest heaved heavily as he sucked in breath after breath. His bald head shone in the light of the fire. A grizzled goatee of a light orange almost hid his thick, red lips. His fists were cocked, and his thick, muscular arms tensed, but like Alva, his hands quivered and quaked, and his face revealed the true fear deep within. 


'Drop the sword,' Jomm said sternly, pulling back another arrow. 'Or the next one will be in your friends heart. Or his balls, I'm feeling somewhat cruel today.' 
Kraz looked over at Alva, with a worried expression painted on his face. Alva remained still, eying Jomm with a paralysed caution. 


'Alva,' Kraz said through his goatee. 'Drop the bloody sword!' 


Alva remained still. 


Jomm turned to Alva, and released the arrow. The scarlet feathers danced in the wind as it flew, the arrow head pierced the back of Alva's hand. The sword fell to the ground with a dull thud, and again, Jomm had another arrow nocked and ready. 
He turned back to Kraz. 


'Drop,' he said, over the painful screams coming from Alva. Kraz did as he was told, and dropped to the ground. 


Jomm walked over to Alva and releasing the tension on his bowstring, he picked up the sword. 


'This sword is barely sharp enough to cut my meat,' he said, almost chuckling, 'let alone able to cut through my flesh.' 


He tossed it aside, and looked over at Kraz. Alva still writhed on the floor, clutching at the arrow in his hand.


'Now. If you want your friend to live, you need to take him to the nearest town,' he said. 'Mort isn't safe, don't go there. If you don't manage to find a healer within a day, he will die. Understand?' 


'Can't you mend him?' Kraz said, his face was filled with worry. 


'I'm handy with a bow, and with a hammer on steel, but that's as far as my talents go,' Jomm said. 'Leave, now. Or I'll end both your lives now, and save the healers the trouble.' 


Kraz pulled Alva off the ground, and they both walked off back into the bushes, the sword sat on the ground. A few specks of Alva's crimson blood glistened in the fire's light. 
Once they were out of sight, Jomm picked up his knapsack, and threw it over his shoulder. He kicked sand onto the fire, and suddenly his modest campsite turned dark once more. 




Jomm crept through the bushes with the guile of a jungle cat, shifting his eyes back and forth on the figures of the two men who thrashed in the dark forest. Alva held his hand close to his chest, and kept it wrapped tightly in his shirt. Kraz kept a hand on his back, both in support, and as a means of keeping track of him. They trudged through the muddy sludge of the ground. 


'Why wouldn't you take the path like a normal, sensible person?' Jomm thought to himself, shaking his head lightly. 


The soft pitter-patter of rain began once more; the light aroma of petrichor gave the calm wind a pleasant smell. But the rain was cold, and every drop seemed to send a chill right to the bone. Jomm gave a small shiver, as he continued on, creeping through the bushes like a common cutthroat. 


He tried to tell himself he followed them to make sure they left him alone, but he knew, deep in his kind heart, that this was not the truth. Since released the arrow that split the veins in Alva's hand, and spilled his precious fluids, guilt had built up from his stomach and crept into his heart and thoughts. He used his safety as an excuse to make sure they made it to their destination. For all he knew, they were innocent men. And innocent men should never be harmed. 


Every few minutes, Jomm swore he saw a shadow emerge from the foliage and motion to attack the fumbling pair of me. And each time, the shadows grew in stature; bigger, and stronger and equipped with heavy weapons, they thrusted, slashed and stabbed at the two men with dark, shadowy swords that delivered no damage. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, cursing at his weary, paranoid mind hallucinating. But it took his concentration, and only when she spoke and poked his back with a sharp knife, did he realise he had neglected his own safety.


----------



## Guy Faukes (Feb 3, 2015)

Hey Jon,

Yeah, the first drafts usually always require a rewrite and are just a way for you to hammer out the key ideas.

You have a good imagination and visual imagery, however, I have a few problems with the prose. Take the introduction: 

_"It was nearing night again in the city of Mort. The dusk sun was beginning to set, leaving a golden...__" _- Here, we know that it is dusk, since you mentioned it's nearing night in the first sentence. You could also trim out some of the second sentence by rewording the phrasing of the verb.

_"It was nearing night again in the city of Mort. The sun began to set, leaving a golden..." _

Or you can reintroduce "dusk" again:

_"Dusk fell on the city of Mort. The sun began to set, leaving a golden..."_

When starting out, new writers will often put a lot of words where you don't need as many, and sometimes skimp out where they should be elaborating. 

The second issue I had were the moments of blunt exposition that stuck out, e.g.
_"__If not for the colour," _- this is pretty blunt. It works in some genres, but fantasy requires seamless transitioning between vivid details. Just smooth it out. It will slow down the pace of the story, and allow the reader to take in the details better. 

The piece is grammatically correct, except for maybe the errant comma here and there. 

Still, the piece overall it shows good promise and raw imagination. Keep on writing!


----------



## MamaStrong (Feb 3, 2015)

I agree with Guy. I found reading the piece interesting but there were a lot of unneeded words. As a new writer myself, I too tend to throw in more words to describe things than necessary. I look forward to reading more from you, keep it up!


----------



## tornskate (Feb 3, 2015)

Just a suggestion, feel free to take it or leave it...

It's a little difficult for me to get into stories that start with the weather/atmosphere. A problem I have with my own writing is I start in the sky and eventually zoom into my characters. Maybe try to start with the character, and eventually zoom out to their surroundings.

Once again, this is just a matter of preference, and there may be people that disagree with me (yourself included). Just giving my two cents. c:

Best of luck on your writing endeavors!


----------



## JonEd (Feb 3, 2015)

I have edited this a lot since I originally posted it. I hope it's not too much trouble to ask you guys to give it a reread 

As for the starting with setting, I've always found that the best place to start. For me, it creates the entire feel of the place, before introducing the character. You can gain a lot about a character through the setting.


----------



## C. S. Danner (Feb 3, 2015)

Just a quick thought on the intro, Jon. I think it's mostly personal preference on how to start a story. I don't know how many blogs and articles about writing I've read that say something like, "...never begin with weather!" But I tend to disagree, mainly for the reason you said above. It depends on how linear a reader is. I, for one, read pretty linear, so I like to be able to imagine the setting first and then fill in the blanks within the world. Sometimes it takes me out of a story if too much emphasis is put on characters and plot right away while ignoring the setting, leaving me unable to really get a grip on where and when the action is taking place.

So the trick is (and I think you've done a pretty good job of it here) to introduce the setting in an interesting manner that avoids clichés, like the ever infamous "It was a dark and stormy night..."
Also, what I found interesting about the introduction was, even though you use the word "roaring" when describing the fires, the first couple of sentences almost depict a tranquil scene, but then that is shattered by the beginning of the next paragraph as you realize what is going on. I dig the sudden jolt there!


----------



## JonEd (Feb 3, 2015)

Thanks for the comment! I agree with exactly what you said. But take a reread, I have edited it heavily. This is the most I have ever edited anything I've written, so I'm hoping the quality is good.


----------



## rcallaci (Feb 5, 2015)

The quality is quite good. Read the first draft and this is a vast improvement. It's a interest grabber. An excellent prologue to hopefully   to a rip rip roaring tale....


my warmest
bob


----------



## JStoudt (Feb 8, 2015)

This held my attention and I really do enjoy reading fantasy stories like this. There were a few points which made me stumble. If the city is 'nearly abandoned' I take that to mean it is empty and most of the inhabitants have left, but from the description I get the sense there are a lot of dead bodies. It also confused me how in one sentence the silver haired man draws his bow with both hands but in the next sentence he places a hand on the bridge. Was it necessary to even have him draw the bow? These are minor things and you shouldn't let that bother you on the first draft but I didn't think I would be much help if I didn't point out where it could improve for me.

Other than that I like how it leaves me wondering. Was it a dragon that destroyed the city, or an army, or some fire demon? I want to read on to find out. Good start and keep writing!


----------



## tlchap (Feb 8, 2015)

The opening statement was as if crossing a stream with a bit of a current. It took some pushing to get where you wanted to be, but was a nice landing once you arrived there. The end of the prologue was great. It leaves you asking all the best questions such as who, what, why? Keep it up.


----------



## JonEd (Feb 8, 2015)

I've given it a bit of a rewrite. Thanks to all for your comments


----------



## Lone Wanderer (Feb 9, 2015)

The premise seems good so far, not a whole lot of cliche but it was hard for me to visualize a lot of the carnage you were describing, definitely could be cleaned up. I would quote some examples but I'm on a mobile device haha. I would say most of the advice above is worth following.


----------



## JonEd (Feb 9, 2015)

Thanks for the comments guys! I've added more to it, introduced another character in order to really tell the story I want to tell. I should be done with chapter 1 soon.


----------



## JustRob (Feb 10, 2015)

JonEd said:


> Smoke could be seen climbing to the heavens from the forest.



I stalled when I read this, having just been told about a city on fire. Was the seeing or the climbing taking place from the forest? I had to read on to work that out. Just a change in the order of the words would cure that. It's very difficult to see what's really in your writing rather than what you thought you put there though, so even dumb readers like me can help. Every good writer should have an idiot perpetually looking over their shoulder asking them what they mean. I do that to myself all the time, but it infuriates me.

I have no problem with lots of words provided that the action keeps moving. This enthusiasm for keeping the number of words down may originate from the cost of the paper to print the books; I don't know, but E-books will eventually make that irrelevant. There's no reason for repeating yourself though; that gets boring and looks amateur. I'm allergic to large amounts of description, but had no trouble with this piece. I'm only a reader though, writing just for fun without any discipline, so don't heed my words too much. I have far too many to give away.


----------



## J.J. Maxx (Feb 10, 2015)

Jon, here are some of my thoughts...

I thought you set the scene really well, but you lingered too long on the details. Your sentences are long and maybe you don't notice it but there is a pattern of adjective-noun that becomes tiresome after a while. Not every noun needs a descriptor.

_...*castle walls*, engulfing the battlements and turrets and the brilliance of the *setting sun*. Night was upon the city of Mort.

Noise polluted the air like a *thick fog*. Calls for aid and screams echoed through the *nearly abandoned city*, as many *brave souls *who tried to fight had their life snuffed almost instantly. Inside the *burnt husk *of an *old house *was the form of a man cradling his son, their flesh and cloth charred a *deathly black*, as flames continued to lick and spit at their corpses. Where the fires had dissipated, the bodies of men, women, and children laid, once filled with warmth, were cold to the touch. Some clutched at their throats with *deaths strong grip*, others at *mortal wounds*; pierced with arrows or cut by *sharp steel*.

_​Perhaps it's just me reading too much into it but I noticed. Your structures are repetitive and it makes the prose feel bland. Don't be afraid to add in punch statements. Even a sentence such as 'Fire.' can help break up the flow and make it interesting. 

Also, I do think you need to try to focus a little more on showing versus telling. Take this for example:

_He choked and coughed on the density of the smoke...

_​This sentence is essentially telling us he choked on the smoke. What does that look like? What is he feeling? So you might write something like this:

_His lungs were burning, as if the fire around him had crept down his throat, his watering eyes casting the path in front of him in a blurry visage.

_​I think it's a great setting and your imagery is very well done. I would work on going with a less-is-sometimes-more approach and keep writing!

Thanks.

~ JJ


----------



## JonEd (Feb 12, 2015)

Thanks for the comments guys! I've done yet another big redo of this, hope it reads better.


----------



## rcallaci (Feb 12, 2015)

Applause to jj max for his crit advice and for you utilizing it in your edit- this is outstanding- A three dimensional work- you've given the piece heart...


my warmest
bob


----------



## Caragula (Feb 14, 2015)

Hi, it bowls along well, but it does suffer from hyperbole, there are no shades, it's just 'maxxed out'.

Seeing dead people didn't merely upset him, each one was a dagger to the heart.  If the bodies are charred how could faces be familiar?  Noise doesn't fill the air it pollutes it.  Every single cry and scream seems to tear him apart.  The moon has a crimson aura, not a red one.  The glow from the burned city both danced and roasted!  The flames don't just lick the sky they lick heaven's feet.

The problem is that when this character's wife/best buddy dies where do you go in terms of trying to describe the pain of it, when people in the street are already tearing his heart out and a burning street is touching heaven itself.

It all started bleeding into one big mass of burning, I couldn't share the character's feeling and I think it's because you didn't make enough of the cartwright and the boy.  I think if you'd condensed much of it to a description of how the cartwright's arm or the tatters of his cloak were crossed over protectively, but futilely, the boy, a last act of fatherhood, and you recalled a moment with him and the boy more clearly, you'd have a very effective juxtaposition with the carnage without having to go through paragraphs of soul wrenching and roasting  and, basically, telling not showing how bad he feels.  A carefree moment with that boy is showing that there was a relationship there before, happiness etc.  You thus have to do a bit less work going on about how awful the fire is, because the boy's charred skin, the way he's leaned into his father's chest, possibly even sucking his thumb, the bones all that's left showing his arm in that position, are enough to convey the horror of an innocent's death.

The particular hooks a reader like the general doesn't.


----------



## JonEd (Feb 17, 2015)

Thanks for the comments guys, I don't think I really agree with the comment about hyperbole. I see what you're saying, but this is a fantasy story, where scenery can be described in a "fantastic and hyperbolic" fashion. 

I've updated with chapter 1.


----------



## Gallifray_Lord (Mar 4, 2015)

I totally agree, that is how i start all my stories. it works well for me. I always come away feeling confident.


----------



## scd250 (Mar 10, 2015)

Fire lashed at the castle walls, engulfing the battlements and turrets and the brilliance of the setting sun. Night was upon the city of Mort. *Good opening.*


Noise polluted the air like a thick fog. A man ran through the smoke and ash, darting through the streets, his golden hair shone in the light of the burning city. His lungs were burning, as if the fire around him had crept down his throat, his watering eyes casting the path in front of him in a blurry visage. But even then he could see the charred bodies that lay strewn in the ruined city. *There is an awkward tense switch between "darting through the streets..." and "...his golden hair shone". This can probably be worded differently. It's not technically *wrong*, but it sounds odd. *


Every face seemed familiar to him. People he may have helped, or passed in the market. Brave souls he may have fought alongside for the previous two days. Each one was a dagger to the heart, and most looked at him with the same cracked, blackened lips, the same eyes sealed with blood congealed by fire. But some moaned and crawled for a fools hope at life; their bodies stiff and burnt, their wails of death and madness loud against the crackling of the fire. They paid no attention to the man who passed them, their agony blinded them to all but pain and suffering. He gritted his teeth and kept running. Every cry, every scream pulled at his kind heart with grips of guilt and sorrow. *Fools probably needs an apostrophe. Otherwise this passage is very engaging. I like it.*


'They're dead,' he said to himself with a raspy croak. 'They're dead, they're dead, keep running, keep running,' he repeated over and over again. *Since he's talking to himself you may be able to cut this passage and get a cleaner result. You could go either way depending on your taste.*


Step by stiff step, breath by raspy breath, he continued on, until he was passed the worst of the death. A cold calm settled over him, as the moans of death slowly faded. *Past instead of passed.*


Then his eyes glazed over the burnt husk of a familiar old house collapsing in on itself. The flames had eaten through the doorframe and house, and in that split second it took for him to pass by, he saw. The form of the cartwright he saw so often in the city commons critically eyeing the carts he'd repaired, cradling a boy in his arms. They shared the same lifeless, blood filled eyes of the people in the streets; staring desperately for help they did not come. Their cracked lips were agape, calling for aid that did not answer. Then they were gone. Swept away by the blur of smoke and burning awnings and faceless corpses. *The word 'house' is used redundantly. I would cut the second usage and leave just 'doorframe'. *


He kept running, but only fear pushed his aching legs further. Fear of joining the bloody eyed corpses that he had left behind. Burning hair and flesh and boiling blood smothered the city with a stench. The sun set, and a glowing moon rose with a crimson aura. The stars were hidden by a canopy of thick smoke, but a bold, blood-soaked moon pierced the shroud and spilled an eerie luminescence onto the streets of Mort. *'he had' can be just 'he'. *


He neared the bridge, with every expectation of exiting at a fast pace, but something pulled him back. He felt himself slowing down as he reached the smooth stone of the bridge, ignoring his screaming instincts to keep going. Invisible chains of memory and love and family brought him to a halt. And against his better judgement, he looked back. The glow from the smouldering heap that was once his home, danced wildly in his silver eyes and roasted in the night time air. Pain and guilt stuck his heart and painted his face, as all he knew turned to ash.  *no comma after home. Probably no comma after face, either.*

He placed his hand upon the rough stone pillars of the bridge, and continued watching the city. The sky was now dark, and the castles flames licked at heavens feet. Tears swelled in his eyes, but before a drop could fall, he turned his back and walked away from his burning home. *Heavens should be heaven's. 

Summary: I really, really like this. You have a gift for descriptive prose and I really feel like I'm there when I am reading this. I can palpably feel the main character's sadness and just want to give him a hug.

You can definitely tighten this up a little and remove some redundant phrasing, but other than that there's really not much bad to say about this. Good job!*


----------

