Dana_Johnson

Interested in high fantasy? Mages, Elves, Undead, Knights and Gods? Then please continue reading.

This is the first installment in my latest book. No cut-out chapters at this point, but they'll come with revision.

Enjoy!





Peeling apart his blood-crusted eyelids, the man sat upright in the sand, trying to clear his vision, his head reeling with pain from the blow that rendered him unconscious. Placing the tip of his sword into the ground he staggered to a knee, his arms shook as he supported his weight. Wiping the sweat from his brow he peered off into the distance, smoke rose overtop the nearby hills. The midday sun was stifling as it shone its betraying rays upon his helm. He slowly moved his head from side to side, and rolled his defined shoulders. The man rose to his feet and took a deep breath. The air reeked of blood and metal, the field was scattered with slain men and horses, blood soaked steel and mangled bodies of men he once knew. His heart filled with anger and hatred, his soul burned with resolve and revenge, his nostrils flared as his lungs filled with air before he screamed toward the sky, “Myrvix!” The man lowered his head and a single tear drop fell to the ground, the sound was booming, and it echoed throughout is body. The hatred in is heart was replaced with grief, the Warriors of Lancor never cried, he shamed himself and hurried across the battlefield, jumping bodies and blades. He must reach town before the Myr do, these Undead Priests from the foul region of Wurmeg were ruthless, and would stop at nothing to rid the world of men. But it was not men he feared for, it was thoughts of his family that drove his tears to the ground, and his feet across it. He was sure he would arrive before the Myr, for they knew not of the old goat pass. He climbed the mossy stone with such vigor he noticed not how his hands bled upon the rough surface. He paid no heed to his wounds, his mind free of thoughts, save those of his wife Loria, and his only son Ayron.

Faster, faster, faster he muttered in a monotone voice beneath his breath. Panting heavily the man broke the hill top and stopped mid-stride. His defined jaw opened, his thick eyebrows quivering as tears welled in his deep-blue eyes. The village was aflame, smoke rose above the great forest canopy as screams carried steadfast through the underbrush. His spine tingled and his skin crawled; he could see ominous black shapes move about the village, screams broke before them and death graced their wake. His look of astonishment and sadness shattered; his full lips pursed together, his jaw muscles tightened, his sweat soaked brow tensed with the rest of his body as his fiery eyes narrowed. Slowly he reached to his side and unsheathed his blade; the cold steel reflected the souls of which it was to slay. With hatred and anticipation upon the eve of slaughter, his muscles quivered as he wielded the razor-sharp steel. The man broke into a dead sprint down the hillside. “Sign the treaty or all shall fall.” The words of Myrvix echoed through Voramir’s head as he ran toward the village. “If you do not succumb to my will, King Voramir, I will personally ravage your beautiful wife, Loria.” Voramir spat on the ground mid-stride with the thoughts of such distasteful words, the image of the Undead Priest haunted him as he bound through the prairie. “You will pay, you wretched scum!”screamed Voramir as he broke through village gates. As he did his vision blurred and a fire roared in his temples, the mighty King collapsed upon the earth.






It was a bright summer day, the suns rays were warm upon the cheeks of Voramir as he stepped from his cottage. The song birds were chirping ever so peacefully in the nearby tree line; he listened intently to their song and closed his eyes as a cool breeze blew across the golden fields of oats, rushing toward him, filling him with life and vigor.

He let out a long slow sigh and smiled at a passerby carrying a basket of freshly picked fruits from the grove. He wrapped his golden tunic around himself as another soft gust sent shivers up his spine. He walked through the village with a bit more of a bounce in his step than usual, for today was the day his son was to be born, and what a fine day it was.

“Ahh, good morning Voramir” said Tibble, a childhood friend of The King.

“How’s the weather treating you today?”

“Just wonderfully, thank you Tibble.” he replied.

“Say, when do you plan on coming to the Castle one of these days, we will feast and drink ‘til we cannot lift our goblets. What do you say good friend?”

“That’s quite alright my King, the luxuries of my Cottage are enough to satisfy me quite well.” replied Tibble with a chuckle.

Tibble was a very simple man, always had been. Voramir loved women, drinking, and training to be a Lancorian Warrior in his teenage years, whereas Tibble enjoyed the confines of his room, studying all he could. The King continued walking throughout the village until he reached the market.

What a bustling area it was. The market was in a constant haze due to the movement of feet upon the gravel lain streets. Poor people, rich people, Merchants and Performers all gathered here day in and day out, bartering and hawking their goods. The King continued wandering about from vendor to vendor, when suddenly an enticing scent caught his attention.

”Lilacs” said the King with a smile. They were his favorite of all flowers. He had adored them since childhood.

“Where was this scent coming from?” He thought to himself. “They aren’t in season yet.”

The smell had led the King to an overgrown stone path in front of an abandoned cottage. He cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his face against a dirty window while squinting to see through, but nothing was visible. He went to the large wooden door that stood firm at the end of the rugged stone path. The closer he got to the door, the stronger the smell became.

Turning the rusty knob the door creaked open ever so slowly. The King gave the door a gentle push. Sunlight bathed the pale white cobwebs lining the entrance; dust particles danced in the air, looking ever so bright against the dark room behind them. Voramir looked over his shoulder, the birds were still chirping, the breeze still blowing, and the sun was still shining as brightly as before. The King looked forward and stepped foot inside the cottage, the smell of lilacs so very strong now, taking a deep breath his nostrils filled with delight and he cracked a slight smile.

He opened his eyes and suddenly the smell vanished, the entire room around him began to get very cold. He could no longer feel the sun warming him, he began to shiver. The room started getting darker and darker as each second passed slower and slower. The birds had stopped chirping, there was no soft hiss of a breeze between the cracks of the old cottage...time, had stopped.

Voramir reached to his side and placed his hand upon the hilt of his mighty sword, he then felt the coldest of breaths travel down his neck.

“I doubt you’ll be able use that, Voramir.” Said a voice next to his ear, the sound was deep and gravelly, yet somewhat soothing.

“Who are you?” Asked the King, keeping his voice strong and clear.

“You recognize me not, old friend. Perhaps this will ignite your memory.”

The room was instantly set ablaze. So bright burned the flames, so intense was the heat that rushed towards them. Smoke bellowed off the roaring flames which danced to a thunderous cadence around them. The King immediately broke a sweat upon his brow, and lifted his arm to shield the heat.

“Mayze” sputtered the King with smoke filled lungs.

As quickly as the inferno had begun, it was over. A wall of cool air pummeled The King, who nearly lost his footing.

“That is right, Voramir” said Mayze.

“Must we have it so dark?”

“You were always scared of darkness” replied Mayze with a sarcastic tone.

There was a thump upon the wooden floor, and the room lit up. A brilliant white light wrapped around Voramir. He turned to look upon his attendant. The King looked upon a man he did not recognize. Mayze stood towering above Voramir, who was a large man himself. The man was adorned in blue and gold silks, satins, and suede’s from head to toe. His robe was the deepest of blues. Gold hems accented the many jewels that dangled freely from the seams.

Voramir’s gaze traveled upward, past the massive staff the man held, which bathed the entire room in the iridescent glow. He finally looked upon the face of Mayze. He had a strong forehead, and defined-high cheekbones. His jaw resembled that of Voramir’s, wide and strong, but his lips did not. Voramir’s lips were full with a healthy coloring whereas Mayze’s were thin and lacking.

The most remarkable feature of Mayze were his eyes, they were completely white, as if you were looking into a blizzard. Voramir continued to examine the extremities of the man he once knew, and realized his entire face was scarred. Not with such scars as a burned victim might have, though. They were symmetrical, each cheek matched the other. It looked as though a tribal design had been etched into his face.

“You’ve changed since last we met” said The King.

“I figured you would notice. Sort of hard not to I guess” replied Mayze.

“But I suppose that’s what happens when you reside in the far north. Roccir is unforgiving to say the least, both to live in, and to rule over. That place really takes its toll on a man.”

“Rule over?” Voramir inquired with slight confusion.

“What of your Father?”

“He passed away but a year ago. The winters in Roccir are enough to fall an ordinary man. Accompanied by the stress of matters these days, I would have expected his passing to come sooner” replied Mayze.

“Stress of matters. What matters do you speak of, Mayze?”

“I truly wish I could discuss that with you, old friend. But I am afraid the current situation forbids me to convey such information.”

“Forbids you? Then why have you come, to tease me? To show an old friend the mighty Mage you have become? Or to boast of how you too, are now King?”

“Don’t be childish, Voramir. I have simply come to warn you. Events have been set in motion that cannot be undone. I suggest you pray prayers from now on, good friend.”

“What is this nonsense?!” Voramir exclaimed.

“Tell me of what you speak.”

“Take care, Voramir, we will meet again soon.”

Suddenly the room was dark. Voramir creaked open the heavy wooden door and peered outside. The warm sun illuminated his puzzled face. A small rabbit hopped along the stone path in front of him. He could hear the birds chirping once again, and feel the breeze blowing as the tree’s wavered in the distance.

Mayze was nowhere to be seen.



Thank you for reading.

Valzar

Wow... this is great! I have read only the prologue so far and it drew me in so well that if there were any errors I didn't notice them. The only thing that I kind of stumbled upon was in the sentence,

If he screams this to the sky don't you think you should use an exclamation point instead of the period? Just something that seemed odd to me. Other than that I am loving this so far!

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Valzar... A story through the eyes of a lone cat, "Dark Deception" --> http://www.writingforums.com/showthread.php?t=77797

Dana_Johnson

Thank you kindly for your words, Valzar.

And thank you for pointing that out...not quite sure how I missed that, but its been fixed now. I'm sure there are many more such mistakes throughout the piece, for I was no A+ student in English...I simply enjoy storytelling. =D

I can only hope the rest is as enjoyable for you.

P.S. I'm hooked on Dark Deception...very creative write!

Valzar

Also, throughout the areas with dialogue I find places where one person says something then you go down and start a new line of dialogue, but it's the same person speaking, like here:

Tibble greets Voramir then in the second line he asks how the weather is treating him. Instead of using a separate paragraph to separate the two comments you should put it like this:

“Ahh, good morning Voramir,” said Tibble, a childhood friend of The King. "How’s the weather treating you today?”

Same with when Voramir replies and then says that blurb about feasting and drinking. Also, when you are putting someone's dialogue down instead of putting a period at the end you put a comma. Like here:

At the end of the dialogue, before the quotes and the 'said' you put a comma. Like this:

“That’s quite alright my King, the luxuries of my Cottage are enough to satisfy me quite well,” replied Tibble with a chuckle.


These are just some punctuation issues that, in the case of the first one, can confuse a reader greatly. I read the first chapter, and I can't wait to see what happens next.

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Valzar... A story through the eyes of a lone cat, "Dark Deception" --> http://www.writingforums.com/showthread.php?t=77797

wrdsmth

I am immediately struck by several impressions...

First of all: Why the prologue? (Please don't try to argue that this is necessary to set the scene for what comes after.) 99 times out of 100, the prologue is absolutely NOT NECESSARY. Anything you need to cover from backstory can generally be worked into the body of the story and most literary agents reach for the Valium when they open a submission and the first thing they see is, "PROLOGUE".


Secondly, there is some awkward structure, the first I noted was this,
The dual time reference sounds clumsy and redundant. You might want to consider re-phrasing this.

Thirdly, as Valzar pointed out, quotes with the attribution should be set off with commas.

Lastly, it reeks purple.

Quote:

But it was not men he feared for, it was thoughts of his family that drove his tears to the ground, and his feet across it. He was sure he would arrive before the Myr, for they knew not of the old goat pass. He climbed the mossy stone with such vigor he noticed not how his hands bled upon the rough surface. He paid no heed to his wounds, his mind free of thoughts, save those of his wife Loria, and his only son Ayron.

It's one thing to have flowery, purple prose in a character's speech. This is a peculiarity of the character and it works well for you there. It is quite another, however, to have the narrative drip purple.

Your narrative can not only afford to be a bit more straightforward, it desperately needs to be more direct than you have done here.

Dana_Johnson

I'm not exactly sure what "drips purple" means. This is my first attempt at a novel, so bear with me.

I understand the punctuation suggestions quite well, and plan to rework all the dialogue now that I see my problem area's. But what I don't quite understand is how to make my narrative stop "dripping purple."

Quote:

But it was not men he feared for, it was thoughts of his family that drove his tears to the ground, and his feet across it. He was sure he would arrive before the Myr, for they knew not of the old goat pass. He climbed the mossy stone with such vigor he noticed not how his hands bled upon the rough surface. He paid no heed to his wounds, his mind free of thoughts, save those of his wife Loria, and his only son Ayron.

In this passage, I simply wanted to make the trek back towards the village more...dramatic. Perhaps from "But it was not men he feard for, it was thoughts of his family that drove his tears to the ground, and his feet across it." isn't even needed, or could be replaced by "The man ran back toward the village." if thats what you mean by not dripping purple.

Thank you both for taking time to read my work, and taking the time to comment as well, I highly appreciate it.

Ilasir Maroa

Well, some people would refer to "dripping purple" as writing in a "mythic tone," or if you really have a medieval enthusiast, they might even say "High Chant," or something along those lines. But, for a novel written and read in the modern era, it would probably be better to be straight-forward. Another thought is this: How important is walking to the village? If it's just walking to the village, and has no special significance to the story, dedicating more than a line or two to describing it is probably not the way to go. If thinking of his family is important to developing the character, you might do a stream of conciousness, or some thoughts instead of saying, "He thought about his wife and kid," which is essentially waht you told us, if in more flowery language.

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wrdsmth

"Dripping purple" was simply a reference to what, in literary terms, is generally referred to as 'purple prose'. This simply means that your narrative word choices tend to be a bit too flowery and "high-falootin'". Agents tend to discard this kind of writing out of hand.

Quote:

"But it was not men he feard for, it was thoughts of his family that drove his tears to the ground, and his feet across it."

I chose this particular quote because it so perfectly illustrates the purple prose of which I spoke. Consider this alternative, "But he wasn't afraid for the men of the village, it was thoughts of his family that moved him to tears and pushed him onward."
It says the same thing, essentially instills the same sense of urgency and emotional upheaval, but without the "...that drove his tears to the ground, and his feet across it," flowery phrasing.

From a different perspective, as Ilasir pointed out, if all you wanted to do was say that he was rushing to the village, then you can simply say so.

But