Roland's Writing

[Roland_Deschain2]

I'm making a book, which I hope to have done in two or three years. I'd appreciate feedback, since I don't have a great number of friends and most of them wouldn't know good writing from a baked potato.

Anyway, here goes. There's no official title yet.
Prologue


Darkness reigned eternal in the shadowed underworld that rested just beneath the surface. Demon-kings and viler things vied for supremacy in what was ultimately a disorganized, chaotic mess. No one being could claim leadership, no one strong enough to wrest it from the hands of his betters in such chaos. This was before Kadath, the Death-God, rose from what was to be a millennium’s slumber, awakened by the chaos brought forth by the demons in the great, flaming Abyss.
He was not a tall or fearsome creature; in fact Irradion had no shape or form to call his own. Instead, he possessed those that would not be missed or the dying. His method of possession ended in the host’s death.
Ill content to sit and waste away in the darkness of his home, the Abyss, Kadath flew to the world of the living, searching for days to find a suitable host. At last, the target presented itself.
The target was a young slave boy, sandy brown hair and sorrowful green eyes. He was merely called “Boy” by his master; he’d forgotten his name ages ago. On this particular winter morning, he was gathering firewood for his master’s farmhouse. He entertained the thought of sneaking some to the servant’s quarters, but realized it was futile. Ilarnek, the ever-watchful Dwarven slave driver, would catch him and report him to the master, or worse, the mistress.
No, the boy could not take such risks, not with his mother in failing health. He grabbed another armful of frosty logs, the chill from both his burden and the wind tearing at his skin like the jaws of a rabid wolf. He began the half-hour hike from the woods to his master’s farmstead, cursing his fate.
About ten minutes in to the trip, the boy felt as though he were being watched. His heart began to beat a tiny bit faster. He sped his pace up to a brisk jog, his breath, visible from the chill, coming in short gasps. He never saw the arched root that tripped him and sent his load flying.
Irradion was upon him then. The god spoke silently to the doomed lad.
“You will be my sword, my shield,” he croaked, his voice that of broken glass. “You will become the next of Kadath’s Chosen!” With that, the god-thing vanished.
The boy felt the pain for but an instant, but it was the worst he had ever experienced, counting even the cruel, barbed whip Ilarnek so loved. It was as though every muscle in his body screamed out in agony, as if his bones had been crushed to powder. A thousand knives shattered his heartstrings; a thousand needles stitched them back together. At the peak, apex of his torment, it ended. No more did the slave called “Boy” think or feel. There was only Kadath within the once-human husk.
A red mask formed itself out of flames, coming up from his chin to his forehead, obscuring the face. Red triangles formed below the eyes, curving and meeting at his chin. No mouth opening could be seen, a featureless façade to hide a faceless god.
Kadath staked forward, past the old, gnarled willow, past the wizened apple tree, and toward the farmstead the slave had mockingly called “home.”
*   *   *
Ilarnek patrolled the farm’s perimeter, scanning and waiting for the sandy-haired boy to return. He was late, the dwarf noted. That boy was never late. Master Lucien and Mistress Gretta would love to hear this. The boy, he decided, wasn’t punished enough.
Ilarnek heard movement behind him, disrupting his own reflections. He turned, and there, walking painfully slow from the direction of the forest, was the boy. Narrowing his beady, slate-gray eyes, the dwarf could see that the boy had no firewood. Even better, he thought.
Kadath saw the dwarf long before he turned around. He continued his mechanical march, hardly caring, toward the farm. The god-thing accessed what he had salvaged of the dead slave's memory, bits and pieces. The dwarf, Ilarnek, was the slave driver, and principal instrument for his host's torment. Kadath hardly cared for that fact, but he noted with some interest that he wore a shortsword on his hip. Smiling beneath his faceless mask, quickening his mechanical pace, the wicked god-thing thought only of the potential gain of being armed.
*       *       *
Ilarnek realized something was amiss. “Boy?” he called. “Where’s yer firewood, eh? I’m not seein’ it on ye.” The boy remained silent.
It took a few seconds for the dwarf to notice his sword sliding out of its sheath, as though of its own accord. Ilarnek grasped futilely at the animated blade as it flew. Its arc ended in Kadath’s waiting hand. The slow, meticulous movements had ceased, replaced by a full-on run. Ilarnek felt fear for the first time in his four centuries above the surface.
Kadath’s charge ended with the sword in the dwarf’s throat. He paused only to retrieve the sword-belt Ilarnek wore and strap it around himself. The sword, however, remained unsheathed. Kadath stepped inside the farmhouse, murder in his green eyes.
*   *   *
Not a soul moved at the Grayson farmstead that morning. Kadath had killed and burnt each inhabitant.
A wandering band of merchants chanced upon the farmhouse, lost and weary of the winter’s snow. The caravan approached the building, but turned aside. The lead driver saw red patches in the thick snow; footprints around them suggested a struggle.
“Isn’t this the Grayson farm?” asked Dwahvel, a large, red-skinned creature called a Mulark.
One of his companions started to reply, but caught movement in the corner of his eye. Approaching was a masked boy, a short sword sheathed on his hip.
Under his mask,Kadath smiled. A horse would get him where he needed to be.

[aboutasoandthis]

I took the time to read it. Again it was wonderfully written. You have pure talent as a writer. The choice of vocabulary is excellent. Your words seem to flow and there was never a moment where your words seemed to clash. As far as pure writing goes, you're a far better writer than me. I would love to write a story with you someday as I seem to produce great ones working with someone else.

What I don't like is your subject matter. You seem to be stuck in this Lord of the Rings mindset, and never stray far into the original. You always have a protagonist who is a young male, a medieval setting, and a Sauron like figure in the background.

Your style of writing doesn't use much description. This is actually a compliment since not a lot of writers can do this while still putting an image in the readers head. However since it uses Lotr styled imagery, what you imagine in your head is disappointing. So many fantasy novels have roots in that book. I would really like to see you write something crazy and different.

If this is going to be a book, I'm a little afraid it won't have a true theme. Medieval fantasy novels never really seem to. A true theme is what will set your story apart. I know it's a little too early to judge, but it didn't feel "obvious" if you know what I mean.

I also think your transition from section to section could be a little better. Going from the boy to the dwarf especially felt weird. Keep it up man. I really believe you can publish a book if you want to.

[Moosetroop11]

Try not to have two characters in the same scene with similar sounding names. I had to really read carefully to make sure I knew who was doing what.

It looks pretty good, I like it. I love the beginning in fact, I thought that was fantastic, and then nearing the end the writing seemed to get slightly less intelligent, but still very good. (I'm not sure the part where the god talked to the boy he'd possessed was handled as well as the rest, for instance, although I'm not sure how I'd have done it)

It reminds me of the first few pages of each book I start before I give up. Do what I could not... write more!

[Roland_Deschain2]

Originally posted by aboutasoandthis
I took the time to read it. Again it was wonderfully written. You have pure talent as a writer. The choice of vocabulary is excellent. Your words seem to flow and there was never a moment where your words seemed to clash. As far as pure writing goes, you're a far better writer than me. I would love to write a story with you someday as I seem to produce great ones working with someone else.

What I don't like is your subject matter. You seem to be stuck in this Lord of the Rings mindset, and never stray far into the original. You always have a protagonist who is a young male, a medieval setting, and a Sauron like figure in the background.

Your style of writing doesn't use much description. This is actually a compliment since not a lot of writers can do this while still putting an image in the readers head. However since it uses Lotr styled imagery, what you imagine in your head is disappointing. So many fantasy novels have roots in that book. I would really like to see you write something crazy and different.

If this is going to be a book, I'm a little afraid it won't have a true theme. Medieval fantasy novels never really seem to. A true theme is what will set your story apart. I know it's a little too early to judge, but it didn't feel "obvious" if you know what I mean.

I also think your transition from section to section could be a little better. Going from the boy to the dwarf especially felt weird. Keep it up man. I really believe you can publish a book if you want to.

The protagonist in this book is a wraith, dude. This chapter is just about the villain, Irradion.
Oh, and the dwarf's name won't change, I may change Irradion's name, but the dwarf is named after my brother's DnD character. It's more a memorial of sorts.

As for the LOTR mindset, well, I thought it was more of a forgotten realms mindset, m'self.

[Dragonium]

I liked it. Not a lot I can say that hasn't been already said. In my opinion the middle section was the best part.

“You will be my sword, my shield,” he croaked, his voice that of broken glass. “You will become the next of Irradion’s Chosen!” With that, the god-thing vanished.
The boy felt the pain for but an instant, but it was the worst he had ever experienced, counting even the cruel, barbed whip Ilarnek so loved. It was as though every muscle in his body screamed out in agony, as if his bones had been crushed to powder. A thousand knives shattered his heartstrings; a thousand needles stitched them back together. At the peak, apex of his torment, it ended. No more did the slave called “Boy” think or feel. There was only Irradion within the once-human husk.

Your choice of similes and metaphors here are excellent. That "a thousand knives" sentence is pure literary genius. Good work.

Like Moose said, you seemed to lose it a bit towards the end. That's not a bad thing - it's just as though you started off with the passion for writing and it died down a little towards the end. It is however very admirable that you're trying.

Keep it up, your writing is inspiring. In fact now I want to write something.

[aboutasoandthis]

Originally posted by Roland_Deschain2
The protagonist in this book is a wraith, dude. This chapter is just about the villain, Irradion.
Oh, and the dwarf's name won't change, I may change Irradion's name, but the dwarf is named after my brother's DnD character. It's more a memorial of sorts.

As for the LOTR mindset, well, I thought it was more of a forgotten realms mindset, m'self.[/B]

Lotr came out as a book like 80 years ago dude, counting the hobbit. Where do you think D&D gets its ideas?

[Roland_Deschain2]

Originally posted by aboutasoandthis
Lotr came out as a book like 80 years ago dude, counting the hobbit. Where do you think D&D gets its ideas?[/B]

Yeah, I know about all that. I meant R. A. Salvatore's Drizzt series, I've been reading those a lot lately.

Edited the story, Irradion has been renamed Kadath, and I omitted the conversation with the possessed boy. It reads much better if Kadath is the sole mind within the body.

Oh, and I'll have Chapter One up sometime tomorrow, I'm spending today downloading Word again.

EDIT: The reason the writing weakens is my cousin. I was on the phone with him while I wrote the ending, so... I was kinda distracted.

[TheMightyCro]

Don't ask me why...  I felt like it was something out of the dark tower or something. <_<  

[Phayre]

Hmmmm.
Apart from agreeing with the overly LotR feel of it (perhaps it's just because that little subset of epic fantasy makes me queasy), I like it so far. Nice and quick paced, and unlike many other fantasy writers, you don't waste time going into superfluous details or vomit worldbuilding nonsense all over the reader. I hate worldbuilding nonsense.
Is this just a prologue? If so, the sudden thrust into the action works very nicely. If not, I'm not as sure that simply continuing from here would be as nice.
Anywho. Good work, and hopefully it will inspire me to get off my lazy fanny and do something creative other than knitting.

[Roland_Deschain2]

Yeah, topic kick, I know, but it's my writing section and I have something to post....
Yes, that was the prologue. Won't be posting the other chapters until I go over them as meticulously as the last one.
Now, on to the writing! A short story I did some time ago, mild connections to my book. I'll post a page a day, or something.

EDIT: Wow. This was a full page on word... may have been the size of the title and font, plus the double-spacing...

Tragedy Befalls Sir Martin

It was a cold, snowy winter morning. Martin DeTier sat, uncomfortably perched atop a rock, his vigilant eyes scouting over the marble hall before him. New Babylon.
It had been six years since he had lain his mismatched eyes upon the city of his birth, the tower where his family had stood for untold centuries. He rose, his steel armor grating against itself as he did. He moved to his camp. Around the small fire sat Gram Enith, his immortal mentor, and Rayn DeTier, his elder brother. Rayn sat with his hands to the blaze, warming himself. Enith, on the other hand, sat laid back. The cold did not affect a creature of the heavens like himself.
Rayn was speaking as Martin sat. "My son, Roland, will be sixteen years old in two weeks' time," he said through chattering teeth.
"I've been meaning to ask," Enith began as he straightened up, "why did you leave if you care for your son so much?"
Rayn's smile turned bitter. "I had no choice. Us soldiers aren't given such privileges as you knights."
Martin sighed. "Being a knight is not a privilege. I have no desire to fight for King Baldrith's glory, but --"
Enith stood, interrupting Martin's scolding. "New Babylon is burning!" he cried.