Endedæg

Heavy footsteps pounded down on the dark red grass as a cloaked man tore his way through a dense forest. The echoing sounds of the dark creatures lurking in between the thick trees haunted the area around him. Nonetheless, he sprinted with singular intent, his eyes focused sharply on the path he carved out for himself. His heart pumped in his chest, drumming against his ribs as he continued to gasp for air to fuel his desperate run. The light burning out from a giant jewel at the tip of his staff illuminated the way before him. The man’s violet eyes glowed even more vividly against the purple light in front of him, darting from left, right and above to keep his eyes out for anything that might cross his path. He continued to run, but then heard the hissing growl of something nearby. Joining his sprint, was the sound of larger footsteps, running far more rapidly than his own. The heaving breaths of a baying beast following the scent of a potential quarry drew closer. As soon as he could feel the beast's breath over his neck, he ducked down just in time to avoid the lunge of the creature. He glanced towards the giant m�"atrect, only slightly stopping to find his footing, and attempted to slip past the beast. He couldn’t stop now, lest the lives he intended to save were lost. The creature’s thick, black skin became visible in the light as it struck out, trying to block his circumvention. With only a split second to react, the man uttered some words, swinging his staff and smacking the creature directly in the face.

Upon contact, the light burst outwards, causing the m�"atrect to roar in pain as its face began to slowly melt away. The thick skin proved not to be thick enough as it slowly peeled away, dribbling down its face and corroding away at the flesh to leave nothing protecting its skull. But there was no time to waste, the man needed to keep going. The warm orange sky was fading away, and soon nightfall would truly descend on him. Thankfully, as he continued his race, he came across a mangled tree. Many of its branches cut off and the trunk seemingly flayed, revealing half of a marking within. The man stopped, pressing his hand upon the marking and causing it to light up in a silver colour at his touch. The ground trembled and before him, the trees rose from their positions. The bark groaned and the roots shivered as they tore themselves out from the ground, moving slowly until they created a clearing in the forest. From the clearing, the grass withered, wilting and turning a greenish-yellow, as if advancing themselves so quickly to death. As the grass died, the soil shifted and spun, swirling in a vortex within which the man slowly walked inside, directly into the eye of the pit.

The ground consumed him and he moved his long, black hair out of his face, tying it back for the time being. Before him was the familiar stone hallway he’d travelled down many times, though this time it was quiet. Far too quiet. He pressed on, with a confidence that showed his familiarity with the eerie setting, turning to his right and pressing a stone inwards. It moved, but nothing happened. The man looked at it for a moment with confusion as it slid back into its original place. Again, he pushed it, but nothing happened.

“What the-” a sudden explosion cut off his sentence as the stones within the wall burst towards him, knocking him backwards and sending him crashing against the opposing wall, crumpling into a cloaked mess on the floor. The man coughed and spluttered, trying his best to keep the dust out of his throat and lungs as he felt his throat dry ever so quickly. The smog from the explosion clouded the way as he stumbled forwards, wincing from a pain in his leg. Limping heavily, the man entered the hole in the wall, waving away the fog as best he could to see what was inside. His eyes widened in disbelief as the room became more clear and the contents revealed.

All across the floor, lining the concrete were masses upon masses of skeletons. Bones broken off and splintered, skulls caved in and deformed into horrid, jagged, small bone mountains, and in some of the remains appeared to be what was left of seared flesh, melted into the bone and still sizzling, filling the air with the smell of freshly grilled Warlock remains. It was enough to make any person empty the contents of their stomach, but this man had no time for any of that. Scanning through the corpses, the man frantically searched, becoming more and more desperate as he passed through. Soon enough he found himself throwing the skeletons across the room in search of something important. From the corner, coughing and spluttering could be heard and the man quickly pointed his staff at the corner. Another man, dressed in a similar cloak, rose up from the corner. Though his height stopped him from rising very far, seeming to be a fairly short man, with thick, curly hair and similar violet eyes that still managed to remain visible despite the black marks from the explosion covering his face.

“Batar? You’re alive?” the man asked as he approached the man in the corner. Batar coughed and wheezed in response, but gave a nod as he slowly rose from his position, dusting away the ashes and looking around at the destruction.

“They were so fast. Slaughtering, butchering, I don’t know how I remained undetected...” Batar looked around at the scene, the horror of everything making him want to vomit but only allowing him to whimper and shake as he looked Enodius in the eyes.

“We are the last… There is nobody left…” The words shook Enodius’ bones so much that he could only stand still for moments, before coming to his senses and looking around.

“The book… Where is the book?! And the Eye?!” Batar only shook his head, unable to speak despite his jaw trying to move. Then the silence was disturbed as a veil in the corner was lifted, revealing another man in the same cloak, but with hair much shorter and dusty grey eyes.

“They took many of our artifacts, but the book remains with us”, the man muttered as he held up a withered and dirty book, laced together with a black rope. Enodius nodded and looked at Batar. Without words, he nodded in response and the three marched out of the room. Enodius took a moment to look back at the skeletons, sighing and ruminating before continuing on with the others and heading out of the pit. Seeing the outside world once again, nightfall had taken hold and the three walked through the trees before stopping a fair distance from the dirt entrance.

“Artemis, we need to get the book safe and escape. There’s no chance of the ritual taking place now.” Batar looked to Enodius for confirmation, but was only met with silence as Artemis spoke up.

“Nonsense. The ritual goes on as planned. This was our plan and our destiny and we must see it fulfilled! We will get to Tovo and perform there.” Batar did his best to protest, looking at Enodius to talk sense into him, but still silence only took over.

“We will go to Imanik… Either we die cowards, or die fulfilling the mission…” Batar looked at Enodius, disappointed, but eventually nodded and followed on. Artemis held up his staff, uttering some words and created a rift in the air, swirling around before them all. One by one, the three men entered through the portal and arrived on the other side in a small town. The white bricks were greyed and covered in moss everywhere, showing how old this town was and how much history it had seen. The streets were empty, and only a few people were walking here and there with the town drunk staggering through the streets, yelling about prophecies and raining death. 

“It is almost as if they know this day is coming…” Artemis mused as he gripped the book and walked through the streets, Enodius and Batar following. As Artemis opened the book and pulled out a bag with numerous items within, Batar walked over to Enodius, who seemed lost in his own world, staring up at the stars.

“Do you think there is anything afterwards?”, Batar asked. Enodius stayed silent for a while, seemingly lost in his own thoughts again, before looking back at Batar.

“We both know the answer to that. For us there is no endless sleep in the Void like the Gods. For us, there is only nothing.” Batar looked down at the floor, occasionally glancing back at Artemis who was frantically putting things together, like a school child eager to please their teachers with the best work they’d ever submitted.

“Why must we do this? You know as well as I do, there are things that bind us to this world… my family, your family! Your sons…” Enodius’ jaw visibly clenched at the mention of this, but he couldn’t help submit to the thoughts. What would his sons make of this? If his eldest knew what he truly was, and what he was doing. How would that change? Enodius knew he’d already condemned himself to a lifetime of being a terrible father once he left, which barely changed his views on his duty. But still, what would his sons think of their father destroying everything around them? Their schools, their homes, their lives, all for the sake of the grand destiny that all Warlocks faced. It didn’t feel so grand without even having people to remember what they did. Not only that, but the disgrace that his family would keep after this. Enodius knew he was a criminal now, whether he liked it or not, and soon enough, that would become known to all of Druvestia, and all of the world. Artemis finally got their attention and Enodius shook away the thoughts. Regardless of any retrospect, there was no turning away from this now. This was the path he’d set for himself and he couldn’t and wouldn’t turn away from it now.

“I still don’t think we should do this. Someone else will have this destiny, but clearly the Old Gods don’t mean for it to be us!”

“The Old Gods will this! It is the Red Court that won't see this done! They are the traitors to their own people, not us!” Enodius only watched silently as Batar and Artemis argued, as usual Batar cowed and ended the fight before it even began. Artemis and Batar never saw eye to eye. Batar was always seeming to steer the Cult in a different direction while Artemis was so devout, he could have replaced Haligh. Enodius was the only neutral ground here. Though his mind was torn in half. Duty against family. He couldn’t deny his doubt slowly being sown over the mission he’d forced himself to believe in these past years, and the longing he had to return home, kiss his wife, look upon his sons. For a moment, Enodius envisioned a different future. One where his son showed the signs, bore his teeth, and a proud Enodius would see him off to the gates of Oxilian, ready to set upon the Path. The glorious day that his son would return home from his first year of study and he could teach him all that Warlocks should know. One great day, where they would all understand why he was away so often. They could go to the city together, have family trips to Vierost and see the Great Warden Wall, perhaps travel even further afield and climb the mountains. A sight to behold, seeing the Night Bridge at just the right time at dusk. Enodius cracked a smile as he thought of this, but the loud arguments coming from his companions cleared this fantasy away, and reality returned as he found himself back again in Imanik. The village seemed dead already.

“We need to get this done before they find us again. Batar, you need to hold the drȳlīf while we work”. Enodius went still as a brick, staring at Batar. He gave Artemis an odd look, but thankfully, gave in to his order. Holding a bowl full of sparkling blue powder, he stood in the centre of the giant ring carved into the floor. Enodius took his place at the edge, setting down four strange items before him, with Artemis on the other side and the two began to chant. Enodius held his staff in place and the crystal began to glow. Artemis held the book in his hands, with another larger book floating before him and glowing in blue. As they chanted, the markings in the ground began to glow, and soon it began. An echoing cry of agony flew from the window of one of the nearby houses, as a black mist seeped from the floors and travelled towards Batar, circling around him. More screams and cries filled the air, with smogs of black mist collecting from the houses and streets, all circling the man in the middle. The crazed man who once screamed, now stood silent as he watched what unfolded before him, and his eyes widened as he went rigid. He clutched his chest, coughing and wheezing as his body crackled and squeezed itself. His skin wrung and wrinkled, twisting and losing all of its life and his face sunk into a hollow mess, tightening against his skull. Blood squeezed itself out from his veins and bubbled from his nose and ears, red pockets blowing up like tiny balloons and popping to spray his remains on his now baggy clothes. He tried to scream out for help but only a low, whispering groan escaped his open mouth as he looked to the sky, feeling his life slip away. A black mist escaped from his body and joined the rest, leaving the withered, grey corpse to fall to the ground without a sound. 

“Hold it! We are almost done!” Artemis shouted from the other side as he held his hands out to control the spiral of black smoke that now completely covered Batar. As they continued, a warping noise came from behind Enodius, as numerous men in black and red suits and coats appeared and looked at the ritual before them.

“Kill them! Kill them all!” one man in the middle commanded. The rest of the men advanced, but before they could come any closer, the black tornado stopped. Only for a second, before spiralling inwards and shooting into Batar’s mouth and eyes. He let out an unholy wail, distorted in low and high pitches as if all of the victims of the town screamed with him. The guards in red could only watch as the monstrous entity before them was formed. Batar then floated steadily into the air, and Enodius looked on in wonder, and fear, at what he saw. His eyes glowed a deep, burning red and a giant black hole where his mouth was supposed to be, with black lines seeping out from it and covering his face like sickly veins. Though his mouth didn’t move at all, his voice could be heard, distorted and broken like all the voices of thousands of warlocks speaking all at once.

“Enodius… I see him… your boy…” Batar groaned and Enodius tried to speak, but a shouting command came from behind and all of the agents behind him drew their weapons, firing magic directly at Batar. Some of the others broke off to detain Enodius and Artemis and the battle ensued. Artemis was weakened and fell quickly, but Enodius stood his ground, taking out two of them with a minefield of spikes that shot up from the ground and skewered them like fresh, wet meat. The agents continued to fire on Batar, who only absorbed the powers, further fuelling him. An echo of roars erupted from him and filled everyone’s minds, causing them to cover their ears to block out the pain. Wreaths of fire and wind lashed around his body, the earth beneath him crumbled and cracked, and rain fell heavily from the sky as he twisted and shook violently.

“Everyone down!!” A surge of power blasted through the streets as the overwhelming forces gripping to Batar exploded, destroying everything in its path for miles. In the next moment, Enodius awoke, lying on the floor, his ears ringing loudly. Everything was blurry but all he could see was black. Blinking a few times, the surroundings came into focus and he couldn’t believe what he saw. Where there was once a town, was not nothing but ashes. Black smoke filled the air, and with the rain was ashes falling from the sky. The buildings were torn down and burning away, with bodies of men, women, and children either burned or crushed underneath the buildings. There were no more screams, no more air of terror, only a silence once the ringing died down, which almost made Enodius wish it would stay. The sound of pain was more precious now than the silence of the dead and buried. Breaking the silence, a coughing was heard and Enodius looked around to see Artemis rising from his crumbled position. His face was disfigured, burned away by the blast, and his hands shook violently, covered in his own blood and melted flesh. In his eyes, he looked at Enodius and seemed as if he may begin to cry. It was over. They had failed. Enodius went to stand but felt the cold metal of a blade at his throat, looking up towards its owner.

“Time to go home Enodius…”

It didn’t take long for Enodius and Artemis to find themselves chained heavily, and walking through another portal. His vision was blurry, but soon enough Enodius looked around and found himself back home once again, walking towards Zurik Citadel in Zhar'godaud. The Great Warlock Capital of Druvestia. As always, the capital was alive and thriving with Warlocks walking here and there, heading to work, returning from work. Bankers, lawmakers, judges, business owners, and the richest of rich men and women. Here in the Zharus District, only those whose lines were pure, pockets were full, or influence was heavy, could roam the streets so freely. The clean and perfectly lined bricks of the surrounding buildings lended to the capital’s dark atmosphere, painted in the signature Warlock dark red, with black rooftops protecting them from above. The scary architecture of pointed arches and spires like daggers dominated the landscape, but not to instill fear. Rather, to bolster the fear that Warlocks wished to force upon any that dared wander into the heart of their world. Enodius was trapped in a minefield of memories, thinking of the days he walked these very streets, walked into the same banks, and sat on the very same bench that he discovered in the gardens outside the Citadel, locked away from his reach behind the giant, black gates.

“Enodius… I never imagined you being back here again”, a man’s voice whispered. Enodius broke out of his trance and looked in front of him, seeing a withered man with grey and broken skin. He stood far out from the rest of the crowd, whilst still in sensible clothing, it was dusty and ragged, barely up to the high standards in the vicinity. His white hair was thin and clearly falling out and his skeletal fingers were wrapped around a collection of papers shoved clumsily into a handbook.

“Olstis. Back from another meeting with the Court?” Enodius asked.

“The Widhred can’t be governed otherwise. You know that.” Olstis’ eyes followed the chains snaking around Enodius’ arms, legs, and torso.

“I suppose this will be the last time I see your face, hm?” Enodius gave a solemn nod in response and Olstis did the same. Patting him on the shoulder, he began to make his way but stopped at Enodius’ call.

“If my son ever comes here. Never let him near the Citadel. Or even the district! Promise!” Enodius yelled as the guards beat him over the head, shoving him forwards and not allowing him to see or hear Olstis’ response. The gates moved aside slowly and the huge double doors of the Citadel opened. Enodius walked in, passing through the highly lit vestibule adorned in paintings and banners of great Warlocks in history. Through the smaller door, he started again in familiarity at the giant entrance hall of the Citadel. The floor was decorated with the markings of great Warlocks of the past, their name sigils lining in perfect order around pictures of Warlocks of old. Morzust, Garzur Vak’munnach, Aralys of Bazka, and so many more. He looked for a moment at one of the Warlocks on the floor, just underneath the giant painting of the great God Anx itself, and sighed in shame.

“Move along! The Court is looking forward to seeing you both.”

Artemis protested but Enodius continued forward, shooting him a sharp look to keep him quiet. 

“We are Warlocks, Artemis. Face the Court with any pride you have left.”

The two were led to separate elevators, going upwards and heading to the first floor of the Seventh Tower. Enodius closed his eyes for the seconds he was in the elevator, thinking once more of his family before his eyes opened, just as the compartment doors opened at the same time. Walking into the open room, Enodius looked ahead at the giant rows of seats, positioned at the very back of the room and elevated high above the silver floor, bearing the insignia of the Red Court engraved upon it. A red dagger adorned in ribbons and laying upon a bed of thorny leaves. On the ceiling, the black chandelier hung, with the orange crystals lighting the main areas of the room, helped by the others lining the walls. The wooden rows curved around the entire room, and within them, each sat one person, staring intently at Enodius and Artemis as they walked to the centre of the room, standing upon the crest.

“Enodius Maleos, and Artemis vur Fonistri. You have been brought to the Red Court for your crimes against Warlock kind.” One woman on the far left read from a paper.

“Crimes?! Fulfilling the destiny the Old Gods laid down on us all, is a crime now?!” Artemis yelled out in protest.

“You are aware of the ways by which we choose to invoke Endedæg, it is sacred and cannot be altered by any! You of all people know this well, Maleos…”, the man in the middle shouted out. Enodius looked up at last to meet the eyes of Norst Baleristi, the main speaker of the Court.

“It was not that long ago that you sat upon this very Court, upholding the laws that you now so callously break yourself.”

“I know the laws, Baleristi. You watched me write some of them myself…” The Court was silent at the response and Baleristi only scoffed.

“It is only thanks to your father fighting for you to have a seat here. Were it not for your accidental success, you would never have a place here.”

“Jealousy is unbecoming of a Warlock.”

Baleristi’s eye twitched at the response, and almost everyone could sense the hatred between the two filling the air. Soon, he sat back down and signalled for the woman to continue reading. The charges were brought out for all of them to hear, but before she could finish, Artemis stormed forwards.

“Either kill us now and get it done with, or allow us to burn all of you heretics to the ground!” The guards went to seize him, but Artemis put up a fight, breaking the nose of one and then leaping towards Enodius, placing a hand on his chest.

“We must finish the work we started, we must find the eye!” The guards pulled him away and crushed his leg, snapping the bone clean in half and making Artemis cry out in pain. Enodius looked at his companion with pity and exhaustion. Surely he knew this was the end of the line for them both. Perhaps his mind had finally escaped him, if it hadn’t already.

“Your work only seeks to pervert our purpose as Warlocks. And you will finish none of it! In consideration of the severity of your crimes, the Red Court made its decision long before you arrived. You will both be sentenced to imprisonment, and your essences archived.” Artemis yelled out in protest again, screaming that they couldn’t do this and that he would kill them all for it. The Red Court only looked on, unfeeling and uncaring as one of the guards came in with a long, grey staff, with spines at the tip that held a small and empty glass orb. Artemis tried to struggle as the orb began to glow with a swirling white light. The closer it came, the more he yelled for it to stop, and Enodius’ eyes were glued to the scene as a similar blue powder that they used before was slowly drawn from Artemis’ heart. A bright light burned from the point of contact and the orb was filled. Empty, and silent, Artemis was released by the guards holding him and his crumpled body fell to the floor with one echoing thud.

“Take it to the archives, prepare the next one.”

Enodius was brought forward, and he obeyed without any resistance. But when pushed down, he refused to be on his knees.

“I want to stand for this. And I want all of you to look at me when you take my life.”

“I will say that for you Enodius, you really do have no fear. I’ll allow you a final word before you are separated…” Balistri muttered as he looked intently at Enodius. Looking around at the rest of the Court, Enodius felt a fire burn inside him again and he stood taller than he had in quite some time.

“When? Hm? When did the Red Court become this? I know there was a time when the Warlocks governed themselves. When the Red Court protected our culture, our beliefs, our people. We were proud, yes, but we didn’t suffer the plague of elitism, and lining our pockets before our libraries. I know that if every Warlock paved on this floor and adorned across the Citadel could see what spineless, pitiable wretches the Red Court had become, they would purge you all in an instant!” Enraged, Balistri shot up from his seat, propelling his chair backwards.

“The Red Court enforces law and order! You remember the war and havoc the so-called ‘people’ wrought when they ran free like wild creatures! The Naz’gadh and the Red Court put this to rest! This is what peace looks like!”

“Ah yes, the Naz’gadh. The Queen in the Shadows, we call her! Tell me, where is the great Griers vur Fonistri now? Slithering around in her private chamber plotting on the next little “prophecy” her deranged mind will conjure?!” Without warning, Balistri took out a spear and held it tight, but his hand was grabbed just in time. Next to him, a tall and slender woman dressed in a very ceremonial attire looked down on Enodius. Her skin was darker than most Warlocks, with red eyes burning through Enodius’ defiant gaze, and a silver adornment upon her head, a ceremonial crown.

“Queen in the Shadows… it has a nice ring to it…”, she whispered as she threw Balistri down into his seat. Slowly, she made her way down from the right, passing each Warlock on the Court who only shivered and cowered as she passed them. Eventually, she stopped at the bottom of the seats, past the final man, and walked around, heading into the centre of the room and standing directly before Enodius.

“Tell me, do you think because your ancestor once held the crown I wear, you have any right to dictate how we run our world? You think a child seated upon the Court is given any more consideration than a Widhred, burying itself in the filth of the back alleys? You forget our traditions, Enodius. You are barely a Warlock.” Enodius glared at her, feeling the contempt in her eyes and yet giving her enough back to match it.

“More so than you, Griers.”

“You were never a well mannered child either. But I knew this day would come, I saw it.”

“Really? Then you’ll have seen what I want from this. If I’m going to die, at least let the coward xertis do it herself.” Griers gave a cruel smile at his words, opening her hand for the guard to give her the staff. Taking a few steps back, she held it in front of him and the glow arose once again.

“Oh you won’t die, Enodius. I’ll keep your body in good company…”

“The Red Court will be annihilated, and you will die screaming… Vur Ost’öln vö gharrl!” Enodius growled back at her, gasping from the Court echoing through the halls at his words as the staff pressed against his chest. The glow burned brighter than before, with waves of power throbbing from it and causing the Court to cover themselves. Enodius felt the pull of his very soul as it was ripped from his body, but as it made its exit, a sigil on his chest glowed in orange.

“GRIERS! MOVE!” The glow burst forward, enveloping the entire room as fire and destruction destroyed the entire room, breaking the Seventh Tower apart.

Reviews

[JayG]

You’re writing this as if giving a report. No one but you is on stage, and you’re talking ABOUT what happens, providing secondhand information in the form of a lecture. But the reader expects to be entertained by being made to feel that they are LIVING the story in real-time, and as the protagonist.

You’re transcribing yourself telling the story. And that cannot be made to work...except for when you read it. But you cheat. You begin reading with a mental picture of the situation. You know the backstory, the current situation, and what's coming.

What you’ve also missed is that when you read this, you perform, so the “storyteller’s” voice that you hear is filled with the emotion the reader cannot know to place there when they read. For you the storyteller’s, facial expressions, gestures, and body language are doing their job.

The reader? They have a storyteller’s script with zero knowledge of how you want them to perform it. So that can't work

Look at the opening, not as the all-knowing author, but as a reader must:

• “Heavy footsteps pounded down on the dark red grass, crushing the flowers and weeds underfoot as a cloaked man stampeded his way through a dense forest.”

1. A cloaked man? He’s not important enough to have a name? Seriously. Why would the reader care what happens to a generic “man?”
2, Red grass? The average reader doesn’t know such a thing exists.
3. Crushing flowers and weeds? Not possible. You said his feet are on grass, not flowers or weeds. So this doesn’t track.
4. Dense forest does NOT have grass, or flowers to trample. The ground is in deep shade, and grass needs sunlight.
5. Stampede is normally taken as animals running in fright as a herd, not an individual’s action.

• “The howling of creatures all around him echoed through the thick trees, noting that they detected his presence but lacked the will and confidence to hunt him.”

1. “Creatures?” That could mean almost anything, from dragons to wolves. But the reader has no idea of where we are in time and space, what’s going on, or, who we are. So the word could mean anything.
2. Wolves howl, and their howls don’t signify that they lack confidence. You’re assuming that the reader already knows what you do. But unless YOU supply context the reader has none.

Bottom line: Fiction Writing is a profession, and an old one at that. Writers have been screwing up for centuries. And for just as long, they’ve been figuring out how to avoid that. But you’ve not dug into them, and so, are making mistakes they learned to avoid long ago.

In other words, to write fiction you need the skills of fiction writing. There is no way around that because nothing else works, even for hobby writing.

So, grab a good book on the basics of adding wings to your words, like Debra Dixon’s, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict, and dig in.

And for an overview of the many traps and misunderstandings, you might check a few of my articles and YouTube videos.

Jay Greenstein
Articles: https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/
Videos: https://www.youtube.com/@jaygreenstein3334

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”
~ E. L. Doctorow

[J.J. Matthews]

Ah yes, welcome back Mr Greenstein. I see in ten whole years you truly have not changed in the slightest. I remember when I first posted my original draft of this book online and you took the time to tear it apart piece by piece. Generally, I must concede, I was a young and novice author back then, still working with the training wheels of writing and sitting at the kiddie pool of fantasy. I came into it with a smidge of talent and a good story, but I had little idea of how to execute it.

Soon enough, I realised that I needed to do better. Create better. I knew I was capable of writing something ten times better than the lazy, half-assed low fantasy that I was actually writing. So I spent almost a decade honing my craft, learning from the minds that inspired me. I made the likes of Tolkien, Martin, Sapkowski and Jordan my mentors, in order to grasp the true essence of fantasy. So, with that in mind, I would like to analyse your comment and then conclude with a "know-it-all" statement of my own.

~ The cloaked man; he offers mystery from the very beginning. Who is this cloaked man? Why is he the focus? Why is he in a hurry? This already gives the reader questions to seek answers for in the very first few words.
~ The red grass; Yes, the average reader does not know such a thing exists. Much like many millions of things in fantasy. The essence of fantasy, after all, is knowing that you will encounter things that are not real in our world. And again, the reader questions, "why is the grass red?", prompting further reading so the may find out.
~The flowers and weeds; A forest is a complex ecosystem. This is very basic elementary knowledge, so yes, running on grass and also running over flowers and/or weeds most definitely does track. This logic applies in real life, so it makes perfect sense in a fantasy world if the world so wills it.
~ Dense forests not having grass; Again, a fantasy world can be constructed to be what the author wishes. The reader may think "oh this makes no sense" but your average worldbuilding enthusiastic reader will wonder "how does this work?" or "what properties does this world have that makes this possible?"
~ Stampede; This I will humbly concede to you. A new verb may make better sense here so I thank you for pointing this one out. I was surprised to find something constructive in your comment.

And for the next part.

~ Use of "creatures"; Indeed it can mean anything. This is the core of a good fantasy, building wonder and allowing a reader to let their imagination run wild over what may be coming and what manner of creatures roam this world. And if you read further, as I imagine you did not since these two sentences are the ones you analyse, a detailed description of one of the creatures is given.
~ Howling creatures; Again, I think you have little grasp of how a fantasy story set in a custom built world works. Creatures can howl if they are meant to. The sentence does not aim for the reader to already know something, nor does it require them to. The pace of the story moves along swiftly and this sentence only serves to build upon the cloaked man's importance and power. Even I do not have hidden knowledge for this sentence. There is none.

My bottom line: You are useful in your words for providing suggestion to authors when it comes to grammar, spellchecking, and using better words to give a sentence tight meaning. But beyond that, I'm afraid your expertise ends. I know that you like to think you know far better than everyone else in fantasy, but I'm afraid when it comes to epic fantasy and worldbuilding, I do not need the advice from an author who's highest work is an urban fantasy series about a magical ring that jumps to different women to solve their life issues like a magical Macguffin that only makes them take poor choices in life that get automatically fixed because the plot says so.

Still, I do thank you for taking another interest in my work, and I am looking forward to teaching you more about proper worldbuilding, proper fantasy, and delivering to you a true fantasy story in a world that I spent years carefully and tightly constructing.

While I may not accept any advice from you on worldbuilding and realism, I welcome your opinions on using a better vocabulary in my descriptions. Instead of stampeded, I feel I might use tore. I think that may be more appropriate for a singular action, whilst still delivering the intensity I need for the sentence. What do you think?

[JayG]

• The cloaked man; he offers mystery from the very beginning.

1. Missing data isn’t a mystery. It’s a just missing context.
2. In all the world, only you know the emotion to place into the reading, which is why we can’t simply transcribe ourselves playing storyteller. And since you’re not there when it’s read, “explaining” how the reader SHOULD have perceived it as they read is impossible because you’re not there when it’s read.

• Why is he the focus? Why is he in a hurry?

Hmmm.... We don’t know where we are in either time or space. We don’t know what’s going on. We have a generic “man” running on grass where no grass can grow; somehow crushing weeds and flowers when he’s supposed to be running on grass. He could be 90 or 19. He could be running to or from something. And you think that having left out even MORE information will intrigue the reader? You have a mental image. The reader has only what you say, and what it suggests to them.

• Yes, the average reader does not know such a thing exists.

So therefore the majority of your readers won’t know what you’re talking about. And you’re okay with that?

• The essence of fantasy, after all, is knowing that you will encounter things that are not real in our world.

Nope. That’s the primary thing you get wrong. It’s the protagonist’s reaction to what has their attention, and their struggle to prevail and remain in control, not the “Hey look at this” crap you sprinkle in for effect, that matters. And you forget that for you the words point to images you hold in your mind. But for the reader? The words point to images you hold in *YOUR* mind.

• Dense forests not having grass; Again, a fantasy world can be constructed to be what the author wishes.

Nope. First, you haven’t placed the reader ANYWHERE, just running in dense forest. Next, logic is logic. Grass requires light to thrive. Your declaring that this magically works without it changes nothing for the reader, because for them it’s GRASS, no matter the color. And that term has meaning attached. Had you had the sense to call it, “Flutagrass, or something that would tell them it was unique...

Bottom line: You can make up whatever you please, and write in any way you please, as long as you write for yourself. But they have been perfecting the tools of fiction for centuries. So instead of standing on the shoulders of giants, you’re using nonfiction writing skills of school and demanding that the reader view everything as you want them to, without bothering to learn even the basics of the profession.

And complaining that I still suggest using the skills of a profession that’s been under refinement for centuries, is like complaining that 7th grade math is still 7th grade math.

Prove me wrong. Sell it as is.

I’ll wait.

[J.J. Matthews]

Well I do plan to publish in the future! For now I'm focused on gathering an audience. The kind that would actually read more than just two lines before deciding they know exactly everything about an entire world build. I know that you are very stuck into your life of seeking out young writers and deconstructing their work without actually trying to read it, so I won't try to go back and forth with you on using your imagination and reading further for explanations versus spending a paragraph explaining why and how flowers are growing in a forest.

Apart from that, I welcome your further reviews and you won't need to wait until I publish to give an opinion because I'll be regularly posting every chapter here and on Booksie and Wattpad. So be sure to check those out if you fancy! After all, I'm sure you being the way that you are, you'll eventually get bored of trying to assert your strange ideas of literary superiority on my work. If not, well, I welcome your bitter rants all the same. Like I said before, in between all the nonsense, there was a nugget of helpful advice in there so I thank you for that again.

I would encourage you further to enjoy my following chapters, but I have a sneaking suspicion you'll stop at the first two lines again (maybe three if I'm lucky) and get to work on your school report comments. Still, enjoy the book all the same!

Oh, and I will sell it as is when I get to it. I think I might wait on the opinions of the millions of other potential readers out there before I go changing everything about my chapters based on the opinions of one angry man. So far, reviews have been positive!

[JayG]

I looked at more that the opening, and all of it was you, alone on stage and talking TO the reader. An agent or publisher's first-reader would reject it in paragraph 1. And if no one reads past the first page no one will see the rest.

And the agents and publishers will turn away because do that because their customer, the reader would do the same.

How do I know?

1. Because like more beginners I was making the same mistake. Most people try to use their school-day writing skills because the pros make it seem so easy that we forget that Commercial Fiction Writing is a profession—one they offer degree programs in.
But do you really think you have a chance with a reader if you're not using the skills of the profession? Your competition is every pro in your genre.

2. When it was pointed out that I wasn't using the skills of fiction writing, I took the time to learn those skills. And the next novel I submitted got my first of 7 yesses from publishers, before I decided to go the self-release route.

3. Because I've taught writing at workshops.

4. Because I owned a manuscript critiquing service before I retired, and helped more then one or two achieve traditional publication.

You?

• I would encourage you further to enjoy my following chapters...

You make the beginner's mistake of thinking that plot is what keeps the reader turning pages. It's not. It's the writing. And since you're using an approach that would guarantee a rejection on page one, why would you believe that will change in some other chapter.

Plot is the easiest part of writing. In fact, there are only 7 basic plots.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Seven_Basic_Plots

Do you really believe that you've come up with a plot progression that's interesting and unique?

Publishers get thousands of submissions each month, and have been getting therm for centuries. As Mark Twain put it, "The last original storyteller was Adam."

• So far, reviews have been positive!

Where? Here you get perhaps one comment, total, per four or five postings. And you may have noticed that no one else commented on this one.

I get pages worth of positive comments on my work. Yet you know so much more than I do you can lecture me on how great your work is and how wrong I am? Seriously?

Ten Years ago you posted Turn the Page and the follow-up for it. You got ONE comment. And it wasn't positive. You were trying to transcribe yourself as a storyteller then, and are still doing it.

If you're not willing to invest even a week on learning the necessary skills of poetry and fiction, you are not magically going to please the readers who have, all their lives, been choosing only professionally created work.

And no amount of arguing and claims will change that. Because to BE a writer would must first BECOME one.

A few years ago, someone with your attitude read a book on writing that I suggested, planning to show me where it was so much bullshit, and unnecessary.

He sold his next submission to a publisher, and thanked me on the dedication page.

[J.J. Matthews]

Well, that's all well and good and it's nice to see you so feverishly invested in commenting on my book and not giving up on your willingness to keep giving me this feedback. Like I said, I will still wait and see what other readers have to say about my skills before I start believing I'm doing many things wrong. I've sent my book to friends, family, strangers and professional editors over the years for opinions and I've had feedback that has been positive but at the same time constructive, and I'm happy to say that constructive criticism has helped me get much better as an author.

I'm sorry you won't be able to fulfill your need for endless gratitude for your sage wisdom from me but good for you for helping other authors. I hope you can accept that you havent really helped me a lot now and maybe you can find a new target somewhere. Who knows, maybe the next review you give will help someone and you can renew your streak of saving authors again!

And once again, thank you for the engagement. I may not be rolling in reads and reviews, but I see I've had 55 reads so far and it's only day two, and to be honest, I'm definitely pleased with that! :D