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[Sy_Accursed]

So I thought I'd share the draft prologue for my current fantasy manuscript project. It's loosely based on a manuscript I wrote when I was 12 and as this is still a draft there's probably a few typos and maybe some bits that aren't quite right!

But yeah enjoy, any comments you have would be welcome too since it'd help me get a flavour of readers opinion on style and such before I'm too far in to the piece.

Oh and fyi, there is some mild swearing, though I'm sure tip.it censor will bleep it all anyways. You have been warned!

Prologue
The late autumn sun was high in the sky pouring a clammy heat through empty branches. Sweat began to bead on his neck as he looked through his hemp bag, the deep crimson fire stones stared back at him, exactly what he’d hoped. He dragged a palm across his brow and fumbled with the heavy brass clasp of the bag before moving from the doorway. As he moved down the street unchallenged he felt his heartbeat slow and took deep breaths of cold air, he could see the district gate ahead in the wall of stone and iron; it was still open and no guards in sight. He thanked the gods beneath his breath as he passed under its archway into the cobbled streets of District Hammerstead. He drank in the sounds of the street that drowned his darker thoughts, he could make it now. It would only be a ten minute walk from here to Worten District and then he’d be home. Karla would likely scorn him, but winter was coming he couldn’t let their new-born freeze, besides those richies would hardly miss the stones. He’d best not hurry though, that might look suspicious. He’d stop for a drink or two at the Manticore Inn, perhaps he could even manage to get some cheap elixir for a stone or two.

The Inn was a sprawling room dimly lit with too few candles, the council often cut the thunder-cord to try and ‘stem the flow of immorality’ in places like this. The place heaved with laughter, dark skinned serving staff weaved between the crowds of card players, towards the back of the room dealers lurked near curtained rooms their thick cloaks fastened despite the heat and to their right in a cluster of booths near the stairs scantily clad girls and boys danced for clients. His hair clung to his face with sweat; he swept it back taking slowly deliberate breaths as he surveyed the room, taking particular note of the dealers: Ruby, Mannith and Burmarsh were among them, just the faces he’d hoped for, Catrin too but no-one with more sense than gold traded with her. He grasped his bag defensively pushing through the crowds towards Ruby.
    “I tolds ya last week Malik, I don’t do credit no matter how sick that sprog might be.”
    “Charming as ever Ruby,” He leaned in close to her, undoing the clasp of his bag. “Happens I had a bit of luck today.”
Ruby’s cloak swept over his shoulder, her fingers dipping into the bag her eyebrows sank into a frown. “Luck? You think I not got ears in Queensfair boy? Lady o’ Peace been swarming there past two hours,” Could it be? So soon? He’d best stay here until nightfall, let them calm down.
    “[bleep] the games Ruby, want ‘em or not?” She smiled innocently grabbing his wrist to lead him behind her curtain. The heavy incense scents washed over him making his stomach wretch, Ruby delicately moved behind the lone table that filled the room lifting a flagon of mead to pour two tankards.
    “Best get some o’ the good stuff in ya guts.” She smiled handing him a tankard, several hours later he carefully stashed the various salves and elixirs in his bag whilst Ruby carefully counted fire stones into a pouch hidden beneath her cloak. Ruby had no doubt swindled him, he’d had enough mead to make his head spin but at least his nerves had eased.

As he pushed past the curtain his heart froze for a second, High Maeytra Dolan sat in a corner booth one hand under the skirt of a slender blond girl on his knee the other caressing the buttocks of a muscled dancing boy. The High Maeytra, lord of all morality, chief envoy to the gods and sworn to celibacy was a regular client here, the only reason the Manticore was not destroyed was the Maeytra’s sexual appetite yet it still made Malik’s throat tighten and clasp his bag close to his chest as he tried to edge further away. He stumbled over a leg and landed heavily, his bag jangling with glass.
    “Deary, deary be. Muckrake Milark really is all left feet.” Her face was sharp and lacking in beauty, her thick cloak heavy with the stench of wet dog. He scrambled to his feet.
    “Get lost Catlin. I’m not in the mood,”
    “Aww has my little toy got a grump on? How’s about Aunt Cat lightens your load?” She walked two fingers along the strap of his bag as he scrabbled away from her across the floor.
    “Oooo! Defensive aren’t we!” She leaned in close, a smirking on her deftly painted red lips. “Mayhaps little Muckrake was in Queensfair earlier, oh I don’t know, by the Temple of the Beauties?” Ruby’s head appeared over Catlin’s shoulder.
    “Our ugly ducklin’ never learns aye?” Her hand brushed against the skin of Catlin’s neck and she collapsed to the floor, by the time Milark had caught his breath Ruby had vanished. A strong hand seized him beneath each arm and lifted him from the floor.
    “I say Mannith it seems our favourite rascal had a little rumbling with Catlin,” Burmarsh smiled brushing dust from his sleeve.
    “Terrible business that is! Such a sour darling! Now come, come let’s get merry and forget such blights,” they guided him to a table already heaving with jugs of assorted meads. Mannith and Burmarsh may be drunkards and seemingly eccentric, but they always treated Milark well and saw he had enough to eat. He sat quietly between the two sipping his drink slowly as he scanned the room constantly.
    “Did you hear my boy? Someone actually did it!”
    “Rob them Beauts blind! A whole cache of fire stones, just like we say someone ought,”
    “Bur course they robbed em blind, no eyes do they!”
    “Still what a heist? Who’d a thought! Whole city’s a buzz!”
    “I heard their talking of shutting the District gates,” Milark saw the blue cloak of a Lady of Peace flit by the windows and downed his drink, waiting for the door the open, another glimpse, something. It felt as if hours passed, but it could not have been more than five minutes before the door opened a podgy faced knight in leather armour, his sword sparkling by his side stepped in. Milark bit his tongue and shifted his bag beneath the table. He was looking at him, he knew, this was it. The knight frowned and beckoned the barmaid; they whispered briefly and she gestured towards the back of the room. The knight nodded gravely and she hurried away up the stairs.

The High Maeytra came storming down the stairs, half undressed and trying to tie his underwear in place. The Knight stared at him sternly and led him away. Milark could not settle now, his eye seemed to catch every glint of steel beneath the tables and he constantly saw flickers of blue cloaks outside the windows and he downed several glasses of mead. He nearly fell out of his chair when a fist slammed on to the table,
    “Where is that bloody mudswilling [bleep]?”
    “My, my Catlin. What language!”
    “We thought your ale must’ve disagreed with you, sleeping so sudden.”
    “Oh quit it you two, you’re not distracting some Richie for a pocket watch here. I know Ruby did it, now where is she?” She looked between Burmarsh and Mannith before fixing Mirlark with her cold violet eyes “Awful quiet Muckrake, bet you know don’t you?”
He opened his mouth to speak but just burped loudly and swayed slightly in his seat.
    “Brilliant, get him more drunk why don’t you!” She leaned in close to his ear again “Don’t think I forgot, I want some of them stones if you want my silence.”
She stalked from the Inn, holding Milark’s gaze as she walked, as soon as the door shut he scrambled to his feet.
    “I-I must be going, Kayla. You know?” His hands were slick with sweat and he fumbled to put his bag on. Mannith frowned at him.
    “Are you sure you are ok?”
    “Yes, sure. Fine. Just need to get home.”
    “Well I’m heading out too, let me walk you. You seem a bit drunk.” Burmarsh made to stand.
    “N-no. Really. I’ll be okay,”
He practically ran from the bar, sending a barmaid flying to the floor in his wake. It was well past dark now and he was swaggering from the mead, his bag tinkling too loudly in the silence. He began to edge down the street like a blind man in the twilight; he paused twisting his head from side to side. No, he’d heard nothing. Just the quiet playing tricks. He let the bag swing freely, his left hand brushing the face of a building to steady his walk. Kayla would be home; she’d smile and hold him. Their little one would gurgle to his touch. That’s all he needed. He passed through the gateway in Worten District, the cobbles became patchy underfoot as muddy puddles engulfed the road. He was nearly there now.

A small voice in the back of his mind pushed through his happy dreams. Where was everybody? It had been silent since the Inn, even at this hour these streets should be busy, noisy. He quickened his pace. There it was again, maybe he hadn’t imagined it before, barely louder than the wind: soft giggles of a small girl; just a short burst and it was gone. His legs froze, his hands clasped tight around his bag; it was drunken imaginings that’s all. He had to steady himself.
    “Ring a Ring O’ Rosies…”
The girl’s voices came from all sides singing the haunting nursery rhyme, around him the street lamps and lights in windows throbbed before plunging him into blackness to the continued girl’s childish laughter. His fingers were slick with sweat but his legs sprang back to life, he was running now, weaving through alleys and down cobbled streets; lights continually blackened as he approached and the giggling seemed to grow louder with every step. His heart felt like it wanted to escape his chest and he stumbled losing a shoe to the cobbles. He couldn’t stop, he had to keep going.
    “A pocket full of posies…”
The song was barely above a whisper, yet it was close almost upon him, he could even hear the silk of their dresses rustling. His feet slid from beneath him in a patch of mud, the stone ground winded him but he scrambled for his footing blindly. Wherever he placed his feet the ground seemed to turn to slick mud and he trashed like a fish in a net. Tears stung his eyes as he began to crawl. Not like this! They couldn’t!
    “A-tishoo! A-tishoo!...”
He felt the warmth of breath against his cheek and fell to the floor, his strength suddenly gone. A long-fingered hand clasped across his lips, stifling his cry. His hands seemed to be glued to the mud as shoes clicked against the cobbles skipping towards him. Golden lines slowly twisted in the air before him, the intricate hem of a cloak glowing in the night. As they spread and grew he could see the crimson hooded cloak draped over the frame of a small girl in a frilled dress. Beneath the hood was pure shadow, masking any sign of a face.
    “We all fall down.”
The melody of the song was dropped for the last word as he felt a sharp pain pierce his chest and a hand wrenched his bag away giggling once more.

[Nien]

Pretty good writing, honestly.

One thing, however, that sorta set me back while reading it was the dialogue.

For some reason, I kept being like (in my head) "people don't talk this way."
I'd try to work on getting your dialogue to sound like legitimate conversations, not just a conversation that you hear in your head (try reading it out loud, etc. maybe).

Maybe, I'm totally wrong, but that's just my two cents.

Hope that's helpful and encouraging (to press on with your writing that is).




Hold fast.

[Sy_Accursed]

I've never had issue with my dialogue before, I think perhaps it may just be a combination of factors.
One being it is a very distinct fantasy world, and in those you do kind of get to play with speech patterns a bit to give them their own quirks and accents different from anything real world, I was sort of drawing on Tudor, Edwardian, bit medieval, Victorian, period drama kind of airs and graces with a slight twist. Plus the characters in this bit that do talk, particular the two men are very abnormal speech patterns intentional, sort of sales lingo presenting an act, kind of drawing on classic double act slapstick type dialogue.

American vs English is probably a factor too since in my head the accents. dialects are drawing on old English london and northern and stuff.

Not saying it is perfect or won't be altered, just maybe inclined to think (for now) it's a misinterpretation/cultural barrier based on the fact over the course of my degree dialogue has always been given as one of my strong points in writing and so far my writing peers have not pulled up any issue with it.

I don't mean for that to sound dismissive or anything, just sound boarding some stuff that could be why it sounds wrong to you. Certainly keep it in mind in if anything else of the same nature comes up.

[Tylerelyt]

Actually, I thought the dialogue was excellent. It felt like a distinct dialect without ever being over the top and super obvious. I'm really jealous of people who can write realistic dialogue, because I can't.

I will say, however, that reading through it aloud is not a bad idea. You have a lot of issues with grammar, in particular with your use of commas/punctuation. While it's ok to bend the rules of grammar for someone who is speaking, you don't generally want to do so in your narration unless it serves a purpose.

For example:

Quote

The late autumn sun was high in the sky, pouring a clammy heat through empty branches. Sweat began to bead on his neck as he looked through his hemp bag. The deep crimson fire stones stared back at him, exactly what he had hoped.

That's just your first few sentences. It continues pretty consistently the whole way through, and it's jarring when the pace of your reading is interrupted. If you try reading it aloud, read the pauses you've written in. Don't pause unless there's a comma or period, pause a short time for a comma and a longer time for a period. It can make a huge difference in your writing.

Overall, it's pretty impressive. The imagery is nice, the dialogue is awesome, and you've obviously done a lot of work on your world building for this. Good job.

[Sy_Accursed]

Yeah its a draft for a reason! lol I tend to totally fudge up commas in the initial writing cause I just get lost in the flow of the images especially when using a focalised narration such as this. But that is why you have to edit what ya write in drafts to weed these things out.

[Tylerelyt]

Ok. I guess I just assumed that this was a final draft, or at least a little more polished draft, since you were putting it out to be read.

I was also pretty sure you realized, but whatever.

[Crocefisso]

I think this is a good effort, but I found the writing quite clumsy and not particularly evocative. I take no issue with the dialogue, but the following sentence, already quoted, really sums up my thoughts

Quote

The deep crimson fire stones stared back at him, exactly what he had hoped.

The sentence structure here feels wrong and the whole flow of the writing to me seems dull and uninspired; it amounts to little more than a sequential telling of events, without flowing or particularly grabbing my attention. Just my opinion.

[Sy_Accursed]

Crocefisso, on 04 September 2012 - 08:20 PM, said:

I think this is a good effort, but I found the writing quite clumsy and not particularly evocative. I take no issue with the dialogue, but the following sentence, already quoted, really sums up my thoughts

Quote

The deep crimson fire stones stared back at him, exactly what he had hoped.

The sentence structure here feels wrong and the whole flow of the writing to me seems dull and uninspired; it amounts to little more than a sequential telling of events, without flowing or particularly grabbing my attention. Just my opinion.

What you mean by 'it amounts to little more than a sequential telling of events' because (ignoring complexities of flashback and non-linear timelines) does not all writing amount to a sequential telling of events? Also what makes it 'dull and uninspired'?
These just seem like very broad generic terms which don't really give me anything to actually look at in order to make potential edits.

It may just be a case of a style that does not suit your taste, but it'd certainly be helpful if you could perhaps give a clearer picture of what you find wrong with it. Especially seeing as the one sentence you did quote as example is actually just a sentence fragment in my draft as it stands, as a stand alone sentence was part of a suggestion on grammatical alterations.

[Crocefisso]

Of course my feedback was going to have to be generic, because I've neither the time nor the inclination to cross-analyse every last sentence in the story. I agree with one of your earlier posts stating that dialogue is your forté, however, the rest of your prose is lacking. By saying that it is dull and merely sequential, I mean that it is lacking in any significant or noteworthy presence of the qualities that make literature more than a simple matter of recounting events in a prosaic manner. Other such examples include:

Quote

The Inn was a sprawling room dimly lit with too few candles, the council often cut the thunder-cord to try and ‘stem the flow of immorality’ in places like this. The place heaved with laughter, dark skinned serving staff weaved between the crowds of card players, towards the back of the room dealers lurked near curtained rooms their thick cloaks fastened despite the heat and to their right in a cluster of booths near the stairs scantily clad girls and boys danced for clients.

This first sentence is uninspired, grammatically lacking, and the sense of place is unsuccessfully recreated as a result of the clumsy admixture of two seemingly incongrous elements - a sparse physical description immediately and randomly followed by a more general description of what sometimes happens at the inn - followed immediately by a list-like presentation of more of the first type of description. Owing again to grammatical errors and repetetive structure, the presentation of the inn feels more like a shopping list than an evocation of a bustling setting. Three steps I would therefore advise you to take are:
1. Always employ correct grammatical structures, even in drafts, because ultimately by using grammar correctly the myriad opportunities to enrich your writing can only be built on solid grammatical foundations.
2. Vary sentence structure and present things differently each time you use them in a narrative, to prevent the reader feeling as though this are being repeated.
3. Keep focussed - do not begin to describe the setting, only to drift off to something else and then return to the setting, for example; such things are likely to befuddle and irritate, and this is perhaps the only way not to vary your writing.

As for the sentence I initally quoted being a "fragment in my draft", I find your drafting process a little odd - is it not just easier to write a draft with properly conjugated sentences? If this is part of your individual creative process, then I would either preface this information or post here only when the story is grammatically sound, which saves me time and effort crititquing an unfinished sentence.

You rightly point out that my criticisms, like all others, are based on my own value judgements. This is true, and so to aid you in deciding whether or not I am worth listening to I am going to copy out for your what I consider the best piece of writing I've ever read. Obviously, as it is an essay by a Buddhist monk, I do not expect you to include Buddhist themes in a fantasy piece. I simply feel that it demonstrates better than I can aptly explain the merits of literary structures, as opposed to simply filling a piece of writing with excessive vocabulary (a crime I am guilty of in most of my articles, for example), and how refreshing this can be. The essay also shows how these complex grammatical structures can be used without alienating the reader, as layering subordinate clauses (as Victorians often did) does. The most important features are the hysteron protoron - reversing the natural order - and the use of parallelisms, with the former being in my opinion the best way of emphasising something, without resorting to bold text or exclamation marks. Anyway, this is the desevedly renowned opening of the essay:

The flow of the river is ceaseless and its water is never the same. The bubbles that float in the pools, now vanishing, now forming, are not of long duration: so in the world are man and his dwellings. It might be imagined that the houses great and small, that vie roof against proud roof in the capital, remain unchanged from one generation to the next, but when we examine whether or not this is true, how few are the houses that were there of old. Some were burnt last year and only since rebuilt. Great houses have crumbled into hovels, and those who dwell in them have fallen no less. The city is the same, the people as numerous as ever, but of those I used to know, a bare one or two in twenty remain. They die in the morning, they are born in the evening, like foam on the water.

Whence does he come, where does he go, man that is born and dies? We know not. For whose benefit does he torment himself building house that last but a moment, for what reason is his eye delighted by them? This too we do not know. Which will be first to go, the master or his dwelling? One might just as well ask this of the dew on the morning-glory. Perhaps the dew may fall and the flower remain--remain only to be withered by the morning sun. Or the flower may fade before the dew evaporates, but even if the dew does not evaporate, it never waits until evening.

To conclude: I hope this has been helpful.

[Sy_Accursed]

What I meant by a fragment was the bit you quoted, in the text I posted, was the last clause of a sentence after a comma. Not a complete sentence as you quoted it from someone else's suggested edit.
I had written:

Quote

Sweat began to bead on his neck as he looked through his hemp bag, the deep crimson fire stones stared back at him, exactly what he’d hoped.

I certainly did not mean I wrote random incomplete segments, certainly many of my sentences may end up being run on or slightly off prior to edits, but that is the nature of my writing process and a factor we were actively taught to do in my studies: Let the artist get the words on the page before the idea vanishes before allowing the editor to pick back through it. Then let both work work in tandem to balance the vision with the necessities. Or in other words don't let nitpicking grammar make you lose the creative flow, but do not just leave the creative flow raw as it is liable to be quite chaotic.

For the specific example I see what you are getting at though I feel some of it most definitely is stylistic preference (based on the quoted text from the essay) and some seems to be drawn from a slight misreading (not to say it may not be a writers fault that this happened) It hasn't jumped to a random sometimes happens: The inn is lit by too few candles BECAUSE the thundercord has been cut, the extra tidbit about why this occurs is just a little extra flavour since the entire purpose of the prologue is to try and formulate this world before the main story goes off on a completely different tact.

I'll have to drop this back here once it's more polished, though that is liable to be months away as I always find it gets easier to polish the edges as a piece gets nearer to completion, especially as the general tone and nuances of style kind of settle down as the story finds it footings and then can be retrospectively applied. I tend to write a chapter, give it a once over, write the next two then come back again to review.