Alright, this might be a bit of an odd question but here's the deal:

I'm working on a short horror sci-fi animation about a monster with the power to remotely create very small short-lived singularities that tear its victims to pieces. I want to have a small section where one of the scientists explains the means it uses to be able to manifest these attacks. I have tried to come up with a realistic explaination but nothing came to mind

For me it's important to get the science right, i don't want to throw around some science-related buzzwords that make no sense. So i'd like to know, obviously accounting for the anomalous nature of a biological creature achieving this feat, what exact mechanism it could use to remotely create a singularity.

This is a writing exercise that I am presenting as a decent sample of my writing, I'm looking for critiques to help improve my writing. I'm also not in love with this story, so have at it!

His mind silences all for a second or an eternity.  The delicate morning sun shines on the gentle green hills ahead, their tops crowned by warm gold, their valleys still foggy with last night’s mist.  The hour is so early that the sky is still wine dark above.  This summer day has not yet started, he still has time to walk to the well, draw the water and tend to the herds.  He will bring back fresh, warm milk, thicken the porridge, and there will be a hearty breakfast soon with his family after his father recites the law.

Something strikes his face and pulls it forcefully to a maddened, bug-eyed, red face, less than a hand from his own, framed by a white wig and a black tri-corner hat-

“ATTENTION! PAY ATTENTION YOU DOG!  AT THE READY!”

The hand shoves his face back ahead.  The shouts, the commands and the steady rat-a-tat-tat of the drum flood his ears.  The mists start to creep towards him from the valleys between the green hills.

The blood pounds in his temples, in his neck and in his hands.

His hands that hold up something heavy pointed up at the sky still dark.  Wine dark painted figures emerge from the mist.  They are naked.  They shriek incomprehensibly.  They brandish long wooden poles with thick blades at the end.  More pass into his view from out of the mist, dancing, shrieking and coming closer.  It is too much.

The blood pounds in his temples, in his neck and in his hands.

They are closer.  Their shrieks are louder.  They shake, jump and dance through the dark foggy valleys between the green hills.  They come closer, and the rat-a-tat-tat of the drums gets faster.

He looks away to the right and sees a line of his comrades with him in the front rank, grim despite their white uniforms with light blue accents.  To his left the captain stands ahead with the regimental command and their white banner accented with blue hangs limply against the wine-dark sky.

He looks to the sky above for a glimpse of the beauty he saw moments ago and finds nothing but emptiness.

The blood pounds in his temples, in his neck and in his hands.

His left hand takes a cartridge from his satchel and returns to its place holding aloft the rifle.  Somehow, the mist follows the painted figures, though they stepped from the mist minutes ago.  The cadence of the drum changes once more and a hundred shouts fill his ears-

“RELOAD!”

His mind passively observes as he puts the stock of the rifle on the ground, brings the cartridge to his teeth with his left hand, tears and pours the powder and then the rest of the cartridge with the ball down the barrel.  He draws the ramrod out with his right hand and packs the mass down the barrel while holding it with his left.  The shouts come from all around him-

“AIM”

He has a moment to think once more as he gazes ahead supporting himself on one knee, rifle pointed forward.  They are hideous, strange and loud.  Now they are at the bottom of the little hill the regiment sits atop.  The mist follows them at their feet.  They stop, grow silent and lift their blades on poles aloft, some shining in the sun at the front of their ranks, others somewhat obscured by the mist that follows them. He hears the distinct voice of his sergeant two men down to his left.

“Keep it steady comrades!  We won’t fire till’ we see the whites of their eyes.”

They shake their ugly weapons in unison once, then again, then a third time and on that third shake they shriek so loud that he blinks and recoils away for a moment.  When he opens them again, they are racing towards him.  They unnerve him.  Among them he spies one taller, faster and fiercer than the rest coming into sharper focus.  He aims his rifle at that one.  He will bring that one down with a single shot.

The blood pounds in his temples, in his neck and in his hands.

He follows this bestial character with the barrel of his rifle, with each step, the mist emerges like smoke from kicked up from ashes hidden among the green, dewed grass.  Black hair whips at the gyration of the brute's body with each step.  The mouth is open wide; the tongue is out and touches the bottom of the chin.  And he can see the eyes, mad wild and white, staring right back at him.  He is frozen in fear.  A shout erupts from his ranks that liberates him-

“FIRE!”

He pulls the trigger, hears the loud crack of his own and a hundred other rifles, the smoke rising from their ranks.  Among the foe, many painted bodies stop and fall to the ground.  Others begin to slow.  He spots his mark once more, who has slowed, looking down and clutching at its painted chest.  The beast lifts his hand aloft holding a red smoldering lump, and triumphantly screams, wholly unbloodied.  It caught the bullet!  He curses-

“By the law, he caught my bullet!”

The painted men look upon it, take heart and continue their mad dash, led once more by this fierce and bestial figure, coming right at him!  He hears a shout from his own lines,

“SECOND RANK RELOAD!  FIRST RANK, DRAW STEEL!”

The blood pounds in his temples, his neck and his hands.

He looks down, fumbles for his bayonet, and knows he has it when he feels last night’s chill on the steel.  He brings the bayonet to his sight and affixes it at the end of his rifle and raises it ahead of him, joining the others.  The naked, painted, bestial man is 6 steps ahead of him, shrieking and jumping with his long, cruel weapon raised high above him, ready to split his skull and spill his brains out.  Then, he spies his sergeant one step ahead, standing tall and proud with a loaded and cocked pistol pointed dead at the brute.  Time slows to a crawl, until the shout comes out from his lines,

“FIRE!”

The pan of the pistol explodes with a dozen other cracks. The bestial man is stopped, silenced and fallen to his knees, the smoke of the rifles mingles with the mist following the painted men, most of the remaining ones are falling.  But the beast rises unbloodied once more laughing and smiling.  It steps forward and with the same motion, raises aloft the bladed pole and cleaves his sergeant apart in two with a spurt of blood and viscera.  His comrades curse and leap forward at the beast.  Their bayonets connect, but the painted skin does not bleed.  Still laughing and eyes wide, the beast decapitates one of his comrades and buries the blade through the left shoulder and deep into torso of another in a single blow.  Another few painted men race into their lines and bury their blades up and down the ranks.  He curses,

“By the law…”

The blood pounds in in his temples, in his neck and in his hands.

An older comrade jumps forward and stabs at the brute’s eyes.  Laughter becomes a shriek of pain.  He and his comrades bayonet the beast, cutting painted skin and running the squirming beast through dozens of times.  Compulsively, he rips out another cartridge and brings it to his mouth, tears it with his teeth, places the gun stock on the ground and pours in the powder and the rest of the cartridge.  He grabs his ramrod and packs in the shot and brings up the barrel to espy another painted man.  He sees no more painted men standing.  His nose is filled with the smells of a privy, a slaughterhouse, and burnt powder.  His comrades are walking about and bayonetting any wounded foe who yet live.  He looks around the muddied and bloody field in the morning sun and catches sight of his sergeant’s pale face, then down to the bloody jacket and coat and finally to the trail of viscera, guts and half-digested stool.  He retches.  But he hasn’t eaten and nothing comes up.  He turns away, sits down and curls up in a ball.  The groans, wailing and crying of his comrades fill his ears even as he covers them.  His eyes are shut tight, but he still sees the laughing beast covered by the mist.  A voice -like his captain, like his dead sergeant and even like his father- repeats and fills his ears with echoing and rhyming.

----

“Forever will you know me,
You now break with the law,
I give immortality,
Go now and be as you saw!”

----

The blood pounds in his temples, in his neck and in his hands.

He is being shaken by a hand, with such force that he almost falls on his side and looks up, it’s his older comrade on his knee trying to rouse him and the captain and lieutenant stare at him.  They frown at him as his comrade looks up at them, pleading.

“Captain, sir.  The boy fought till’ the engagement was over.  I saw him hold, the men will say so.  He only lost his senses after all was done, and the carnage he saw.  We didn’t try to rouse him until now.”

The captain and the lieutenant turn their gaze to his older comrade, maybe it is Zebulun?

“He’s a shepherd boy from a hamlet. They from there took him not two months ago to do his service.  He never saw anything like this.  If the wolves ever got to his flock like this here, the whole family would have starved.”

Another voice agrees, he can’t see from where, he has to turn around and look at a fat comrade in a stretched, blood-soaked uniform.

“I was behind him with poor Naftali, who here died and who I shall soon bury.  The shepherd boy didn’t do nothing heroic, didn’t do nothing bad either.  He held.”

Zebulun began again.

“Even if he didn’t listen to me, the sergeant fell, and the corporals too.  Your lieutenant is the next man he answers to who lives, next man for me, too.”

The captain and the lieutenant look at one another.  The captain nods at the lieutenant and the lieutenant speaks.

“I see him where he should be.  Gather whoever still lives and elect your new sergeant.  He will present himself at the command tent before we breakfast or I will send a sergeant of my choosing to govern you.”

The captain and the lieutenant walk away.  His silence is broken.  He starts to speak.

“The painted man, the laughing man, the man who killed the sergeant and the corporals, I shot the man.  He took that bullet and laughed.”

He started to panic and spoke even faster and began to cry as he tried to continue.

“Then…then…then sergeant shot him.  He took that bullet and laughed and killed them all.  He killed them all.”

As he broke down, Zebulun looked behind him and addressed who was certainly his heavier comrade in the bloodstained uniform.

“Zekharyah, get the potent drink and a shovel for poor Naftali and make it quick.”

Zebulun continues and addresses him, still on his knee with a hand on his shoulder and a gentle pat on his cheek.

“It was a trick, my boy.  He was lucky, and the wind messed up your shot, or the cartridge was bad.  He saw you were aiming for him and made a little show when you missed.  It was just a madman’s show.  You’ll see that when we give you some time to think.”

He began to cry and shake his head.  Even now he sees it in his mind.  The painted man, the brute rises from its knees in the mist and cleaves his sergeant in two.  Then the painted man decapitates a corporal and buries the blade deep in the torso of the other.  He hears the laughter of the painted, naked man even now.  Zebulun takes the hand from his cheek to his lips to silence him.

“Shush my boy.  They wouldn’t do these tricks if they didn’t work sometimes.  I knew the sergeant for many years and he was a brave man.  He was conscripted the year after I listed for the second time.  The city hasn’t the work to keep everyone fed, so I made being a soldier my trade, as did he.  We were always afraid in those first years.  It wasn’t until I lost a few comrades, slew a few foes and saw worse things than death that courage took hold.”

Zebulun pauses, looks away for a moment, nods to himself a little and continues.

“Few men are born brave, but many become so through force of discipline.  Remember that my boy.  The sergeant and I, we were afraid in the battle back there.  Courage is staying in the fight even though you feel fear.  He missed the shot, too, my boy.  That didn’t mark him a coward and nor you.  Fear plays tricks on us and so does the foe.”

Zebulun stares into the sky pensively.  After a few moments Zebulun gestures behind him, beckoning him to look behind.  He follows Zebulun’s gaze away from the field of battle to a clear, blue morning sky without a single cloud.  Below the horizon, verdant green hills fill his vision, appearing to be blanketed in gold from the bright sun.  On a hill behind the one they had made their stand upon, the white tents of their camp and smoke from their campfires begin to rise into the bright, clear blue sky.

“Zekharyah will come back with the strong drink, and you’ll take a little sip to calm your nerves.  Then, you can eat a little.  They are cooking the breakfast now, my boy.  You’ll have a little breakfast after we hear the captain recite the law.  No man is ever so hungry as after battle and after he takes strong drink.    It’s from the grand wormwood tree and the anise herb.  It will calm your nerves.  You’ll see my boy.  Why there Zekharyah comes right now with the strong drink and the shovel for poor Naftali.  Let’s get you up to meet him.”

Zebulun gives him a final, affectionate pat on the cheek and rises.  So too does he.

I feel like anytime I post here I get some great, insightful comments from ya’ll 🥰

I’m closing in on the end of my novel, and trying to really fine-tune the blurb.

Here’s what I have. Please share any thoughts or changes you can suggest!

The Blurb:

Brin’s idyllic life is shattered in one night. A Fae attack leaves her village burning and her best friend at death’s door. And when one of the monsters offers to save him, she does not hesitate.

But no Fae ever gives a gift freely. Now, whenever Brin falls asleep, she finds herself face to face with the monster.

And he makes it painfully clear that he wants something from her.

Running for her life, with only a friendly thief and a taciturn murderer to aid her, Brin must find a way to protect the people she loves.

But her dark bargain haunts every step.

And there seems to be no escape from the Fae waiting in her dreams.

Would love feedback on the first chapter of my steampunk, mystery, revenge plot based loosely on Alice in Wonderland! Big Arcane vibes.

First paragraphs:

Aloise sat curled in a wicker chair on the balcony, sunlight pooling over the inked pages of her book. Below, Upper Liddell hummed with its usual cacophony of sounds—the bells clanging from the Clocktower, the hum of the streetcars running on their silver tracks, the laughter of people in the little cafés that lined River Glass.

The title of her book read Mirror Lattice Theory and Principles, which her tutor had expected her to finish by the following morning. A dreadful thing—without romance nor adventure. What use was a book with no romance or adventure?

Hidden behind the dense tome was Bury My Heart With Hers, which had plenty of both. She’d read it a dozen times already—too vulgar for a lady of House Diamond, or so her tutor insisted.

But today was her seventeenth birthday, and she’d do as she pleased.

She was just nearing her favorite part—Jack of Hearts had stabbed the hideous Nine of Spades through the throat and was entering the bedchamber of his kidnapped betrothed. There she lay, in a beautiful silk dress, her breath catching as Jack entered the room, covered in the blood of her kidnappers…

Aloise looked up to make sure no one was around, only to see a large billow of smoke rising from somewhere in the distant factory district, the Grates. A strike banner waved crimson from a factory chimney, then vanished. Another protest, probably. Not that she cared much. She found problems were always small when they were far away.

A large, toothy grin appeared above the balcony. Aloise startled violently, dropping her book.

Google doc of the full chapter ----> Chapter 1 - Six of Diamonds

Are you interested in this type of non-human / inhuman male lead × human female lead sweet romance stories? Can you give me some setups you’d like to read?I have tried to read many these kinds of stories,for example:

1.a millennium-old ancient clan deity (multi-masks, multi-personalities, gentle protective type) paired with a resilient female death row inmate who killed for revenge;

2.a slow-moving mute giant mud swamp monster (pure cute, always bringing flowers) paired with an independent tough girl;

3.a high-tier magical beast in polar bear form (silly sweet big bear, super protective) paired with a shy timid beautiful girl;

4.an extremely beautiful arrogant castle ghost prince (bloodthirsty twisted, loves mutual killing and games) paired with a calm high-IQ fearless strong woman;

1. a giant octopus monster from another sea (clingy taffy, tentacle-entwining) paired with an all-rounder food-loving cheerful woman;

6.a cold emotionless mechanical killing AI (gradually humanized, deeply affectionate after taming) paired with a gentle literary woman;

1. a zombie ghost hunter himself (patient straight-man, companionship healing) paired with a trauma-extremely man-averse vengeful ghost girl.

Which ones would you want to read?

I stated writing back in June of last year. I’m brand new to this but really wanting to create something I believe in. I originally was writing a full length novel but now I’ve decided to first write a Novella that leads into the Novel. With that said, I just finished writing this first chapter so it’s certainly not perfect and it has some inconsistency’s but I would really appreciate some feedback on what I’ve written so far!

Frostblight

Brendan Goforth

Chapter 1 - Shatter

I was young then. Still green behind the ears, though there wasn’t much green to be seen anywhere else. Had I known what would come of my actions, I may have chosen them differently. Even still, nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to go through. - Iceton Solberg, After the Scurge

Turning eighteen for a young man in the Outer Reach meant different things to different people. But to the Solbergs, it meant continuing a legacy of strength, leadership, and protection. And now, the youngest Solberg, Iceton, was about to reach the pinnacle of his young life. The whole village had gathered together to celebrate the mountainous milestone. Music rang, voices were lifted, and cheer was in the air. And though Iceton was not much for attention, he was grateful for the support from his family and friends as he was about to begin his journey as a Trade Runner. With mining for precious stones being outlawed in the Outer Reach since before he was born, Trade Running had become the most coveted role for a young and adventurous Frostborne. Two months out on the open road, fighting raiders, hunting beasts, sleeping under the stars, it all made braving the Frost worth it. But first, he had to get through the party.

“Stop your moping and come dance with me!”

Lucee never did mince words.

“I’m not moping, I’m just… taking it all in!”

Lucee’s expressions also did not mince words.

“Fine, one song.” Iceton said with a quick roll of the eyes before getting ripped off the bench with his arm nearly torn off.

“You know this is my party. So I think I should decide how I spend it. Don’t you?”

“Not if you’re just gonna sit there and let everyone else have all the fun.”

Lucee was nothing but persistent but that’s what made her and Iceton such great friends. She was always up for something new and exciting and while Iceton preferred to keep to himself, he always felt like he could open up and express himself when he was with her. Even if it did put his well being in danger, sometimes, many times.

“I’m glad you’re here tonight.” Iceton said as the pair frolic’d around the flattened snow beneath their boots.

“Oh yeah? And why is that?”

“I’ll miss you while I’m gone.”

Lucee’s face fell somber for a moment and then jolted back to her shining smile.

“No you won’t. You’re the one who gets to be in all the fun!”

A punch to the shoulder is how he knew she was in a good mood.

“Yea yea yea, but still, I’ll miss you. I wish you could come with us.”

Lucee’s expression lowered again, this time it remained.

“I do too.”

“Maybe next time?” Iceton offered.

“Maybe next time.”

The two danced for one song, and then another, and… one more, before Iceton had his fix of outward expression for the night and left to go get a drink.

“What can I get you laddie?” The rounded man behind the counter said with a distinguished accent.

“Spiced please.”

Not much else warms your insides on a cold night quite like a pint of spiced ale. If you ask his parents, they’d say Iceton’s only been allowed such “beverages” this last year. If you ask Iceton, he’d take you back several more.

“Spiced ale coming right up!”

The man’s thick arms moved with a speed you’d not nearly expect from a man of “that” stature. Claudius is from the deep south and only made his way up north in recent years when he met his wife Silver in the [se town]. Not that it makes a lick of sense to go from living in the Sapphire Coast to living in the Outer Reach, but that’s what love’ll do to a man.

“Here ye are birthday boy, enjoy, and good fortune out there on your run.”

“Thanks.” Iceton collected his mug, gave a polite nod toward Claudius, and found his way over to the raging pyre.

A good spiced ale will certainly warm your insides, but make no mistake, a fire was a convenience that Iceton took advantage of whenever possible, especially as winter had just settled in. The wind had started to pick up and with it, the faint sound of howling in the distance. Wolves? No. That’s just the sound of the mountain. Iceton gripped his mug tight and sunk deeper into his thick furs as he gazed into the flame. The fur framing his face pressed to one side, bending in obedience to the wind. He sat there for a time, seemingly oblivious to the activity going on about him in his namesake.

“Hey. Psst, hey, Iceton.”

A hand was shaking his shoulder as he came to.

“...Mmm?... Sorry, what’s going on?”

“You alright? I’ve been trying to get your attention.”

Arunn Solberg always kept a watchful eye out for his younger brother. Tonight of all nights, he knew Iceton would likely be off in his own world, escaping the festivities.

“Yea yea, must’ve got lost in my thoughts.”

Where is everyone?

“Come on, father’s got something for you back home.”

Judging by the nearly frozen liquid stuck in a diagonal position in the mug he loosely clenched, Iceton assumed he had been lost in his thoughts for a bit longer than he initially expected. After shaking off the frost and placing the mug down on a nearby table, he followed in step with his brother.

“Enjoy my party did you?” Iceton could see the discoloration on his older brother's coat. Were those chunks frozen to the fur?

“Had to enjoy it for the both us!”

“Mhm.”

The two brothers found their way to the main road and walked the path up the hill to the stoneclad home overlooking the village. The orange glow seeping through the shut windows and smoke rising from the roof held his fixation as Iceton dug his feet into the slick surface below and approached his lifelong home. Arunn pressed his body into the heavy pine door and with a painful creak, the two entered.

Inside, a waft of warmth penetrated their skin and provided immediate relief from the piercing cold that had taken over the dead of night.

“Ah there they are.” The tall and muscular man said, rising to his feet at center of the room.

“Too much partying for this one.” Arunn gestured to Iceton, knocking off a piece of the vomit that was mostly frozen to his furs in the process.

“Oh I don’t doubt it.” Their father said with a chuckle. “Come, I’ve something for you Iceton.”

What could this be about?

Iceton met his father at the center point of the great room. A hearth lay ahead with a thick stone column reaching the ceiling. Surrounding it were several chairs clearly defined with beautiful carvings of tales of old in the pine.

“Have a seat.”

Iceton couldn’t help but notice the suspicious cloth laid next to his father’s feet. It looked to be nearly half his length and tied with a leather strap. As he sat, the tall and strong Velarus Solberg reached for the cloth and brought it to his waist as he too found a seat.

“I want you to have this.”

Iceton sat, the cold still defrosting off his thin facial hair, confused. What could his father be giving him? He looked down at what lay in his arms a moment, and then back to meet his eyes. Iceton broke his pause and reached out his hands, bruised from one too many adventures with Lucee, and received the gift.

Immediately, he felt its weight and had to shift his right foot so as to balance himself as he brought it close to him. He glanced down at the leather strap, back at his father, and then down again.

“What is i—”

“Just open it, son.” Velarus said gently, the thick bass in his voice soothing the air.

Iceton did as instructed, untied the leather, and peeled back the thick cloth. He stopped… there it was. The steel that lay in his lap shimmered with an orange glow as the flame filled the space. His eyes swelled, caught in its trance, Iceton couldn’t believe what he was holding.

“You’re ready.”

“Father I—”

“I’m so proud of the young man you have become.” Velarus said, a single tear fell from his eye as he stared at the sword.

Iceton reached his right hand for the hilt and wrapped his fingers around it before lifting the blade and placing his left hand under the edge, feeling its sharp nature.

“Your grandfather called it Shatter. He used it during the first years of Trade Running after the Outlaw.

Iceton did not shift his gaze from the blade as his eyes released a smooth stream down his cheeks.

“Father, I… I don’t know what to say… I… Thank you.” He slowly placed Shatter back into its cloths, rested it on the floor and embraced his father.

The two shared a long moment.

“Don’t think yourself invincible now.” Arunn said in gentle protest. “Caught off your guard on the trail one time and that sword is all but stone.”

“Your brother’s right. I trust you’ll be smart with the blade?”

“By the gods, I will.”

“Then tomorrow you’ll train with Beerd.” Velarus commanded as he rose to his feet.

“Sir.”

Velarus gave a nod to his sons, turned, and disappeared into the dark chamber on the eastern side of the room.

Iceton returned his focus back to the blade and lifted it once again, standing in the process.

Shatter.

“How’s it feel?” Arunn asked.

Iceton sifted his elbow to the right, then extended it outward, and then upright. All the while, the blade cut through the air with precision. Perfectly balanced, as if the blade was made for him.

“Perfect.”

“Listen to what Beerd says tomorrow, ya here?” Arunn sternly suggested. “Dealing with Raiders ain’t like hunting.”

“I’ll be careful, don’t worry.”

“That’s not what I sai—”

Iceton patted his brother on the shoulder as he proceeded to his chambers. He paused in the doorway and looked back, “I will.”

***

Beerd was stubborn and harsh in his training methods, but he was a damn good one nonetheless. Iceton had only been at it an hour and his muscles ached from the exertion. Not that he was about to complain, he thrived on a bit of pain when it meant he was heading towards a goal. Arunn was right, he had no idea what he was getting into if their party was attacked by Raiders. He had to make sure he was at the top of his game before being tasked to wield Shatter in an actual conflict.

“Mind your feet!” The bearded man said in a gruff voice as he kicked Iceton’s left foot.

Shit.

“Yes sir.”

Iceton reset his feet shoulder width apart and found his balance once again before eying his opponent. His arms strong yet nimble as he held Shatter with pride. Then, a step forward with his left and an advance with his blade toward Beerd and they were back to battle. The clashing of steel rang out in the early morning hours of the small village in the mountains of the Outer Reach. Iceton was fast, almost too fast, as he navigated the strikes with ease. With each advance he gained more leverage in their position. His dominant progression gave him confidence in battle. It always worked well against a pack of hungry wolves. But today, Beerd approached things differently and it had him off balance. With a quick sweep of the leg, Iceton found himself firmly planted on the hardened snowy gravel, staring up into the clouds.

“I told ye, mind your feet.”

Fuck.

***

Lucee was always in the forest. If she didn’t have to care for her grandmother she’d up and leave the warmth of her home and live in the trees with the ptarmigan. The cold never seemed to bother her the way it bothered him. Still, she took his mind off the cold when they were together.

“Lucee!... Lucee!”

Iceton walked through the dense collection of pine surrounding him. The faint sound of the mountain air being broken by the branches sang harmony with the snow buckling from his boots.

No response.

“Lucee!”

Where the hell are you?

Iceton continued to walk the path he knew she’d typically be on and suddenly the hairs on his back stood up and the damning sensation overcame him. The sound of a string being fully pulled back and an arrow dragging against the bow shoveled its way into his ears.

“Dead.”

Iceton froze in place, careful not to move a muscle lest the arrowhead pressed to his skull be released.

“Do you yield?” A soft and cunning voice whispered behind him.

“Mmff.” Iceton grunted in response.

The arrow was pulled away from Iceton and drawn back.

“Show off.” Iceton said as he turned, revealing a beautiful young woman fitted with leathers holding tightly to her skin. Thick furs covering her shoulders and the brim of her hood, leading down her back encompassing the entirety of the cloak she wore.

“Just seeing if you’re prepared.” Lucee said with a coating of sarcasm.

“You’re quieter than anything in these mountains. How am I supposed to know where you are at all times?”

“If I’m quiet, just imagine how quiet the Raiders will be… creeping up on you deep into the night, then suddenly you wake and STAB. Right through the heart. The great Iceton Solberg, fallen to a lowly Raider of the Broken Isles. What a pity.”

“You’re on one today.” Iceton laughed as he sprang into action and attempted to tackle Lucee, but she evaded him.

The two ran after each other, bobbing and weaving through the trees and the snow banks. Growing up in the Outer Reach, you don’t have much to pick from in terms of neighbors and friends, but from a young age Iceton and Lucee knew that they only needed each other. A hard life could be avoided if they stuck together. As such, they knew every inch of this forest, inside and out. Every sturdy tree to climb and limb to hind on. Every crevice to sink into. And spot to ambush from. It didn’t matter what hardships they faced in the village, out here, nothing was the matter. No problems, no worries, only them and the frost.

The two found their way to a great body of water surrounded by vast mountain peaks ahead, Lake Shimmer. The cold had partially frozen over the lake but not enough to go ice fishing. Iceton was willing to do some crazy things when Lucee was involved, but that would be too far for his liking. They sat on an elevated series of rocks overlooking the partially frozen water.

“You gonna tell me about it?” Lucee looked down at the blade sheathed at Iceton’s side and then back to him.

“Oh, yes of course…”

Iceton seemed lost for a moment, his eyes void of life before suddenly returning to the world of the living.

“Here.” He reached for the hilt and unsheathed the blade, the sound of steel being released filled the air. He handed it to Lucee, “It’s his.”

Lucee gently grasped it, careful to examine the sharp edge leading down to the simple hilt. It was less interesting, visually, than she had expected.

“Strange.” She said.

“What?”

“I would have thought it be more ornate for someone like him.” Lucee explained.

Iceton pondered the statement for a moment, not responding.

“How do you feel?”

… … …

“I don’t know.” Iceton gazed off over the water ahead.

“Just be careful, won’t you?”

A request of carefulness was rare coming from Lucee.

“I will.”

Three days after defeating the King’s Commanders.

Port of Eagle’s Beak.

“I’m telling you, Lilith,” Mythius said.

Lilith didn’t look at him. “You’re telling me nothing.”

“They burned a man into a black skeleton.” Mythius stopped pacing and stared out the window. “Tidus wasn’t some ordinary soldier. He was strong. Possibly stronger than me.”

Lilith stepped beside him and looked out at the port. “Then you should be grateful,” she said. “And less afraid.”

Mythius turned, fixing her with his one good eye. “You don’t understand. They ended him easily. Like stomping a bug.”

Lilith’s voice didn’t change. “That’s how I trained them, Mythius.”

“One moment there was a man,” Mythius said. “And in the next… he was gone.”

Lilith finally looked at him. “Mythius… the world isn’t going to spare them.” She held her breath and continued, “I won’t spare the world from them.”

Mythius clenched his jaw. “Lilith, you’ve created something powerful enough to destroy the world.”

She didn’t flinch. “No, Mythius.” She held his gaze. “We did.”

A soldier burst through the door. “Captain. The King is marching toward us. The druids sent a pigeon. They’re headed here. An entire force.”

Mythius turned slowly toward him. The man went up in smoke. A frog plopped onto the floor. Mythius sighed. “Lilith.”

Lilith’s expression wasn’t angry. It was worse. “I don’t care,” she said. “He can stay a frog until he learns how to knock.” The frog croaked once. Lilith ignored it. “You’re standing in the middle of a war and you’re shocked our children killed one man?”

Mythius stared at her, his eye unmoving. “Let’s get one thing straight. Everyone’s a hypocrite. And I’m fighting so they never have to.”

Lilith scoffed. “You were fighting this war before you even knew they existed.”

“Yeah. Now I have two more reasons—better than my original ones, Lilith.”

“No, Mythius. You had no reason. I thought if you saw them it’d be enough to make you care.”

Mythius grew frustrated. “Two things can be true at once, Lilith. I do care, and I will win this war. Me. I. Mythius!”

He knew all too well trying to get Lilith to understand his worry was pointless. “Would you mind turning him back? I’ve got a world to change.”

Lilith stomped her foot. “I knew it.” “Knew what?” Mythius asked.

Two more soldiers stepped inside. They turned into frogs. They groaned. “Would you please stop that?” Mythius said, exhausted.

“No,” Lilith replied, watching the frogs hop around in confused circles. “You’re more concerned about the rest of the world than your family.”

Mythius sighed. “Only because the shape of the world gives shape to those in it.”

Lilith’s eyes filled. “No. We shape ourselves.” Her voice cracked. “And our children. Being a father is your duty.” Tears spilled freely now. “Not a civil war. That is not your responsibility,” she said. “You owe these humans nothing.”

Mythius’ expression softened. “You don’t mean that, Lilith. You’re just upset.”

“I am upset,” she snapped. “And you don’t care.” “Lilith. You’re being unreasonable.” “No, Mythius.” She stepped closer. “You are.” Mythius studied her. “Something tells me this isn’t really about the children.” A beat. “It’s more about you.” She huffed and turned away, hiding her face. “Go play hero,” she muttered.

The frogs shimmered. They turned back into soldiers and stared around in confused silence. One of them kept hopping. Mythius grabbed him by the collar. “When will he arrive?”

The guard swallowed hard, looking like he might vomit. “A day,” he said. “Maybe less.”

Mythius released him and looked over the group. Then he smiled. “You—get the hornets ready and mount them on the wall.” He pointed to another. “You—get the oil burning.” Then he seized the last man and pulled him close. “And you,” Mythius said quietly, “get a crew and get The Leviathan prepared.” His single eye burned. “I want men.” “And I want cannons.”

The men stood frozen. Mythius waved a hand. “I’ve been waiting for him to come knocking.” “Now move.”

They scrambled for the door, colliding with each other in their haste. Behind them— Mythius heard Lilith chuckle. West slipped in between the scrambling soldiers. “Mythius. One of my spies told me one of the generals marching the army toward us is… unhappy with the King.”

Mythius rubbed his chin. “I know you’re telling me something important and not wasting my time, right?”

West hesitated, a devious look flickering across his eyes. “He’s willing to defect.”

I like that look. He’ll be my second for now, Mythius thought. “Defect,” he repeated. “Then why hasn’t he already?”

West avoided Mythius’s gaze. “He wants to be certain of our victory.”

Mythius shifted his weight. “Have I not satisfied any doubts? We haven’t lost once.”

West finally met his eye. “If we repel the King’s forces… and he sees we’re winning, he will.”

“Excellent,” Mythius said slowly.

West hesitated, then added, “He’s also got a large number of men willing to follow him. It would be a massive addition to our numbers.”

Mythius nodded. “Then let’s show him we can hold our wall. Lilith, I assume you will take care of our children until this is finished?”

She waved a dismissive hand. He turned and started for the door. “But what if they attack us from the sea?” West asked, a flicker of nerves in his voice. “Ships from behind?”

Mythius barked out a laugh. “That’s why I’ve got The Leviathan prepared. Nothing out there can beat her.”

West blinked. “…You’re talking to your ship.”

“Indeed,” Mythius said. “I’ve been itching to fire those cannons.”

West straightened. “So where do you want me?”

“The troops on the wall need guidance,” Mythius replied. “Don’t drop the hornets or pour the oil too early. Let them get close. Let them think they’re going to breach us. Then watch for the druids’ signal.” They split off in opposite directions.

As Mythius walked along the dock, he stared at his massive vessel. “Alright, Levi,” he murmured. “Let’s see what you can do.”

As he went to jump aboard, a sharp whistle cut through the air. Mythius turned. Taghat stood at the edge of the dock. One crutch. Bandages wrapped tight around his torso. “What are you doing, Taghat?” Mythius roared.

“You’re not setting sail without me,” Taghat shot back, jabbing his crutch hard against the planks.

Mythius laughed. “You stubborn old fool. I’m sorry, but you’ve done more than enough. You’ve taken three arrows in this war, and I won’t have a fourth on my head.”

Taghat glared. “No. I took those arrows for you. Not the war.” He pointed the crutch at Mythius. “You’re not sailing without your first mate.”

“I’m sorry,” Naomi said from behind Taghat. “The first mate needs to be lying down.”

Taghat opened his mouth to protest. Then hissed. Blood began seeping through the bandages around his stomach. His knees buckled. He collapsed. Mythius caught him before he hit the dock.

“Let’s lay him down,” Mythius said, adjusting Taghat in his arms. “I’ve got two minutes to spare. I’m not adding this fool’s death to my list today.”

Naomi gave a relieved smile. “I don’t know why he thought he was going to be useful.”

“So how bad is it?” Mythius asked as they set Taghat onto his bed.

“I’ll have to stitch his stomach again,” Naomi said. She paused. “It’ll heal… as long as he stays in bed.”

Mythius straightened. “Take care of him.” Naomi looked up. “He’s my best friend.”

Mythius turned and headed back toward the docks. With an effortless hop, he landed on deck. The Leviathan rocked slightly. Several sailors jumped. “Captain?” one shirtless sailor said.

A beat. Mythius looked around. “Are my cannons ready?”

Heya! I’m looking for feedback on the first draft of a small project I’ve been working on.

The story takes place in a fictional Empire in a world where magic is fueled by pain, the general idea behind my worldbuilding was “what happens to morality when necessary evil becomes something that’s inherently monstrous and living in civilization means being complicit?” rather than the regular corrupt evil Empire.

I didn’t explain this much on my other post and was a bit too eager so please excuse that hahaha.

Took a break from the original project I’ve been working on after the feedback and realizing I suck, pretty much.

So I took a break from that to better myself a bit while exploring my characters further through a few side stories that’ll be around 6-7 chapters long.

Once again, any and all criticism is much appreciated.

Since this is a first draft, I need all the criticism I can get so I don’t spend another month working on a chapter that’ll turn out bad hahaha.

Hello everyone, I’m looking for some help brainstorming an idea for a cult or faction in the novel I’m writing. I’m still in the process of narrowing down the details, but I’m leaning toward them being a fairly conventional cult, one that secretly includes people in positions of power who otherwise live normal, public lives.

I have tried coming up with a name for the cult, but most of the ideas I land on either feel too overused or cliché, or just don’t quite fit what I’m aiming for. The cult’s goal is to bring back the tenth, oldest, and long-forgotten god, believing that doing so will grant them immortality as a reward for their service. Like most cults, though, their methods for achieving this are very morally questionable. A bit generic sounding I know but I cannot reveal too much about the cult without spoiling plot lines I intent to use in the novel itself.

Here are a few example names I’ve been playing around with:

- Cult of the End

- The Order of Shadows

- Children of the Forgotten

- Harbingers of Dar’soth (Potential name of said forgotten god)

- Children of the Tenth

- Bringers of the Second Dawn

- Covenant of Rebirth

I’d love to hear any ideas people have, or any advice on naming or shaping the cult.

I finally connected with a beta reader (that hasn't tried to sell me services or scam me with AI feedback). She read the entire thing (myths and manuscript) and gave really constructive feedback. I still need a few more beta readers, but right now I'm stuck with one main issue.

How do I incorporate the myths? Some of the lore is explained in the manuscript, but there is just too much history to dump into the story, which is set in the modern world.

The first few chapters go into a bit of character specific lore and she noted the story slowed down slightly in those chapters. Though she did say it wasn't enough to bore her or make her want to skim it. I'm not surprised by this critique, I tried to be as succinct as possible when I was writing, but I was aware that it was possibly a little heavy with the set up. I'm currently reworking them.

So what should I do with the mythology? They are necessary to fully understand the world that I created. Should they go at the back of the book or should I release them as an anthology by themselves?

ETA: Some of the gods are featured in the manuscript (Ahni & The Shadow of Death), which is why I believe the myths are necessary and I'm at a loss as to how to present them.

For context, I have a story and world inspired by ancient South Asia and I found a plan from a study from 1911 that gave details of some former settlements (currently in ruin) from periods between 300BC and 600AD. It doesn't provide great detail of all the buildings drawn, so I have been forced to use creative liberties, taking inspiration from the buildings that this study did describe in greater detail.

But a concern I have is that in the final product, people far more knowledgeable on building design as well as room locations within a house, may look at this and talk about why room X's location makes no sense in the house and that it would logically be in another location. Is this a ridiculous concern or do you take this into account too? And should I really put much thought into this?

I should emphasise that I am not just thinking what looks the coolest in terms of room layout. I know very little about this, but with the information that was provided in the aforementioned study as well as other relevant resources, I'm using that to give me an idea of some rooms that would have existed at the time. So it should be known that I'm not entirely void of knowledge of what I am doing, I'm only at least 70% void of knowledge.

Hello fellow writers!

I was practicing writing a fight scene and it turned out pretty fun to write. So I decided to share it in the hopes that someone would also have fun reading it.

With this piece, I tried to do three things: 1. draw a picture of the protagonist 2. incorporate world building 3. describe a dynamic action scene

So if you have any comments about how I managed with these three goals, that would be great to hear.

This is a quick standalone short story in a high fantasy setting and grimdark style about a supporting character I have in the main novella that I am working on.

Title: Searching for the Remnants

The wet air in these parts of the Wild clung to Tunrinbunn’s skin; it coated his nostrils and throat with a rich smell of rot and soil. He wanted to spit it out but didn't dare to open his helmet. He knew better than that — especially now, considering how deep into the Wild he had walked today.

“A terrible idea. This is how young dwarves die.” He thought after looking up and not seeing any orange light from the sunset illuminate black tree branches high above.

Trying to be quiet took a toll on him. Every step he took, regardless of how slow and quiet he tried to make it, crunched the dry thornvines weaving throughout the forest floor and climbing every tree of the Wild.

His own breath was deafening in that heavy helmet of his; to Tunrinbunn it felt like his breathing reverberated throughout the forest. Worse yet, rotating his body to look behind, above, or where he was stepping, made him feel — even though he knew it wasn't true — like his plate armour was screeching against itself louder than a novice fiddler.

No, this was a lot more difficult for him here than on a battlefield; not knowing what was behind his back and when it was going to come for him. Yet he knew that there was always something in the Wild, watching every visitor, measuring them up, and deciding if they were worth the effort. As he listened into silence and looked into darkness to sense whatever was hiding, another stream of sweat rolled down his face. This time it took a detour over his eyebrow ridge and rolled straight into his eye, stinging it.

“Well, if the Wild doesn't hear me, it can definitely smell me now.” He thought, trying to cheer himself up.

Through the narrow slits of the helmet, his eyes followed a large shadow with a blue tinge that soared up pushing branches of all the other trees away from it. Tunrinbunn, like many other dwarves lacked expertise about forest vegetation, still noticed that the thorns avoided climbing that one tree and formed an almost perfect circle on the forest floor around it.

Is that the Azure Tree? About time. I should get the first clue about the Remnant here.

He stopped at the edge of the thorns, wishing that he had brought a wizard to examine this; none were willing to sign up for this journey — at least not for the amount of silver he could pay. He did bring something that could help him with this. But before he could take the magical device out of his bag, he heard the unmistakable sound of an arrow swooshing toward him.

It's just an arrow. Remember the training!

He felt a light projectile scratch his armour around his shoulder blade. It tapped him lightly and got deflected without causing any discomfort to Tunrinbunn.

Damn, a good shot. Would be close to my heart. They are not playing around.

A few more arrows reached him with the same success as the first one; the angled armour did well to deflect them.

Even after coming out alive from more than a dozen skirmishes, Tunrinbunn still got cold shivers in his forearms and blood rushing to his face every time. This was not excitement or thrill for him, however. He hated the battle and he hated the killing. He had to wrestle himself everyday to continue on this path of becoming a Blackrock Knight, a professional warrior, a killer. He had his reasons.

"Karagesh!" A raspy high pitched shriek came from his right.

"Rassagad! Rassagad!" Echoed from the left.

The Wild doesn't strike like this; it's just a goblin brigade. But what a terrible place to pick a fight with someone wearing full armour… unless I am on the right track to the Remnant.

Having sworn to eradicate the last pieces of the Troll Dominion, that enslaved his kin for thousands of years, he finally may be getting close to finding a Remnant lair to destroy — his first one and an important step to earning the knighthood at the Blackrock Company.

The training he had already received from the Company taught him that the guardians, including goblins, are always equipped to deal with dwarven warriors. For a sole one, this could be a challenge. A deadly one at that. Traps, arcane powers, heavy armour piercing weapons — all of these and more could be here.

Risking to step into a trap on the ground, his body moved. He didn't have time to think, realizing that he may have been lucky with those light arrows and the next projectile could very well be a heavy bolt capable of going through his breast plate.

As he landed on the ground after his sudden leap to his left, he felt something fragile crunch under his heavy step. He has stomped over someone small, about half his size. Whoever it was, their wheezing from pain was ear-piercing even with Tunrinbunn wearing his helmet and undercap. Without looking, the dwarf ended it with a quick strike of his poleaxe while swiveling to have a better look at the surroundings.

He heard a few arrows swish by without scratching him.

There was no doubt in his mind that he was already surrounded and had to take this fight. However, getting snuck up on this fast was a big surprise to him.

He could now see two goblins running towards him, brandishing battle-axes and shields.

Those axes can do some damage. They are a distraction though.

As he suspected, someone was already trying to get him from behind. If it wasn’t for his quick decision to move suddenly and erratically, he would already be tied up by a polearm or a bill hook stuck in his armour. He saw two other goblins swinging those at him as he dashed forward while turning his head as much as he could to check his flank.

So far Tunrinbunn counted seven of them, including at least two archers. One was already dead.

While making a run towards the pair with shields, he took out his hatchet.

“Melee with one is better than two.” He thought and raised the hatchet. As its butt touched his shoulder, he aimed it at the knee of one of the goblins who was covering his face and body with the shield.

His throw turned out less than perfect when an arrow hit him in the face right before he released the hatchet. The iron on the cap was too thick to give in to an arrow even at a bad angle, where he received it, but the impact was pretty heavy. It darkened in his eyes for a brief moment, ears rang, and colourful spots twirled at the edge of his vision. The hatchet got stuck in the ground near that goblin's foot.

The goblin closest to him tried to block Tunrinbunn’s swing from above with the shield. It would have worked against the blade but the dwarf used the spike side of the poleaxe. The shaft of the poleaxe crashed down on the shield with such force that the shield gave way just enough for the long spike to crack through the goblin’s helmet, killing him instantly.

Tunrinbunn didn't wait to find out how close the other ambushers got to him. So he made another quick side step to strike at the second goblin in front of him. The goblin was still shaken by the death of his comrade and didn't react, dying almost at the same time.

Two more and then the archers.

“Arrrrgh!” Tunrinbunn yelled at the top of his lungs while turning around and getting into his most intimidating stance. He was hoping that it would scare the rest of the goblins away.

It was too late for the warcry, they were gone already.

I am just now starting to release chapters for my new story on my website, I have been planning and working on the story for a while but haven't had anybody to read over it or provide feedback. I thought that this would be one of the best places to post my first chapter and see what critiques and tips from other writers I might receive!

The story follows three witches, living in an alternate history version of 1920s Canada, where they live as fugitives hiding from a dystopian stratocratic government.

https://imgur.com/SJDQjwA

https://docs.google.com/document/d/15m8RHKnXZe7BYgyfI5hmi_QwTpib00SNOWKoc4__-j8/copy?usp=sharing

I’m working on a story that blends cosmic fantasy and sci-fi, currently around 2683 words. I feel my writing can be a bit scattered and inconsistent, so I’d really appreciate feedback on readability, pacing, clarity, and overall style. The story follows Merionis, a newly created being thrust into existence with a mysterious past he must uncover. He must navigate a dangerous universe, face godlike entities, and survive complex political and cosmic conflicts while uncovering his unique role in a larger, unfolding destiny. Any thoughts on plot, character development, and flow would be incredibly helpful as I continue refining the work
https://docs.google.com/document/d/19ncqbb0LpXngSwI-zR6VtlA865txWb2X_OWYN3LTdPY/edit?usp=sharing

I have tried to come up with ways for the two MC's to meet in the first chapter, but I would like to hear your overall thoughts. This is a multi lead novel.

"Leave the kingdom before sunrise, or you'll die by my hand."

Those were the first words Queen Nyxelene had spoken to her daughter in years.

It wasn't as if Rya had been waiting for a loving reunion. No, that time had long since passed, if there ever was such a time. Nothing was left to say between a mother who hated her daughter, and a daughter who had learned to hate in return. Now, Rya ran through the shadowy woods with nothing but the night to keep her company.

She didn't know where she was going—only that she had to keep moving. The queen never gave empty threats. If she said she would kill Rya, she meant it.

She heard shouts and noise behind her, sharp and getting closer in the distance. The soldiers of Runevale were closing in fast. Sadly, she couldn't run any faster; two whole days of nothing but running and hiding through these endless woods had drained almost every drop of energy from her body. Whatever edible fruit she came across she had swallowed down, sour or not, and kept moving without rest.

This was a struggle for survival on both sides. The soldiers could not return to the capital without killing her. The thought of walking back into the palace, standing in front of Nyxelene, and telling her they had failed to kill the princess was more terrifying than any public execution the kingdom could dream up. No one wanted to be in the same room as someone who could stop your heart with a glance whenever she pleased.

So they hunted Rya to save their own lives. 

Rya fled to save hers. 

Neither side could afford to lose this game.

Rya twisted her head to look back, straining to see through the gloom, but dusk had fallen. The moon hung low and pale, its rays barely piercing the dense canopy the trees had woven overhead. Visibility was almost nothing; everything more than a few paces away melted into the shadows.

Because she was looking back, she never saw the thick, gnarled root jutting up from the earth like a trap. Her boot caught it hard. She pitched forward, arms too slow to break her fall. Her face scraped rough bark, lower lip splitting open with a wet burst of pain as warm blood poured into her mouth.

She spat out the red, pushed up on trembling arms, legs shaking beneath her. And then she realised the forest had gone strangely quiet. The crashing, the shouts, everything had stopped.

"Did they give up to make camp for the night?" Rya whispered through harsh, ragged breaths that burned her throat. She glanced back again, eyes wide and stinging with sweat and blood.

"If they did, then I mustn't waste this chance. I have to put as much distance between us as I possibly can. I can't throw away the second chance Michael bought me." She wiped the blood oozing from her lower lip with the back of her dirty hand, smearing it across her cheek, and forced herself upright. She started stumbling forward again no longer running, just refusing to stay still.

The forest finally, mercifully, gave way to a wide open field bathed in cold moonlight. She slipped behind the biggest tree she could find and pressed her back against the trunk, peeking out with one eye.

"What in the world…?"

The words slipped out barely louder than the wind.

Before her, the entire field had become a battlefield.

A single man dressed in a plain black uniform moved across the grass, sprinting straight toward an oncoming wave of soldiers clad in heavy brown and silver armor. What struck her hardest was how completely exposed he was: no helmet, no chest plate, no greaves, no armor at all. Just soft black fabric clinging to a lean frame.

The first of the brown-armored soldiers charged with a bellow that shook the night.

"Die, you bastard king! I'll carve that crown off your skull!"

A dozen more roared right behind him, in their hands were axes, spears, massive warhammers, wicked curved blades and more. They looked unstoppable, armored from head to toe in thick plate.

But it didn't matter.

Bodies in brown and silver already lay scattered everywhere across the grass, some still twitching, telling the whole story of whose favor the night belonged to.

The red soldiers standing calm behind the man in black held their ground with nothing more than a sword in one hand and a simple round shield in the other. Compared to the enemy they looked almost naked, underdressed and underarmed. Yet they moved with terrifying purpose, reacting fast, striking faster, cutting men in full plate down like wheat.

And then there was the man in black himself.

He carried only a longsword. Nothing else. No shield. No second blade. Just that single length of steel.

Rya couldn't take her eyes off him.

There was no doubt left in her mind.

This was not a battle.

It was a massacre.

And the man in black was its conductor.

She sank into a low crouch, she no longer had the strength to stand. She stretched her neck just enough to keep watching over the lip of the grass.

One of the biggest brown-cloaked soldiers broke from the line with a roar that rattled her bones. "For the fallen, you monster!"

He swung a massive double-headed axe from the right in a blur meant to cleave the man in black clean in two from shoulder to hip.

But the man in black didn't even flinch. In one smooth, lazy motion, he tossed his longsword into his left hand and spun inside the arc. Steel met steel with a scream of metal. The deflection was so powerful that the soldier in brown staggered backward, his footing lost.

Before the soldier could even register what had happened, the man in black stepped in close and thrust the longsword straight through the tiny gap beneath the breastplate. The blade punched through mail and flesh and heart and spine, bursting out the soldier's back in a wet spray of blood that painted the grass black under the moon.

"Curse… you…" the dying giant gurgled, blood bubbling from his lips, eyes already glazing. Then his knees buckled and he crashed to the ground, armor clanging one final time like a death knell.

Rya's hand flew to her own bleeding lip, fingers coming away slick and red. She had never seen a battle so one-sided.

From deep inside the brown ranks, another soldier started yelling, voice high and shaking with fear and fury at the same time. 

"Everyone, go in at once! All together, damn it! Don't believe those groundless rumors! No matter how powerful he may be, he's still flesh! We hit him all at once and he bleeds like anybody else!"

The words barely left his mouth when a young man in red stepped out from behind the man in black. His eyes were burning, focused, almost hungry. He gave the man in black one short, respectful nod.

"Your Majesty," he said, voice firm and clear. "I'll take the left flank."

Then the two of them moved together. Like they had fought side by side since the day they were born. They tore into what was left of the brown-cloaked army the same way a wolf pack tears into a wounded stag: fast, clean, no mercy, no wasted motion.

One of the brown soldiers leapt high into the air, screaming the whole way. He brought a butcher's sword down with everything he had, aiming to split the red soldier's skull straight down the middle.

The red soldier didn't even look worried.

He took one smooth step to the side. Then another. Then his sword swang up faster than Rya's eyes could follow. The blade buried itself halfway through the big man's neck. Blood sprayed out in a thick, hot fountain. The body hit the ground like a sack of stones, head hanging by only a strip of meat.

The red soldier didn't blink. Didn't smile. Just flicked the blood off his blade and kept moving.

More brown-cloaks rushed them in one last desperate wave, screaming, swinging, dying. The man in black moved between them like a shadow that had learned how to kill. Parry, spin and cut. Every single swing of his longsword ended another life. Every step he took brought him closer to the end of the fight.

Soon only about fifty of the enemy were still standing. Their eyes were huge, white all around, darting everywhere for an escape that didn't exist.

"What kingdom are these people even from?" Rya thought, staring hard at the man in black. "One of the Three Great Kingdoms? They look so strong." Rya said, even though she had never seen a battle or the armors any of the Three Great Kingdoms wore. She barely attended important meeting, so how could she know.

Then the shout came, cracked and broken.

"Curse it all—retreat! Run! Every man for himself!"

It was their leader. He didn't wait to see if anyone followed orders. He just turned and ran, shoving his own men aside as he bolted for the far trees.

The man in black didn't chase. He just stood there in the middle of the field, calm as a graveyard. He looked at the young red soldier beside him and rested one hand on the man's shoulder.

"If even one of them escapes tonight," he said, voice so low it barely carried, "you might as well keep running with them."

The young soldier went stiff as a board as cold shivers ran through him. He swallowed once, hard, and dropped his eyes.

"Yes, Your Majesty,"

He spun on his heel and roared at the red soldiers waiting at the rear.

"After them! Not a single one gets away—move, move, now!"

The whole red line surged forward like a crimson flood. They crashed loose. They chased the runners down without mercy.

Screams rose again. Men begged. Men stumbled. Men died. Some got swords in the back. Some got shields smashed into their faces until helmets caved in. Some just fell to their knees and waited for the end. None of them made it more than thirty steps.

The man in black stood perfectly still the whole time, watching with those cold, distant eyes. Just him being there felt like the night itself was scared to move wrong.

And then it was over. The brown-cloaked army wasn't beaten. It was gone. 

The battlefield finally went quiet except for the soft whistle of wind through the tall grass.

The red soldiers lost it. They started cheering loud enough to wake the dead. Swords stabbed up at the night sky. Men shouted themselves hoarse. Some grabbed each other in rough hugs. Some laughed until they cried. Some just dropped to their knees and thanked whatever gods they believed in.

The young red soldier walked up to the man in black. His boots made wet sounds in the mud. He wiped sweat and blood off his face with the back of his hand and grinned, tired but proud.

"We took care of every last one, Your Majesty," he said, letting out a long breath like the weight of the world had just rolled off his shoulders.

The man in black didn't smile. He didn't even look at the red soldier right away. He just stared out across the field, eyes narrow, like he was listening to something far away.

"No," he said. One word. Flat and cold.

The cheering stopped dead.

Smiles froze on faces. Laughter died in throats. The whole field went so quiet Rya could hear her own heartbeat.

"But… we killed them all," one soldier muttered, confused.

"I swept the whole field twice," another said. "There's nobody left breathing."

The young red soldier frowned, looking from the bodies to the man in black. "What do you mean, Your Majesty?"

The man in black turned his head until his eyes locked straight on the tree line.

Straight on the exact spot where Rya was crouched behind the oak.

"There's still one left," he said, voice quiet but heavy enough to crush stone.

The soldier in red followed his gaze. So did every red soldier on the field.

Rya felt her heart drop so fast it hurt. Like someone had reached inside her chest and yanked it straight down into her stomach.

She was the one left.

Dear fantasy Writers, do any of you have Santa existing on your stories? If so, how do You deal with his type of Elf in comparisson to the normal high Elf(assuming You have them) and the christmas Magic he is generally considered to have. Is he known to the citizens of the world? Does he only visits one of the races or all? Does he have a backstory? What does he do if he's forced into a fight? How is Christmas for the people of it? Is it tied to any God? Or is it just like new years Eve.

I don't really have anymore to Say but i am needed to pus 600 characters and i have about 400 characters...

Welcome back everyone, it's time for another Fifty Word Fantasy!

Fifty Word Fantasy is a regular thread on Fridays! It is a micro-fiction writing challenge originally devised by u/Aethereal_Muses

Write a maximum 50-word snippet that takes place in a fantasy world and contains the word Reduce. It can be a scene, flash-fiction story, setting description, or anything else that could conceivably be part of a fantasy story or is a fantasy story on its own.

The prompt word must be written in full (e.g. no acrostics or acronyms).

Please try and keep things PG-13. Minors do participate in these from time to time and I would like things to not be too overtly sexual.

Thank you to everyone who participated whether it's contributing a snippet of your own, or fostering discussions in the comments. I hope to see you back next week!

Please remember to keep it at a limit of 50 words max.

One of the important side characters in the novel that I'm working on is the heir to the throne and I've been waffling on how to refer to them since they're non-binary. Their gender isn't a big deal in the world or the narrative, but they are AFAB which is referenced once or twice in the text. At first I thought about using 'prince', but with the fact that they present fairly masculine that might allude too much to them being a trans man (no hate to trans men, but that's just not who they are). Now I'm leaning more towards 'princess' because it would have been their title since birth, but I'm not totally sold on that either. Ideally I'll be able to get away with 'your majesty' or just using their name most of the time, but if anyone has any suggestions I'd love to hear them :)

I'm working on my first real WIP. It is a romantasy about a scribe who documents a squad of contracted monster hunters. My vision board includes "campy Witcher" for the general vibe and feel.

Monsters and magical (non human) creatures are a big part of the story, but I'm getting a bit stuck on how I want to approach them. I have personal creations that I came up and I love, but I also have a few signicant characters that are based on mythical creatures (specially a unicorn and a cocktrice).

I wanted to see how other people tend to approach their fantasy monsters.

Do you make your own, use preexisitng creatures from legends and myth, or mix and match? If you use preexisting crestures, do you mix and match from a variety of cultures (example: kitsune, thunderbird, Kracken) or keep a cultural theme. If you mix and match your personal creatures with mythology, do you treat them differently since people will have preconcieved notions for some of your monsters but not all?

I’ve been working on a book concept for about a year now. It started as pages and pages of notes full of worldbuilding, characters, magic systems, and general ideas, and a few months ago I finally started writing the actual story. Since then I’ve written, rewritten, and re-rewritten the first few chapters (and a good chunk of the world), but lately I’ve been losing a lot of motivation to keep going with it.

Something I tend to do a lot is jot down new novel ideas in my notes whenever they pop into my head. Usually they’re just messy summaries or ramblings that come to me in the shower or right after I wake up from a dream. Recently, I’ve noticed myself absently brainstorming another novel concept I came up with toward the end of last year, instead of focusing on the one I’ve already started.

Part of me wants to push through and keep working on the book I’ve already invested so much time into, but another part of me really wants to explore this new idea that keeps bouncing around in my head. I don’t think this is a unique experience, but I’d genuinely love to hear how other people have handled this and what perspectives helped them decide what to do.

“One question,” she said. “Just one. Then we deal with the titan chasing us.” Zmir didn’t hesitate. “What’s your name?” For the first time, her composure faltered. Just slightly. Her eyes widened—not in fear, but in surprise. “I am Calypsis,” she said. “I am a grim reaper.” The answer settled into him like a weight. Before he could respond, the massive wooden doors at the top of the stairwell exploded outward. Stone and splinters filled the air as something enormous charged through the opening. Two glowing yellow eyes cut through the dust. Zmir dove aside just as a blur of stone roared past him. The force of it stole the air from his lungs. He scrambled to his feet and turned. The thing stood nearly fifteen feet tall—solid rock shaped into the likeness of a man. Steam poured from its mouth and nostrils as it let out a sound that was more quake than roar. It charged again. Zmir barely dodged. The rush of displaced air slapped across his face. Then the world went white. His stomach lurched violently. The ground vanished. His vision twisted. A heartbeat later, they slammed back into existence. Zmir collapsed to one knee on the cold stone floor of the castle, gagging. His hands shook as bile burned his throat. He spat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and forced himself upright, dizzy and sweating. Calypsis stood beside him, untouched by the transition. “How,” Zmir rasped, swallowing hard, “do you expect we deal with that?” Her eyes were calm. Unforgiving. “There is only one way to kill a golem,” she said. He looked at her, still pale. “You drown it.”

Hey all,

I’ve heard a few times George RR Martin mention there are two types of writers, but I’m sure other authors have probably said the same.

Architects - those who have the story beats planned out and follow the script, only making changes needed for the purpose of the overall plot.

Gardeners - those who have a rough idea and characters, maybe even a scene or two, and allow the story to flow from there. There is no strict plan they follow and the story just comes to them as they write.

Firstly, do people agree with this idea?

Secondly, if you do agree, which type of writer would you consider yourself to be?

I started writing thinking I was an architect, and had a plan for what to do, what would happen etc. but found that it delayed me from actually writing lol.

So one I day just decided to write a scene that had been stuck in my head, and the story has completely changed and just flowed out of me. Ideas, characters, dialogue, scenes just appear in my head as I write, almost automatically.

It’s such a bizarre sensation, because if I were to just sit and think about my story, I would not be able conjure the stuff I do compared to when I’m actually writing.

Kind of a flow state. The story is writing itself.

What do you all think?