Title says pretty much everything. Do you write these sort of "B-roll" or "deleted scenes" that you're not planning on including on the book? just to visualize a character or a plot when you're not sure about how to actually research or plan it.

Im asking because I kinda suck at planning my writing. I've tried every technique and model like the snowflake, heroes journey, or arquetypes for characters and arcs, but sometimes it makes more sense just to put it on paper and see how the story itself takes shape, even when I write scenes of things that aren't really part of the main plot, or with characters that are not yet really defined. If you do it, do you find it helpful? or is it distracting for you?

to me its counterproductive sometimes: it helps to start, but my concentration span is so short it feels a little bit like a waste of time if im not really invested in the thing, which is often bc I face a lot of FOBO (fear of better options) so I tend to change ideas a lot, but that's also why it helps, it's easier to just write something than sit and plan every new idea, plot and setting hat comes to mind

I'm revisiting some old writing and had a throwaway line that a character was relocated to a distant corner of the empire because she had broken Magistry rules; functionally she was expelled from school.

What she did is not important to the story but I think it'd be a fun writing prompt to consider - how does a witch get expelled from magic school?

If you have an extract or character that explores this, or if this prompt gives you some ideas, I'd love for you to share them 😄

I need to get to 600 characters? Hee hee hoo hoo haa haa Hu Hu... really? that's not enough? What a strange number to--

Hi all —

Magic systems come up often in Fantasy, with preferences between “hard” or “soft” systems.

I would assume a lot of writers here look for ideas to set up an interesting magic system.

I stumbled upon a great post on r/askhistorians discussing the interplay between medieval Christian Church doctrine, the influence of Platonicism on “the occult”, the blurry line between tolerated astrology and forbidden witchcraft/ dealing with demons, etc.

https://www.reddit.com/r/AskHistorians/s/IIJGBEpBoD

Well worth a read if you seek a) to root your story in actual history or b) to build a system with a scale / gradation between natural sciences (eg an herb will cure you), “scientific” magic (eg a potion made of the herb will cure you), and invocation magic (eg I use the herb to summon a spirit that will cure you).

Español:

Estoy diseñando el sistema de poderes para mi serie y me encontré con un problema relacionado con el elemento Tierra.

En mi sistema, los elementos pueden evolucionar hacia otro distinto. No se trata simplemente de volverse más fuertes, sino de un cambio en la naturaleza del elemento. Es como si a un arquero se le rompiera el arco y le dieras un arma de fuego: al principio no sabrá usarla bien, pero a la larga será mucho más letal. Ambas armas sirven para lanzar proyectiles a gran velocidad, pero su naturaleza es diferente.

Ejemplos de otras evoluciones:

• Fuego → Llamas: Son de un color distinto al fuego normal y no necesitan oxígeno para arder.
• Agua → Líquidos: El usuario se especializa en el control de un tipo concreto de líquido (sangre, gasolina, ácido, etc.), pero no puede controlar todos los líquidos a la vez.

Con la Tierra me he trabado. Al principio pensé que evolucionaba a Roca, pero luego descubrí que “tierra” y “roca” no son términos científicos precisos, sino más bien coloquiales. Después lo cambié a Cristal: esto hacía que el material fuera inmune a ataques energéticos (rebotaban en su superficie), más afilado y más fácil de manejar, con la desventaja de que ya no se podía fragmentar tan fácilmente como la tierra normal. Sin embargo, siento que “Cristal” limita demasiado el concepto de Tierra.

Ahora estoy considerando cambiarlo a Mineral, para que cada usuario pueda especializarse en cosas como oro, plata u otros compuestos. El problema es que, técnicamente, controlar Tierra ya es controlar minerales. Entonces, ¿cuál sería realmente la diferencia? ¿Cómo defino de forma clara y sencilla qué controla Tierra y qué controla su evolución, sin que esta última se sienta como una limitación en lugar de una verdadera evolución?

Inglés:

I'm designing the power system for my series and I've run into a problem with the Earth element.

In my system, elements can evolve into a different one. It's not just about becoming stronger, but about a change in the nature of the element itself. Think of it like an archer whose bow breaks and is given a firearm instead: at first they won't know how to use it properly, but in the long run they'll be far more lethal. Both weapons serve to launch projectiles at high speed, yet their nature is fundamentally different.

Examples of other evolutions:

• Fire → Flames: They have a different color from normal fire and don't require oxygen to burn.
• Water → Liquids: The user specializes in controlling one specific type of liquid (blood, gasoline, acid, etc.), but cannot control all liquids at once.

I'm stuck with Earth. At first I thought it evolved into Rock, but then I realized that “earth” and “rock” aren't precise scientific terms—they're more colloquial. Later I changed it to Crystal: this made the material immune to energy attacks (they would bounce off its surface), sharper, and easier to manipulate, with the drawback that it could no longer be broken into pieces as easily as regular earth. However, I feel that “Crystal” limits the concept of Earth too much.

Now I'm considering changing it to Mineral, so that each user could specialize in things like gold, silver, or other compounds. The problem is that, technically, controlling Earth is already controlling minerals. So what’s the real difference? How can I clearly and simply define what Earth controls versus what its evolution controls, without making the evolution feel like a limitation rather than a true upgrade?

Hi Guys!

I am looking for someone to read a new chapter of my story, and to give me feedback on whether it's any good or not. I don't plan on publishing or anything anytime soon, I just want to know if my writing is decent.

So for my story, I have 4 alternating POVs written in third person limited, past tense. I have chapters started for three of my POVs, but the fourth one I am struggling on starting. It's a young girl who is imprisoned in the cities holding cells, who is waiting to be transported to a prison camp, that is notorious. In the story, there are seven covens of witches who originally ruled the world, but the humans and Fae got tired of them and started a war, with it ending with these witch camps being developed and enslaving women who are thought to be descendants of the witches. This girl, Briar, is one of the true descendants.

I am just looking for overall feedback. Thank you in advance!

In the deepest pit of winter, during the longest night, as the snows mounted atop and against Cynedom’s walls, Man, Dwarf, Halfling and those beside waited for the advent of The King. King Alden, the sixteenth Seaborn and ninety-ninth monarch of Gryrland, was dead. As the dawn of a new year approached, the High Elves of Isolation approached with tidings from God.

In the feasting hall, in the keep that kissed the clouds, thirty hearths blazed and finally, merriment replaced mourning. The Queen, who would be Queen no longer when the sun rose, feasted the Lords of her realm to honour her late husband.

Much of Gryrland’s nobility had come together from all six counties of the realm on the winter solstice, Wuld Day, for King Alden had been much beloved. The six Lord-Counts, who had travelled from their county capitals, sat with minor Lords, some their own bannermen, who had come from their forts and holdfasts. Man sat with Halfling who sat with Dwarf, but the soon-to-be Queen Dowager sat alone, next to an empty throne.

For nearly fifteen years exactly, King Alden had ruled with a steady hand. He had been a Seaborn, and under his guidance, fleets, both royal and private had swelled in size. So too had trade and in the year that had ended the day prior, more goods and folk had travelled between Gryrland and the continental mainland than any previously recorded year in this age.

Pockets had truly been filled under King Alden, and astonishingly mostly from honest transactions. When that wealth had inevitably caught the lustful eyes of brigands and thieves, the country had risen as one, without hesitation under the King’s standard, to crush would-be profit drainers. Even old grudges were not enough to stem the flow of trade under King Alden.

The Winotts of Sweoshire and the Killenbergs of Faedershire had allowed caravans laden with goods to cross the Wedburn river freely, a crossing that had always been historically awkward. Sir Aldred Seaborn, the late King’s brother, had even recorded trade with a Lord Duco in Arabletèr. A feat no one thought possible.

Sir Aldred was at the feast, somewhere, but Sir Edric Wesselson could not see him.

It was hard for Edric to see anyone of note from his table, for it was in the furthest corner from the empty throne. Those at his table were, being polite, fairly bland. His father, Lord-Earl Wesselson might have found joy in the table’s conversation, or even a station at a more prestigious table, but Lord Amery had been bed bound for a year now.

Edric’s older brother, Almeric, really should have taken his father’s place. However, Almeric had thought it better It to stay by their dying Father’s side, on this the coldest and longest night. Thus, the duty fell to Edric to rub shoulders with the nobility of Gryrland.

“I have been to your keep, Almery,” a frail old man said looking at Edric, “many, many years ago. Your father and I shared a boar we hunted in that great forest you have there in Wesselfolk.” Edric smiled politely, brushing some breadcrumbs off his brown and bone halved doublet, the livery of his house.

Before he could reply, a Halfling, fatter and wider than he was tall interjected.

“How did you avoid the Wood Elves? I hear they’re protective of game on their lands.” The fat Halfling said between chews.

“I was spritely then, quick and nimble” The old man replied. “Ambimby and I baited the beast and at the last moment of its charge we dove out of its path and skewered it. We were fast, and I imagine the Wood Elves did not even know we were there.” The old man coughed, “Your father was quite the hunter in his day!” he said patting Edric on the back.

“Oh, they knew you were there, Baron Winottkin.” Edric said to the old man.

“Oh?” the old man’s eyes widened.

“They likely watched you when you were a hundred yards from the treeline. My father, Lord Amery, is friend of the Wood Elves. They gifted you that boar.” Edric took a mouthful of ale.

“Well, a strange gift I must say to set a wild beast like that upon two betters of the realm.”

“They honoured you, my Lord. And you them.”

For a moment the table went quiet, Baron Winnotkin too polite to express his disagreement. It was only a few awkward breaths before conversation returned to mundanity and Edric returned to looking across the room, trying to pick out a famous face or two.

When that failed, he reached for his ale mug and dismayed to find it empty. His dismay threatened to turn to sorrow when he found the table’s ale jug also empty. He looked around for a servant, but they too had seemingly vanished, likely occupied at the higher tables.

“No, I couldn’t get a wench’s attention for a refill.” The Halfling said with a mouthful of mutton, also eager for more ale. “Be a good lad, Almery and fetch some would you? Find a flagon with a maiden embossed in the clay, that’s one of my brews. I’ll tell you the six different hops we use, just get enough for us both!” the Halfling bellowed a laugh and Edric through he might choke on his mouthful.

“Aye.” and Edric stood and walked away from his table; not entirely sure he’d return to it.

Folk were now starting to mingle as empty plates were cleared away by servants. Edric smiled at one as he passed, trying not to be so easily hated by those in servitude. A feigned smile in return reminded him how stupid he was being trying to befriend someone clearing his dirty plates on Wuld Day.

He moved on. As he got closer to the empty throne, he heard a trio of bards that previously had been drowned out by the din of the feast. Two Halflings and a Man joined their voices over lute, drum and fiddle. They were good, and in Edric’s opinion not nearly enough of those around them, who were lucky enough to hear them, were paying them any attention.

They sang in beautiful melancholy a lament for King Alden:

Alden our King, has come and passed,

Back to the sea from which he came.

His heart has stopped, it’s beat its last.

Now we won’t see his like again.

Gryrland, she weeps, her father’s gone,

Her sons curse death and draw their swords.

But death gifts God a king who’s song,

Will be sung by peasant and Lord.

Edric clapped as the last chord was strung and few others around him joined him.

“Still a fan of the arts then, Eddy?”

Edric turned and was faced with the open arms of Sir Edric Killenberg. They smiled as Edric embraced Edric, before they pulled apart and slapped each other on the shoulders.

“’Tis a better sound that half the talk in here.” Edric said with a laugh.

“True enough!” Edric Killenberg, garbed in the red and black of his house, laughed.

“Who is this?” a knight with a foreign accent and olive skin said walking up to the pair of Edrics.

“Ah, where are my manners!” Killenberg exclaimed, “Allow me to introduce Sir Edric Wesselson. Eddy, this is Sir Luis Torquemedes of Valdeste in Ibiçeña.”

Edric extended his hand to the Ibiçenian who took it gladly. “It is an honour to meet you, Sir.”

“You’re honoured, I’m honoured, we’re all honoured. Tell me true, how many of you Gryrlish are named Edric? I’m grateful it’s a simple name you’re all called.” The Ibiçenian smiled, which made his flamboyantly curled moustache bounce on his lip.

“And why shouldn’t we all be called Edric? King Edric the first Killenberg threw Arabletèri raiders back into the sea and unified the country under one crown!” Killenberg slapped Edric on the back and placed his other hand on Sir Luis, “He threw a few Ibiçenians back too if I recall correctly.” He said with a wry smile.

“None of my ancestors, I assure you” Luis smiled, “They had their eyes on the south.”

“Valdeste? I imagine your ancestors were more than occupied with incursions from Psamthera, I imagine you still are?” Edric asked Luis.

“Oh, I’m Eddy and I’ve read a book!” Killenberg mocked with a playful laugh.

“I’ve been there!” Edric retorted with a smile and feigned offence.

“Truly, you have, Sir?” Luis asked Edric.

“Truly. I travelled with a party of traders from my home county, I was their protector.”

A servant walked past the trio with mugs of ale on a tray and offered them refreshment. All three took one and each nodded thanks to the girl. “When was this?” Luis asked taking a sip and looking at Edric intently.

“Oh, a year and a half past.” Edric replied before taking a sip himself.

“I would have been there!” Luis exclaimed, “Please tell me my father and I were gracious hosts?”

“I’m sure you would have been, Sir, but we did not stay in your Lord’s hall. The accommodation of traders can be somewhat frugal. We stayed at a perfectly serviceable inn.” Said Edric.

“Good traders anyway.” Killenberg laughed.

“Ha! Yes, well when you try to sell thick Wesselfolk textiles and fabrics to sunned Ibiçenians you are forced to be frugal.” Edric took another gulp of ale.

“Foolish are they who do not prepare for winter! I apologise for my countrymen’s tight coin purses.” Sir Luis said with an apologetic bow of his head.

“Don’t. I tried to tell the weavers, tailors and haberdashers that they wanted to go to a considerably warmer place, but they paid me no mind. I was still able to see your beautiful country.” At that, Sir Luis raised his mug of ale in a half toast and nodded his head to Edric. Then, as if the thought had just occurred to Edric Killenberg, he blurted out:

“Hang on, you were with me a year and a half ago?”

Edric lowered his mug from his mouth, “I was with you closer to two years ago, my friend. When our business was done, I went on to Ibiçeña.”

“By God, man!” said Killenberg, “You don’t stay still very long.”

“’Tis the life of a second son, do not be jealous.” Edric said wryly and the pair laughed.

“What was your business together?” asked Sir Luis.

“Orcs.” Killenberg began, “The usual, they put some pig-ugly fence up, call it a wall and claim the lands within. No more than ten miles from Monsborough. My father nearly died from rage when the news reached him. I was near naked from bed when he sent me out to form a muster. Eddy here was in the van with me.”

“The vanguard?” Luis asked, a little too surprised for Edric’s taste, “Forgive me, Sir, I know you for an anointed knight but vanguard fighting against Orcs is not something I would have picked for you.”

“I would not have picked it for myself, Sir.” Said Edric.

“No and here, Luis, this is sure to make you laugh,” Killenberg began, “When Eddy joined my muster, he came up to me, Captain of the Company, first son of a Lord-Count, a man he did not know, and asked if we had spoken with the Orc Chief!” Killenberg laughed hard and Luis smiled awkwardly looking between the two Edrics.

“They speak Gryrlish, Edric.” Said Edric, and Killenberg laughed again.

“Come, Eddy, enough, you’ll make me piss myself.” Killenberg composed himself, “They’re savages, Eddy they wear leathers from Man, Dwarf and other Orcs, likely dress their piggish children in Halfling skins.”

“Have you spoken to an Orc, Edric?” Luis asked Edric whilst Killenberg stifled yet more laughter.

“I have, in Arabletèr, in Old Veliacora.”

“A doomed place.” Luis half whispered.

“He told me, in Gryrlish – though he also spoke Arabletèri and Ibiçenian,” Edric threw a sideways look to Killenberg, “The brothers and uncles of his clan often pilgrimaged to Old Veliacora as a reminder of why they were nomadic.”

Luis nodded, engrossed. Edric Killenberg had stopped laughing.

“He said to me,” Edric went on, “‘even the biggest trees with the deepest roots cannot grow back from a stump once cut down,’ but that ‘seeds float from here to there through storm and calm.’” Edric paused, recollecting the face of the Orc in his mind as he spoke. He still heard his voice as clearly as if he was stood before him.

“And then you found yourself in a vanguard against an Orc Clan?” asked Luis.

“We were only one hundred men; the whole company was essentially a vanguard.” Edric replied solemnly.

“Eddy is a loyal sword, he fought bravely.” Killenberg stated.

“The Orcs swinging for my head weren’t to know my thoughts on the matter.” Edric said looking at his feet.

“You have many tales, Edric Wesselson, for one so young.” Sir Luis smiled.

“As I said to my friend here, Sir Luis, second sons such as I are almost as nomadic as the Orcs, in search of a purpose in life. It tends to get us out and about.” Edric smiled.

“Luis, my father wanted to speak with you, I think he’s free now. It was good to speak with you again, Eddy, I hope to see you in Monsborough soon.” Killenberg hugged Edric again and turned away to find his father.

“It was good to meet you, Sir Edric Wesselson.” Said Luis, extending a hand.

“And you, Sir Luis.” Said Edric, grasping and shaking Luis’ hand.

Then, Edric was alone again. He looked back at his table and saw that it was now totally unoccupied. The opportunity for a beer making lessen had been missed. He looked around the room again and on the periphery of a collection of major Lords was a woman sitting alone.

She had long auburn hair which was platted many times with green ribbons and fell into her lap. Her skin was pale and flawless around her rich and warm brown eyes. She was wearing a long gown of green and gold, the colours of her house, made from silks from their shared home county.

He walked over to her, sidestepping drunken Lords and ladies and their discarded chairs.

“My Lady Marabel Treener.” Edric bowed low, “It saddens me to see you alone, may I join you?”

She looked him up and down and sipped from her cup of wine. “Sir Edric Wesselson.” She said slowly closing her eyes and nodding her head. “What,” she continued before Edric could take a seat, “if I am content with my own company? Would it still sadden you that I am sat alone?”

Edric thought a moment, “Yes.” Lady Treener rolled her eyes and Edric continued, “But I would not be sad for you. I would be sad for those who do not get to share your company.”

Lady Marabel took another sip of wine. “I am content with my own company,” she paused, “But you may join me.”

Edric bowed and took a seat a respectable two places away. “You have my thanks. You have saved me from social obscurity.” As he spoke, his empty ale mug was filled to the top by a servant, the service at the throne end of the room considerably better than where he started. He nodded thanks.

“So, I am just a port in a storm?” Lady Marabel barbed.

“Not at all!” Edric scoffed, “My father and brother bade me speak with you and your family, they send their apologies and regards.”

“How is your father? We had heard Lord Amery had taken a turn for the worse.” Marabel softened, placing her goblet of wine down and leaning forwards.

“In truth, my Lady,” Edric paused, “Tomorrow I shall have a new King and when I return home, I will likely have a new Lord.”

“I am sorry.” She said, “I am surprised you are here. I would have thought you would have wanted to spend your father’s final days with him.”

At that, Edric’s face hardened, “I am dutiful to my late King.” He exhaled, “I shall be dutiful to my knew King. ‘A Wesselson has been at Cynedom every Wuld Day since we earned nobility.’ My father said, ‘I’ll not slight our Liege Lord…” Edric gestured an open upward palm towards Lady Treener,”’…and King by not attending now’” Edric paused, “Of course he said it before he was bedbound… and still speaking. At least, so my brother writes. I have not been home in… some time.”

“I’m sorry your father made you come to the largest feast of the year where the nobility gorges themselves on food and drink.” The Lady Treener said with a smirk and Edric laughed.

“Yes, I am truly cursed.” Edric continued, “How is your father?”

Lady Marabel looked towards the throne where a congregation of Lords and their sons stood about drinking and laughing like children at play. “He’s well enough,” she paused, “ambitious.”

Edric sensed a coldness returning to Marabel’s tone.

“Ah,” said Edric, “and your brother?”

“More ambitious.” She said with finality.

Edric shifted in his seat and straightened his doublet before taking a long drink of ale.

“Well, are they excited then?” he asked.

Marabel scoffed.

“Stupidly, yes, I think so.” She glanced at her father and brother before regarding Edric again, “In their hearts, though, I don’t think they believe it could be one of them.” She paused before adding, “I hope it’s not one of them.”

Edric let Marabel’s comment hang for a moment before he replied, “I’ve been to most of the continent, to some lands even further… There truly is nowhere like our home. No trees purer or older I’d wager. To be stuck, even here our capital, I can’t say I’d want it.”

Marabel smiled as Edric spoke of Wesselfolk, “My father and brother are everyday less in love with our county.” She took a long drink of wine. “They want to spend more time here.”

“They won’t have to wait long to have people kneeling and swearing before them, my brother chiefly.” Edric said, before taking another sip of ale.

“I think their attention will still be fixed on that throne and who sits it.”

Before Edric could reply, at the far end of the hall, close to the table Edric had abandoned, the mighty wooden doors opened inward. A windy draft from the corridor whooshed in along with the sound of the city bells ringing from outside.

A herald in the royal livery caught his breath in the doorway, clearly having just ran up the innumerable steps that ran up to the throne room. “The Arch-Envoy has entered the city!” he cried. “The High Elves come!”

At once, everyone stood from their chairs. Edric quickly jumped to his feet and offered his hand to Lady Marabel, and she gracefully took it, rising from her own seat.

An army of servants entered from the side doors and began clearing tables and moving them out of the throne room. Some slower eaters were unceremoniously shifted, and their tables moved from beneath their plates.

Around him, the room changed quickly and Edric found himself stood in an aisle between rows of chairs that were set out by rushing servants. The rows all faced the throne which stared back at them, unoccupied.

For the front row, the servants produced six larger chairs, only surpassed by the King’s throne itself. They were for Gryrland’s six High Lord-Counts, the Liege Lords of every Low Lord, Knight, Man, Woman, Halfling, Dwarf and child in the Realm.

Edric accompanied Marabel to her place in the first row behind the High Lord’s chairs, where her father would soon take his place.

“Thank you, Sir.” Lady Treener said as she took her seat and released Edric’s hand.

“It is my enduring pleasure, my Lady.” Edric said stepping back one pace and bowing low. He returned up right, “I wish you and your family good fortune.”

“Thank you, Sir Edric. My father and brother will appreciate your words.” She paused, “But perhaps you’ll have a Queen.”

King Alden had been the ninety-nineth Monarch of Gryrland since Edric the Unifier. In that time, almost two thousand years, there had only been five Queens, though two of them had been Treeners.

Edric smiled, “I think I would like that very much.”

“It’s good to see you again Edric, I’m glad you’re back.” Marabel smiled and Edric inclined his head with a smile in response.

As Edric turned to walk to the back of the room, the six High Lords passed him on their way to their seats. He instinctively bowed as they did, but neither Lord-Count Killenberg, Lord-Count Grimleby, Lord-Count Maederwell, Lord-Count Winott nor the young Lord-Count Prince Dowager Seaborn paid him any attention as they passed.

Only his own Lord-Count Treener gave him a curt nod.

Due respects given, Edric turned and walked the length of the hall to the back to find a seat. He nodded and smiled at people he half knew. He turned his eyes away from those who grimaced at him, his family name clearly not old or honoured enough for him to look their way.

He found a seat a few rows from the back, next to a Halfling he did not know. The short fellow was deep in conversation with his other neighbour, another Halfling. The conversation was entirely uninteresting to Edric, as it seemed to just be a battle of bragging about the quantity and quality of their farm horses.

The one nearest Edric liked to keep reaffirming, “Horses! Not Ponies, my friend! Or those twisted Donkeys your lot ride!”

Edric looked at his surrounding rows, it appeared he was one of the few knights this far back. He would have to embellish his position to his father, should he live for Edric to see him again.

The huge doors to the great hall over Edric’s left shoulder opened once more and in stepped the same herald as before. “Now comes Anatolio! Master of the High Elves and God’s Arch-Envoy!”

His part played, the herald scuttled away.

In his wake, came the first of the High Elf retinue. The first two through the door were warriors. They were tall, taller than any man; at least seven feet. Their robes looked weightless and were the colour of a perfect, cloudless morning sky and young leaves, pale and fresh.

Their armour was of gold and silver and wrapped around their forms like leaves. Their features were hidden behind sculpted masks of silver. It was said each mask was crafted by the individual Elf and was a perfect rendition of their true face. Their true faces being too pure for mortals to look upon.

Behind the two warriors came the standard bearer. Her face was visible and hers was an aspect of divine beauty. Her skin was milk pale, and her hair fell long and uniformly straight down to her chest, silver. She too wore robes of pale blues and greens but went with less armour.

The haft of the banner looked like a perfectly straight branch of a silver birch tree, a branch so improbable it would take a man a lifetime to find. Hanging from across silver metal worked into the form of woven leaves was the banner of the Gryrlish High Elves.

The fabric was white but so fine it could have been transparent and when the light of the wall sconces caught it, it looked silver. Upon it was the sun, which almost looked iridescent and glimmering with all the colours of a rainbow. It shone on trees, water and six houses.

Then came the Master himself, surrounded by four more High Elf Warriors all of whom wore their artificed masks silver. They embodied and embraced mortality though they themselves were immortal, a mark of their God given purposes as warriors and protectors.

Anatolio walked in the middle of them, a foot higher than even they, crowed in a wreath of magic light that emanated from his brow. His robes were pure white, and he went unarmed and unarmoured. Where his guards, who Edric had previously thought were embodiments of perfection walked, Anatolio seemed to float. When he passed Edric’s position, the air turned warm as if it radiated from his being.

Surly a being such as he needed no protection? And yet his guards walked in perfect synchronicity around their Lord, almost betraying a vulnerability. Edric cast out the heretical thought.

The party of High Elves and their Master reached the end of the room and stood around the empty throne. Edric wasn’t sure, but now that he had stopped walking and had turned to face the assembly, Anatolio looked more like a person, a perfect High Elf person, but a person. His crown of light had dimmed somewhat, but that could have been the distance he now was from Edric.

The room held its breath, some of those who had not beheld Anatolio before had tears streaming down their cheeks.

After a long moment, he began to speak.

“Lords and Ladies of Gryrland, I come with tidings from God.” Anatolio’s voice sounded as if he were right beside Edric, though he was not shouting; in fact, it sounded so soft it was just above a whisper. It had a melody to it, too that made Edric feel like he was hearing a lullaby.

“And we are here to hear it.” Came the collective response from the room, though Edric had to catch up halfway through, forgetting that bit of ceremony.

Anatolio nodded slowly and repeatedly as he looked from left to right, beholding the Lords of a country that spoke at his command.

“On this day, 4000 years ago,” his sermon began, “On the final Wuld Day of the Third Age, Veliacora’s Catastrophe almost spread over all The Wuld. Endless night, constant darkness, the void almost engulfed every single thing. The Salvator salvaged life, saved our souls and returned the sun to its rightful place in Heaven. On this, the three hundred and sixty fifth day of the year, we celebrate the life God and his Salvator have given us and the debt we eternally owe.”

“And in thanks, we shall forever pay.” This time Edric was ready for the traditional response. Anatolio’s opening was always the same. Gryland’s Arch-Envoy nodded again before continuing.

“On this day between years, we come together in the night, to remember the eternal pain we were spared. And, as the Salvator gave us a future, we now prepare for the future. Yesterday was the final day of the year 3999 of the Fourth Age and tomorrow will be the first day of the year 4000 of the Fourth Age.

“King Alden has ruled from death these last two months, having peacefully died in his sleep on Fusfuthday the eighth of Snowfall. May his soul find God in Heaven.”

“May his soul find God in Heaven.” The room repeated.

“I am God’s will made manifest. Harken to me and hear his will for the next Monarch of Gryrland.” Again, the room held its breath and the High Lords shifted in their seats, all hoping to be called forward.

“Tomorrow, Nylunday the first of Sunwax, we shall coronate the one hundredth Monarch of Gryrland, their rule the legacy of Edric the first Killenberg, the Unifier. All of you shall kneel before King…” Edric smiled in gracious disappointment, Lady Treener would have made a fine Queen. “Edric…” At that the Lords Killenberg and Treener span in their chairs to behold their Edric-named sons and Edric himself felt a pang of something nauseous at the novelty of Anatolio saying his name.

“The first Wesselson.”

Where breath had been held it was now gasped. Murmurs spread through the assembly and the few heads who knew where to look spun and looked Edric’s way with faces of pure shock.

“What…” Edric whispered, his voice failing him. His hand went up to his mouth, the feeling of nausea back with a vengeance.

The Halfling to Edric’s right shifted in his seat and strained to look down the room, “Who’s that?” he asked Edric the first Wesselson.

Prologue
In a world unlike ours, lies Lithea. A magical place where eldritch creatures roam free and societies keep to themselves. One particular kingdom, the Mesian kingdom, has been venturing outward from their borders, determined to find other civilizations. You see, the Mesian’s Empress has grown terribly ill. At the age of 2300, no heirs, no suitors, the aristocrats have come together to each send out one of their own past the borders in search of another kingdom who would have a cure. The four aristocratic families, the Cedardale’s, the Addantia’s, the Ishantel’s, and the Ployer’s send out their oldest daughters and sons in a race to find the cure. But will they have their own motives, their own plans? Can people who’ve never met work together for a common goal?

Chapter One
Addantia: First Steps

The door creaks open and I hear cheerful humming. “Morning Miss Lydia! Today is another cold, drizzly day so we’ll make sure to layer you up before the Council meeting today.” Mama Kate, one of the older servants, calls out to me as she goes into my closet in search of today’s dress. I groan and sit up, looking towards the glass balcony doors. The cement is wet and you can see small snowflakes fall and melt. Rubbing my eyes, I swing my legs over the side of my bed, surveying the room. Nothing in this godforsaken place ever changes. The entirety of the room is painted a deep burgundy red, with black detailing and trim. The furniture, of course, matches. Mother is a perfectionist and everything MUST match or she throws a fit. The walls are lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves, filled with books of the outside world, journals, diaries, spells… anything to distract from the mundane life of aristocracy. A large, ornate, wooden desk is shoved in between two of the bookshelves, scattered with papers, pens, pencils, an oil powered lamp, and various folded up maps. The king sized canopy bed, being the focal point of the room, lies in the middle of the back wall with a nightstand on either side. I run my fingers through the ends of my hair absentmindedly, closing my eyes and mentally preparing myself for today. Then what Mama Kate said hits me. The Council meeting. I groan at the thought, standing up and smoothing out my nightgown, stepping into my slippers and throwing a shawl over my shoulders with a shiver. The Addantia kingdom was stationed deep in the mountain region. Cold. That’s all it ever was. A cold so deep it made your bones hurt. I quickly shuffle over to the fireplace that has slowly burned throughout the night and throw a couple more logs in, watching as the flames eat at the newly added wood, blackening the outside before engulfing it completely with a crackle and roar. I sigh, pleased at the warmth now emanating through the room. Mama Kate emerges from the closet holding a floor length, blood red gown with black lace trim and black jewels embedded into the bodice for added elegance. Tacky. I think to myself. The sleeves are long and skin tight, the entire dress being fleece lined for warmth. I sigh. Now comes the time consuming part. Layering. Undergarments, slip, corset, corset cover, fleece lined tights, socks, crinoline, more layers, more, more, more, more! By the time I get the actual dress on, the chill that settles in my bones every morning is gone. I can finally breathe. Even if I do have a corset on. I look over at the full length mirror and allow myself a small smile. I always feel so much better when I’m put together. It makes me feel ready. As I slip on my shoes and adjust my jewelry, the sun rises further, casting a warm glow onto the wooden floors through the stained glass paneling on the balcony doors. I straighten up, fluffing my skirts and smoothing my hair. Showtime. I step out of my bedroom, making my way down the stairs and to the dining hall. As I get closer, I hear the bustling of servants and guards and catering and musicians and the other Aristocratic families and— wait what. My eyes slide back over to the long table, usually only having seats for the Addantia’s, now fully lined for the other families. I frantically look for my siblings, Rae, Finn, and Lila. My chest tightens as I swiftly make my rounds around the enormous dining hall. I sigh in relief when I see Rae holding Lila’s hand, looking miserable as ever in her royal attire. She much rather be in her equestrian gear, but it’s not “ladylike” as mother would say. She radiates bored energy as a noble from one of the neighboring kingdoms goes off on a drunken tangent about the latest gossip, empty wine glass in her hand, that she waves around as she speaks. Occasionally, the noble goes to take a drink before sadly realizing that it’s in fact still quite empty. I huff and make my way to Rae and Lila, grabbing Lila’s hand from Rae’s grip and picking her up, holding her against my hip. “You know we are supposed to stay together during large events!” I whisper-scold my aloof younger sister. She rolls her eyes. “You found us, didn’t you? What’s the big deal?” I’m seething, but I try my hardest to not let it show. “Where’s Finn?” I ask, scanning the crowd. Rae just shrugs. “I don’t know exactly, but last I saw him he was in his seat at the table next to Father.” I nod. “We should be there too, at our seats. Now come on.” I instruct, motioning with my hand for Rae to follow me to our seats. After everyone is situated and has been served, my Father, King Nicolas, stands up from his seat and the room quiets. He looks around for a moment before clearing his throat. “Esteemed nobles and aristocrats! I have gathered you here today for an emergency council meeting to discuss the situation at hand. I will assume you all read the briefing, and also received your own letter from the Empress…” He goes on. That catches my attention. The Empress? I mouth to Rae from across the table, yet she seems equally surprised and shakes her head. “…I won’t say everything now, but just keep in mind that times may be dire ahead.” he finishes before sitting down and the quiet chatter resumes. As I’m eating my food, I survey the room. But when do I not? I’m a cautious person, not paranoid. I tell myself. But as I survey the table, I can’t help but feel my stomach tighten with each glimpse of the other princes and princesses. Tomarin Ployer, Prince of the Desert Kingdom. Very ill-tempered, and just plain mean, despite his family being the sweetest there is. His mother, father, and younger sister are all in the business of mineral trading and mining, yet Tomarin rejects his family's entire legacy. Strange… Next we have Elowyn Cedardale, Princess of the Forest Kingdom. She’s a clever one, I’ll give her that. A master manipulator, used to getting her way, yet also one of the most honest people you’ll ever meet. Of the few interactions I’ve had with her already, it put me through a whirlwind of emotions. She told me my dress was badly made, which of course got me irritated but then she literally told me what was wrong with it, in an informative manner, not with malice. So she’s confusing to say the least. Finally there’s Elliot Ishantel, Prince of the Water Kingdom. He’s very quiet and mysterious. Not quiet in a shy way, but more like he thinks he’s better than everyone else, at least that’s how it comes off. Never acknowledges other people, no matter their status, and is very inconsiderate of other people’s time.

"The great road took a traveler westward to the edge of the land–as far as he could travel without barge or sail–a memory of empire long absent. It was here where Bram walked, at the turning of the seasons.

The leaves crunched beneath his boot as he steered off the Warden’s' road, down to the sheer cliffs and rushing falls of the easternmost of Marrodain's many vales.

The stout man took a seat on a great stone just out of sight of the highway. The rock faced north and had a carven surface flat almost as if wrought to serve as a carven throne. The clattering of hooves was heard at least every quarter of an hour as men of purpose and means raced throughout the realms–whatever their business, it did not matter now.

The time had come–to leave it all behind. He had no other choice after all. To live as a refugee by the mercy of others, to have no blood ties to one's new 'home'. Against all better judgement, these were things Bram would no longer abide.

A crisp breeze arrived from the northern seas as Bram shut his eyes and searched for some trace of regret–however he only found fresh resolve. He had sworn to his father and mother to return to the Tynd, and that oath transcended all new bonds since forged. The stone chair he had claimed no longer comforted him, so he began to pace. At the fourth pass he turned around, and while shocked by the quietness of his approach, there was the man he was waiting for.

Gareth the Golden, or so he was called. An old knight whose greying hair and ragged raiment betrayed his moniker.

"Here you are, in the Eastern Vale, at the seasons' turn. Despite all you told me," Gareth spoke with somber amusement.

"Indeed here I am, on winter's eve. Despite all I told you," replied Bram.

Upon Gareth's face was a warm, easy smile. "I understand, young man. To plant a son of Tyndor in the Marrodain would be to open a vineyard on the pale stones of Sindevar. You will not grow here–your roots have not even reached the soil. I have the same affliction."

Bram laughed heartily and looked the old man in his dour but kind grey eyes, "Aye, it is so. My heart yearns for the foothills of Duskar, and the crisp mountain air. Perhaps it is Dwarven blood." 

Gareth began to move further from the sound of horses and wagons upon the warden’s road as he spoke, "We are not alone, my friend. Let me show you to the company. We will depart soon."

The two walked carefully down the improvised paths of stone and wood that ran carefully from the top of the cliffs down to lower lands, where the falls met the grimsalde and flowed to the sea. For a time while the valley of autumn foliage blazed before them, only the sound of the rushing stream accompanied their descent.

As they reached the lower paths with flatter ground, Gareth reached into his silken pouch, he handed some strips of dried pork to Bram who followed closely at his back, “Twenty years it's been, since the Green Aurochs Banner flew upon the Tynd. How old were you then, ten-and-three?”  

Bram took a bite of the old ration. The hunger that had grown during his eastward journey made even the driest of meat satisfying like a warm stew in bitter cold, “Ten-and-four. Strange it feels, I have spent much time in the Marrodain Realms, many would say I have much, but my heart says otherwise.”

Gareth led Bram to the end of the path; they stood now within the trough of the vale by the clear stream known as Grimsalde. Within it he sunk his waterskin, “It’s what it's become that sickens you. I can see clear as day. All of your memories of the place blackened with the shadow of Thrazmiran.”

“Keep that word behind your teeth, I don’t wish to hear it,” Bram snapped.

“I will not, all the world must hear it. You would do well to remember it–we are not going to Tyndor, we are going to Thrazmiran–its devourer,” Gareth stared with a steadfast intensity.

A silence filled the air as leaves of crimson and gold cascaded down to the rocky stream, and a great northern wind filled the vale with colors ere the onset of winter. 

Finally Bram spoke, “The disdain I feel towards that foul sorcerer does not change the way of the world. I fear I spoke rudely, I beg your pardon, Gareth.”

“No need, it is because you feel strongly that you came all this way, no forgiveness is necessary. I will have one as yourself in my company even in the darkest of hours,” the old man spoke cheerily.

Bram filled his waterskin in the crisp Grimsalde as he finished his pork, “Being no man-at-arms myself it left me bewildered that a fine captain such as you, Gareth the Golden, wanted a gallivanter like myself in his Banner Company, and you promised me you’d tell in time–how about now?”

“Well–” Gareth brought his arms together behind his back for a stretch to ease his old aches, “We are going through Duskar, it’s the only path that won’t leave us as food for carrion”

“Duskar is closed. Has been for some time”, Bram said as if belabored by the utterance.

Gareth smiled with a glint of the evening sun in his eye, “not for you, half-dwarf”.

Hello all, I tried posting here once but i did the tags wrong. This is the first page of a fantasy novel i've worked on for about 4 years and am currently querying. I'd love to know if this makes you want to keep reading and leaves enough mystery without being vague.
(Note: Grammar is rocket science to me, I apologise if there are mistakes)

I often wonder what it will feel like to burn alive.

I sprint through a shaded alleyway into a section of the Sellers Lanes, shoving through the crowds with abandon. Smoke fills the air from the many burning straw figures situated in houses nearby. Some are no larger than my hand. Others are as tall as buildings. I cough between wheezed breaths, tossing a glance behind me at the precise moment a fist sized stone hurls into my back. Adrenaline turns my blood hot cold.

The group chasing me are forced to scatter in the crowds of the Lanes, their words lost to the growing panic of the marketgoers as it dawns on them a chase has begun. So long as no on recognises me, everything will be fine.

I use the chaos to veer to the left, slamming into an alley wall because of the turn and almost losing my footing. My lungs work in shallow, pathetic puffs as I force my legs to move one in front of the other, stumbling over my own teetering weight. The red sandstone walls of the houses surrounding me feel suffocating, closing in with the colour of blood.

“In here!” Jeriun, the leader of the horde, shouts behind me. He is far too close.

I weave from alley to alley, uselessly gasping for breath. On the next turn, I crash into a woman wrangling a child indoors. Things slow for a split second, her eyes locking on mine, mine on her. Her terror narrows her pupils and pales her dark skin, bittering the air around her.

A moment later and I am gone. A door slams shut behind me.

I pour on speed and manage to break out of the tight streets, spilling out upon a main road. The wide path is built of glass, its red sand swept length winding all the way up to the Palace seated atop the largest sand dune for kilometres. Framed by endless blue skies and smoke, it is glorious.

It is also uphill.

Like many here, I'm sure, I've wanted to write a novel since I was maybe 12. Every time I'd gotten an idea, I had tried to run with it, got no where, and set it aside.

5 years ago, I finally wrote an intro to a novel that I actually want to make. I consider this the best prose I've ever written, but it's really short, just over 700 words. After a lot of brainstorming and trying other scenes, I gave up again.

I guess seeing the uproar against generative AI got me thinking about the novel again, so I pulled it out and tried to keep working. This time I'm really trying to stick to the advice of "just write" and get a draft done.

But that's still a problem. I'm averaging like 100 words a week, man. I have an idea, toy around with it on the page a bit, and then go through a lot of effort to barely move the needle. I will never finish at this rate, but I don't want to admit defeat again.

What are some other tips and tricks for writing a lot faster?

Hello fellow writers!

Your critiques and criticisms have been super valuable, and I feel like each time I go back to work on my story, it gets better---but only with your help.

Please read through it and give me honest feedback. This is the revised version of Chapter One; last time I was given feedback, the critique was that I assumed too quickly that my characters matter and that I've been introducing too many concepts too quickly, so I needed to just slow down.

I think this chapter strikes a good balance.

Please let me know your thoughts; I'm not really looking for line level stuff. More I want to know about pacing / emotional resonance / and the desire to read the next chapter.

All feedback is helpful---even if it's just to tell me it sucks, and the part where you stopped reading. Thank you!

***

CHAPTER ONE - AVON

the purpose of this piece was to provide clarity and show a clear sense of trajectory within my story, as that seemed to be my weakest area ,as well as abandoning very flowery vocabulary. please be brutual in critique of this , where the story gets weak, where i loose you as a reader, whats vague or too much!! every response is taken forward into my new writing peices, give me , a young writer, your noble knowledge. This was my previous piece that i rewrote - https://www.reddit.com/r/fantasywriters/s/YGr5r3lej4

The walls were painted a lavish cream. The ceilings were high, decorated with whirls and swirls of gold paint. The crystal chandelier dangled its precious pendants over the guests heads. The dining room of the Berkeley’s was filled with foolishly rich men and their fabulous wives. Women were dolled up. Dressed in beautiful gowns, hair in perfect luscious waves and updos. Pearls and diamonds decorated their delicate wrists, earlobes and collarbones. Men stood straight and hubris, they huffed and puffed on their cigars while they chuckled about the stock markets. Their tuxedos trapped the smell of burnt cigars and champagne in its delicate vicuña fibers. That night was a truly jubilant night, cheers of couples and clinks of tall glasses, it was a sight to behold. A night I will forever remember but not for the simple fact I enjoyed hearing pampered women giggle and flirt all night. But for the fact it was the night my Prince Charming was no longer charming. The man I once knew and loved so immensely, became the man I held so much resentment for. The man that trashed our tender love, and replaced it with lust for another woman. That night was the night my life struck midnight. 

It all began to unravel when the snobbish guests no longer seemed interesting or pleasant as they looked. It became repetitive . The same cynical remarks. The same smug chuckles. It was exhausting to feign interest at that point. And so I decided to go on a stroll and find the man that’s matching my emerald dress with his pocket square. Quietly intimate. A quiet symbol of our love. Or so I foolishly thought.

I still recall the way my heart was pulsating.Thumping.Pounding. It felt as if it was going to pounce out my chest. Yet I was stuck. My mouth was dry. My eyes were teary. My ears were blocked. All my senses were clouded by the realisation that my picture perfect husband was having an affair.

He stood there arms draped over her. His large figure concealing her sultry identity, just like the lingering secrecy laced in the air with their treachery; they were in a well furnished guest room. Simplistic in its layout, a king sized bed stood in the middle of the grand room while ruby red duvet sheets laid on top of the golden framed bed, it was accompanied with a french styled headstand, with golden handles. A crack between the red draped curtains allowed the moonlight to shine light on my husband’s sin. It was in fact him. Not some lousy man that can’t control himself. But the man I vowed my life to. 

The tension between them, the thickened air. It realised my presence and swiftly suffocated me with the consequences of the truth. The consequences of my husband’s indulgence of sin. It was unbearable. It wrapped around my neck squeezed tighter and tighter. I gasped for air. The sensual romantic tension between them snapped. It was no longer intimate secrecy, but the grotesque and lewd reality of adultery. 

His head snapped back at me. His eyes widened, they met my watery eyes. I couldn’t hold it in any longer, tears streamed down my face. His face turned blue. He looked like he was going to throw up. I began to sob as the woman became frantic, leaping to justify why my husband’s hands were wrapped around her. I ran out of the room. To preserve a slither of my dignity. To preserve a crumb of my devotion for my man. I knew there was no coming back from this.

He rid himself of his other woman. Pushed her off him. Rejected her dainty hands that were detailed with almond red nails and a diamond ring. His head spun mercilessly, he knew this was as bizarre as it looked. Clutched and shook his head in attempts to rid himself of remorse so he could think of how he could have preserved your marriage. His eyes and cheeks were flushed as he chased out the room, in hopes of redemption.

Hey y’all, writing about a werewolf/lycanthrope/therianthrope setting and seeking some media inspiration to get in the mindset, does anyone have any suggestions? I have tried to research the topic and found monster anatomy and wikis on abilities, but I’m looking for stories, and those are getting hard to find in the AI hellscape. Bonus points if it’s about a group or tribe of werefolk or about non-wolf shapeshifters.

Happy Halloween to you all!

—
For those interested in the context, I’m writing about a werefolk tribe in a setting where therianthropes were actually the first mortal species created by the gods, and regular mortals came after that as sort of a mockery of their kind.

I’m shooting for a mentality amongst the tribe of a sort of blend between Norse and Native American philosophies.

posting my first writing piece is very nerve cracking, tell me the gaps in my little blurt of a peice, tell me where the atmosphere, storyline and description gets weak or vague; if you’re generous enough sprinkle a little advice in there for me too!! This writing attempt was referenced by the instrumental of Bjork's piece Play Dead.

The chaotic, corrupt world went quiet. The ever impending constant stimuli was withdrawn, replaced by an engulfing fiend of wrath, revenge and pure melancholy. I am certain something in me perished that night, left to rot and decompose the blissful innocence and purity that wrapped me tenderly, similar to a baby hugged by its mothers warmth and devotion to protect her little one from the evil that creeps upon the naive.

I did try to shed the spite that remains in me, truly I did. Yet his venom is concentrated. Zealous. Parasitic.

He was my Lucifer. My serpent under’t. The one who made me swallow poison willingly.

That night haunts me. Haunts my sanity, my slumber and the fragments of benevolence I scramble to make me the slightest more sufferable. It is pathetic. His amber eyes were pathetic. His pale vampire-like skin was pathetic. His slender and tall figure was pathetic. His charming enchanting smile was the most pathetic of them all. It hypnotises you, leaves you in a daze of negligence. Reminds you the devil isn’t a man with horns and crimson skin, but the fallen angel filled with rage and arrogance that was beautifully decorated with pink flushed cheeks, luscious dark hair and a glare that’ll burn a hole through your swollen heart. 

I was left with nothing but the disturbance of my own burden of a heart. Beating. Pulsating. I heard nothing but thumps of agony and fractures of my cardiac organ. It was orchestral, a symphony of successful deception. Otherworldly, the way time was sluggish, leaving me to relish the bitter moments of realisation, to fathom it was all a fib. 

His dominance and hubristic nature laced his posture. He held and whirled the amber liquid that accompanied the murmurs of Gnossienne number one, scanned the room as he often does, adjusted the collar of his sleek white shirt and tugged on the side of his raven velvet tux jacket as she comes closer. Her wine red lips perching a coy smile, elegant in the way she struts towards him yet domineering. There’s a thick seductive chemistry that altered the tension of the room. It draped and tightened around the base of my neck, it was suffocating, unbareable, a glimpse of forbidden disloyalty.

His smile carved so deeply into his face, dimples itched so immensely it whispered lust. Pure ecstasy in the way he chuckled and planted a small step closer towards her, to abolish distance, to cut the ruby ribbon that wrapped around us, that held us tight. His eyes were indulgent at the sight of her, drinking in her presence and effortless delicacy. 

English is notoriously poor at telling the reader how the word is supposed to be pronounced and I keep running into a big when coming up with names in fantasy settings. I understand that there are some people that don't mind not really knowing the exact pronunciation of these words and authors who only focus on making the names distinguishable, but I really focus on knowing that my readers have a good chance of approximating what I hear in my head.

I'm starting from a rough spot too, since I draw most of my inspiration from Thai culture and mythology. Now, Thai has a standard for transliteration, but I find it really bad at telling people how the words are supposed to sound. Example: Suvarnabhumi Airport should be pronounced Soo-Wa-Na-Poom. Now from that example, you can see that barring sounds that simply don't exist in standard English, I could spell the words as phonetically as possible.

But this runs into another issue: the word don't look pretty.

If I wanted to make Soowanapoom more sleek, it would be something like Suwanapum, but those u's are ambiguous and most readers would pronounce it as "uh".

Pulling from a Laos example. Lan Xang is the name of a historical kingdom. It should be pronounced/written like Lahn Chahng, with the "AH" sound like the doctor is checking your tongue. And that spelling just looks atrocious. I also think the X is must cooler looking than "Ch" but it is misleading to the reader on how to say it.

So I'm hoping to get some ideas on how other people approach this issue when trying to balance pronunciation and the creative source.

So as the title says, I’ve had an idea for a fantasy story for a while. I’ve tried to write it before in a more traditional fantasy format and struggled to get going.

I recently finished DCC and it gave me the inspiration to try it again but in a litRPG style setting and it has just clicked and feels like it’s writing itself this time.

I’m struggling a bit with imposter syndrome, like who do you think you are trying to write a book lol.

Anybody else had this?

Also can’t shift the feeling of potentially I’m writing something that will never be read by anybody else ever which make it feel kinda pointless but I’m enjoying it and hours of evening seem to disappear without me noticing.

Any body been here before? Success stories, inspiration & advice all would be appreciated

I've had the idea for this world in the back of my head for a while (it started out with one character and I went from there), so I finally decided to put it into words to help me fully flesh it out. I've already been writing my own music OSTs for characters and certain scenes, so I figured I should try to illustrate the scenes I see in my head through writing as well.

It's going to be split narratively into two parts. The first part that this chapter is from will be a bit calmer, but there will be turmoil brewing under the surface that gets explored by the journey the two main characters go on. The 2nd part is where it turns into more of a dark fantasy story, so I think that's the subgenre it falls under, but someone can correct me if I'm wrong (I'm still not fully versed on all the possible fantasy subgenres).

Please let me know what parts of what I have so far you like and which parts you dislike! It'll help me know what to do more of in the future as well as what to avoid.

(also pretty please tell me any grammar errors I missed)

This isn't related to the writing, but if anyone has advice on how to make better posts asking for advice and how to upload writing to Reddit in general, feel free to share that as well. I'm brand new to both, so I've found myself struggling to find the best way to upload pictures of the writing without it being blurry or hard to read.

In my head, or when speaking, I can come up with ideas and plots and characters and dialogue all day long. But, I’ve noticed that for some reason the moment I sit down at a blank computer, I can’t think of anything to type at all. I have an extreme difficulty with letting a first draft be messy or incomplete in the way that they normally are, and find myself attempting to type the final polished version the very first time around. This leads me to not typing anything at all since you usually have to have something to go off of to edit into its final form.

I’ve recently started to audio record my ramblings, then have those transcribed and organized into story beats, and then do a second recording of the actual novel using the story beats as a guide. That way I can have a rough draft down, which then gives me something to build off of and edit.

My "outline" looks like this: 3 or 4 characters or character ideas, a general description of what I have in my world as of right now, how I want my story to begin and end, then a whole list of various inspirations. I may put in a section of things I scrapped from the book in case I get writer's block.

Right now the story structure of my outline looks like this:

Chapter Start:

Middle:

Chapter End:

I feel like an outline like this would help the pacing of the book a little through not getting carried away with certain descriptions

I have yet to do any research on the topics I wanna talk about in my book and also have yet to read that much as I'm trying to get back into reading so I can make my book. In the meantime, I'll just put random ideas into the ideas file and develop worldbuilder's disease until I've read a lot (maybe 150 books or something) cause its not like I'll be ready to write anytime soon.

I wrote this story recently that's a bit of a different take on the werewolf/werecreature trope, set in a Germanic inspired magical city. I'm pretty proud of it but am having some trouble placing it due to length, so before I revise or just look further for publications, I'd love your feedback! Even if you just want to read the first page, first five pages or whatever amount you're interested in, I'd definitely appreciate any amount of eyes on it. It's meant to be a social social commentary/mystery about what exactly the MC's plan is, and I'd really love to know if those elements, as well as the prose in general, work for you.

The full text is in a comment below

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As always, please exercise appropriate caution when connecting with strangers online. Our moderation cannot oversee discussions that take place outside this subreddit or the official subreddit Discord. That being said, we do encourage you to use to let us know if you run into anyone who uses this thread to facilitate behavior that would violate our subreddit rules (for example, by asking you to critique AI-generated stories, which would be a violation of rule 6).

Suggestions for running an effective writing group

Fantasy author has an excellent writing lecture offering guidelines on how to run a successful writing group, which we highly recommend. Some key points:

• Set clear expectations. Agree ahead of time how often you will meet, and how much time you expect everyone to spend contributing feedback.
• Offer descriptive feedback, rather than immediately jumping to prescriptive 'solutions' and 'fixes.' Don't try to rewrite or "fix" someone's story for them unless they have specifically asked you to. Instead, try to engage with their story as a reader, offering your own reactions as a reader. As Brandon Sanderson puts it: "Saying 'I was bored?' Completely valid. There's never a time when 'I was bored' is not a valid response to something you were bored by. Saying 'you should add a fight scene' can be really bad advice. Sometimes it can be good advice if you really know the person, and what the writer is trying to do...but it can be bad advice. Saying 'I was confused?' Always valid. ... Be descriptive rather than prescriptive."
• Give feedback that helps authors understand what parts of their story are working, rather than just trying to catch all the errors and mistakes.
• Learn to listen and receive feedback. Don't interrupt by defending or explaining your work while someone is trying to give you feedback.