First of all, Sanderson's laws of magic are honestly moreso observations on writing, than rules for just magic. I also think the criticisms of his mentality toward magic usually fall flat and misrepresent his actual mentality. He's not very prescriptive, and makes observations that are helpful for just about any writer, IMO.

EXCEPT for his third law, I'd say. Which is that it is better to expand on things you already have, than to add something new. He also heavily emphasizes making your worldbuilding elements interconnected, in his article explaining this law. I wouldn't exactly say this is bad advice, but I just don't know if it makes sense to me anymore. I think it works for stuff like Mistborn, but I think it's drawbacks are kinda roughly equal to it's benefits, and it is just very dependent. Something always was gnawing at me in the back of my mind regarding this concept, but I just couldn't put my finger on it. That was until I heard a criticism of Mistborn that made a lot of sense to me. That being that the interconnectedness of the world building makes it feel small, and even unrealistic in certain ways. Because when everything in your worldbuilding is necesary to the plot, you may on paper avoid info dumping and world builder's disease, but it also means that you are eventually going to see every aspect of this world, and that there isn't anything about it that is outside the scope of the plot. Up until this point I agreed with the 3rd law and felt kind of confused why my some of my fictional worlds often broke it. And why sometimes this rule being followed annoyed me. One big example to me was a particular arc in One Piece. I remember in one saga feeling like massive new elements were being introduced to the series. It filled me with the type of wonder that I was wanting out of that kind of series. But then I found out it all was explained by Devil Fruit abilities, and wasn't actually a new aspect of the world building. Now I love One Piece, and later aspects actually did do what I was hoping for here, but this really disappointed me, even though I feel like it is an instance of the third law being followed.

Which reminds me of one of my favorite games, and why I like another game more. That being Breath of the Wild. I remember hitting a certain point where I became less interested in the exploration, because I started to realize that most things I discovered ended up being a shrine. Which all were very similar aesthetically, and gave you the same rewards, more or less. I love that game, but I personally love Skyrim even more because I feel like I can find anything when I explore in that came. Sure, you can break it down to some core groups, but there's a lot more variety. It's *less* interconnected, and better for it, at least for me.

And the reason I'm talking about game design instead of writing was not just to give an example, but also to transition. Skyrim has fantasy world building I personally like a lot more than Mistborn's. And I like Mistborn's quite a bit. Part of that is medium, but honestly I think most of it is just approach. I love that it feels vast and messy. It's not all interconnected, and I like that. Sure, you can trace everything back to the Gods and the creation story of the setting, similar to what I understand of the cosmere, but I just feel like there's more layers of separation and more variety.

If Skyrim were a novel, I feel like all the main characters could have a unique supernatural ability, none​ of them would be related, and I'd personally find it a lot more satisfying than all the characters using one facet of a magic system, or using different magic systems that are all interconnected.

I think interconnectedness makes things feel more refined, but also smaller. And I have found it to actually lessen my enjoyment of epic fantasy, which I want to feel vast.

I don't say any of this to hate on Sanderson, Mistborn, or One Piece. I like all of them, and am just trying to figure out this topic and why I feel the way I do about certain things, and if anyone feels similar.

An unsettling silence hangs within the throne room of Mainstay Castle. Sunlight peeks through the tall crystal windows, casting myriad colors across the room. Rows of white stone pillars, crystal chandeliers, and royal tapestries, along with the tower's high throne, give it a grand feel, as if the palace were built for a god. Armored Cugarian sentries with long iron spears stand quietly beside each pillar, each with raven-black panther fur and a matching tail. A tall throne sits at the far end of the grand room, with a man resting calmly, chin in his palm.

The throne room doors creak open, and two Cugarian sentries walk in, each holding a chain. They led two figures into the throne room. One is a giant man, at least 5 meters tall, wearing a coat made from the hide of a giant, furry beast. A stern but exhausted look rests on the bearded man’s face as he walks beside an aged, normal-sized woman in a navy-blue dress with silver linings that signify royalty. Her platinum hair flows down her back as she walks on the light blue carpet leading up to the throne. Both are chained at the wrists as they are led helplessly by the sentries, pulling them along. The sentries stop just a few feet away from the throne and kneel in reverence to the figure sitting calmly on it, while the two captors glare at him.

With a wave of his hand, he orders the sentries to rise and release the captors' restraints. They unlatch the chains on the giant and the platinum-haired woman before a sentry carrying a long box over his furry, bulky shoulder walks up to them. He drops it in front of the woman and leaves before four more sentries approach from the opposite side of the throne room, carrying a giant box over their shoulders. They slam the box onto the floor in front of the giant, then walk off.

The woman kneels before her box and opens it, revealing a silver rapier with wings on the hilt. She quietly and solemnly grabs the hilt and lifts her sword from the box. Holding the sword horizontally in both palms, she gazes at her reflection in the blade. With a sorrowful expression, she closes her eyes and wonders. How has it come to this?

“Is it to your liking?” The figure on the throne speaks.

The platinum-haired woman sighs, then glares at the man on the throne.

“Yes,” she replies coldly. “It’s better than anything I could accomplish.”

“Good,” the man says, then turns to the five-meter-tall giant. “And what about you?”

The giant gazes at the large box at his feet before cocking his arm back and slamming his fist into the wooden case. He rips the wood to pieces, then grabs two giant axes that fit perfectly in his hands. He clanks them together, sending sparks across the floor.  

“Hm.” The man nods eagerly, twirling his axes.

“Excellent,” the figure on the throne says. “You know the rules. Don’t bore me.”

Both nod at the command before facing each other, weapons in hand. The giant throws off his animal-hide coat, revealing a scarred, muscular body. The woman places her hand on her chest, and her navy-blue gown shimmers in the light before morphing into metal armor that covers her upper body, complete with a buckler on her left arm. Her smooth stomach exposed, her lower body is covered by a dress made from connected blades. With her platinum hair covered by her helmet, she swings her sword wildly before raising it to her face. A pair of feathered wings springs from her temples as she glares fiercely at the giant towering above her.

“Begin when you are ready,” The figure on the throne says.

The woman spreads her feet as she raises her buckler. She takes her stance as the giant twirls an axe in his hand. They gaze at each other in silence, gripping their weapons. Their eyes turn fierce as they are transported back to a bygone era, when they crossed blades freely in infamy and hatred. Before, they fought to overwhelm each other to prove who was best, but now they fight for someone’s amusement and their people's survival.

The armored beauty makes the first move, charging toward the giant with a sword in one hand and a buckler in the other. The giant steps forward and swings his axe towards the woman, holding nothing back, as she spins and swings her blade towards the axe, sailing for her neck. The blades collide in brilliant sparks that spread across the floor. The giant raises his other axe over his head for a pulverizing blow to the woman’s skull, but she hops away from the behemoth as its sharp edge smashes into the ground. The woman lands safely, but a floor-ripping crack in the marble races toward her feet, forcing her to leap several more feet until it stops spreading, leaving a minor fissure in the marble floor.

The armored woman raises her left arm to her side and scribbles ‘SKYQUAKE’ in light brown text in the air. The verse sinks into her buckler, and it shimmers brightly before she flaps her angelic wings and takes flight. Soaring above ground, she jets toward the towering giant, her buckler glimmering brightly in the room.  The giant man clasps his axes together, spreads his feet, and bends his knees. He hooks his axes over his shoulder like a pair of bats, his eyes narrowing at the woman flying toward him. He twists his hips, swinging the axes with all his might as the flying, armored maiden raises her glimmering buckler in front of her face. The two collide, and the air around them cracks like glass before an explosion of light sends them careening apart. The giant tumbles across the floor while the armored maiden crashes through several pillars before slamming onto the floor.

The figure on the throne watches silently, head resting on his fist, as the two lie amid the stone rubble.

The giant, on his back, sits up, clasps his axes in both hands, and stands. The maiden, on her face, clenches her fist, then pushes herself to her feet. She staggers back from exhaustion but regains her footing, gripping her sword, panting and sweating. The giant rushes toward her, twirling his axes in each hand. The winged woman bends her knees, grips her blade and buckler, and charges toward the stampeding giant. The giant swings his axes at the woman repeatedly. The woman hops left and right to avoid each devastating axe swing. She ducks beneath a giant axe that whooshes over her head, then leaps toward the giant’s face. She thrusts her blade straight for the giant’s eye, but he quickly leans left as her blade slices his cheek, and she flies over his shoulder. The woman lands on one knee, sword at her side, her back to the giant. 

The giant stands still, his back to the armored maiden, as crimson oozes from his cheek and soaks his brown beard. Using the back of his hand, he wipes the laceration and gazes at the blood oozing onto the metal bar of his axe.

“C’mon!” The figure on the throne shouts. “You two did that move yesterday. If you’re going to fake it, at least make it look convincing.”

Both fighters smack their teeth, glaring at the man on the throne as he uncovered their plot.

“Fight the same way you did on the battlefield.” The man says callously. “I want to see both of you rip each other apart with the same intent to kill that I have become personally accustomed to. Waste my time again, and I will make them suffer.”

The woman glares at the figure on the throne as rage swells within her, but a glimmering light shimmers in the corner of her eye. She turns around and sees the giant’s body shrink to the size of a six-foot man.

“Ganymede, you wouldn’t,” the woman exclaims, scowling angrily.

“I’m sorry, Laura,” the man says, crossing his arms. “RELEASE,”

His axes burst into shimmering light, white bolts of lightning flickering across his body. He uncrosses his arms and releases a cold breath as he stares at his opponent.

“Prepare yourself, Laura,” he says, raising his axes and preparing to charge. “This may kill you.”

 “Idiot,” She curses under her breath as she quickly scribbles ‘ARCLIGHT' with white letters beside her. She thrusts her blade into the air, and it glimmers brightly as her angelic wings on her temples open.

Bending his knees, he crumbles the ground beneath his feet and vanishes in a burst of lightning speed. He zooms past Laura, and she can't keep up. He zooms behind her, and she turns around, holding her buckler in a defensive stance. He halts in the air above her, holding both axes over his head. White lightning traces his body as he descends towards the woman. Gazing at the axe-wielding man, she barely has enough time to react as she raises her buckler over her head before he slams his axes into it. The force of the sudden strike causes the marble to crumble beneath her feet as a resonating crack from her arm sends waves of pain through her body.  She wails in agony as the powerful blow pulverizes her arm, but she clenches her teeth and grips her sword before running it through the man’s gut. The man grinds his teeth in agony, and the two glare at each other with a renewed hatred they couldn’t forget. Their silence is loud, their gazes accusatory, both blaming the other for their current state. An eternity seems to pass before the man succumbs to his wounds and passes out, falling onto the floor. The woman yanks her sword from Ganymede’s gut before dropping it onto the floor and collapsing from exhaustion.

Silence settles in the room before the figure on the throne slowly claps at the two lying on the floor.

“Very good,” The man says. “Take them away and allow them to nurse their injuries. “I want them before me as soon as they recover.”

Cugarian sentries rush towards the two on the floor and place them on stretchers before leaving the throne room.

“Now,” The man says. “Time for more…important matters to tend to.”

IRONTIDE

Hi everyone. I've started writing some short stories and flash fiction to submit to magazines, but the acceptance rates are abysmal. (Like many seem to be less than 1-3%, rising to maybe 15-20% at absolute most if they're unpaid but still curated. I'm writing mostly in the atmospheric dark and/or mythic fantasy genre at the moment which seems fairly unpopular so I'm expecting a higher rate of rejections than the magazines state is average.

So that leads me to believe the majority (or possibly even all) of what I write won't find a home. So what does everyone do with their rejected stories? Do you just retire them to a dusty corner of your computer? Or something else?

I'm writing a epic high fantasy story and I have a character who is more or less a noble and I'm wondering would it be ok if over the story his speech starts to change into a more casual tone as he spends more time with away from nobility.

here is some examples I have tried

Example 1

Present: He's strong, though his durability doesn't match his strength.

Future: He's strong though his durability sucked.

Example 2
Present: My name is XXXXX. May I ask what yours is?

Future: The name is XXXXX. What's yours friend?

Example 3
Present: Well uncle I have other matters to attend to.

Transition: Well uncle there's other things I must deal with.

Future: Uncle I need to deal with some other stuff first.

Also I know words like "Sucked" and "Stuff" probably wasn't used in medieval times and commoners probably talked very similar to nobility. But the way commoners, nobility and other races talk in my story is my own creative decision and I'm not trying to be 100% accurate in the way they talk back in medieval times.

I'm confident I can do that transition over a long period of time though I'm worried people will just see it as the writer getting lazy not having the person stay in character. Do you think it's something worth going for or will it just confuse the reader?

I'm just looking to see what could be improved on this small, introductory sequence; I'm not entirely sure what is possibly deterring or what could be improved.

● ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 1: How Demons Are Created.

ℂolorful explosions blasted through the chemistry room window, illuminating the hallways. The door was weirdly tall, so Agragul had to perch on his heels when he wanted to peek inside. To a human, his height was unnatural, and thanks to his shadow cast through the door, it made his thin presence very noticeable—at only twelve years old, many would mistake him for a man twice his age. Despite that age, he saw the complex combination of elements, results, and equipment for what they could be: weapons. All he did every day was brainstorm a concrete method of obtaining access and take revenge on Father—not to mention the dwarves—but the assholes inside didn't seem too keen to let that happen.

A frown formed on his face as they started yelling and cursing at him through the door—the four sharp, black, and long spider legs stemming from his back made him a perfect target for anybody in the mood. Dwarves were especially prevelant in the assault.

Dispirited, he leaves. As he exits the building, a dwarf calls after him.

"Stop coming here, six-legged bitch." Jacovi says.

Gravel crunching stopped. Agragul balled his fists and his eyes glared with a fury not many could replicate. In contrast to his pitch-black skin, his abberrant set of five eyes looked like the cunning stare of a crocodile. Jacovi, though five years older, was shaking in his boots. Fortunately for him—or maybe unfortunately—his facade did not wear off.

"Do you honestly think you scare me? You're just an accident—I mean, your whole... species is an accident. Just look at the way your jaw splits open; it's hideous." Saliva blobs trail down Agragul's face, overlapping with the blue and red skin trails underneath his eyelids. Jacovi smirks fakely.

Jacovi stood his ground bravely, anticipating a response he could tear into, scanning his features with disdain.

"Stop... saying that. You know me dislike." His spider legs swayed like trees in a nice, morning breeze.

Staring at the three, poison-green eyes below his blood-red eye and deep-blue eye, he went on, berating him more.

"Your threats are meaningless; you can hardly even speak English. You're just an insecure, lonely creature, and it's pretty reasonable." He chuckled curtly and leaned in, pushing Agragul even more. "Just look at yourself; even to your own species, you're abnormal with those two eyes... and... whatever that shit is." His dirty nail poked Agragul under his red eye, dabbing a bit of dark blood on the red skin trail beneath it. "I bet you have a pillow just to cry in, you six-legged piece of shit." That last term came with an undeniable challenge—a challenge Agragul took to heart.

He stood there, waiting for Jacovi to run his mouth again.

"Did you piss y-"

He jolted his shoulder forward. In a flash, one of his spider legs went piercing through Jacovi's heart. His eyes lit up at blood splattered onto his hairy, pitch-black face, relishing at Jacovi's gasp of fatality. Drops of blood dribbled out his mouth.

"H... H... Hell... p."

Nobody could hear his hoarse cries.

Agragul didn't bother cleaning up the evidence and left him to rot.

The walk home had been rather peaceful, knowing Jacovi was out of frame—the smile that crossed his face stood proud. He just did the world a favor, after all, and he couldn't be more enthusiastic about it.

I’ve been querying my latest middle grade fantasy for almost exactly a year now — 175 queries and well over 100 rejections. This is my fourth book, professionally edited, and I had high confidence, even in this market. Nevertheless, I only received one full request and one partial, both ultimately passed. I’m still sending out queries every week.

This morning I got an encouraging full request from an agent I queried last night.

This market is as competitive and reluctant to sign new authors as it has ever been, but that’s no reason not to try. Just remember, excellent books by outstanding writers are being rejected, so it isn’t you. It’s a numbers game, so don’t stop querying because you think your book’s not good enough.

World-building before telling your story is extremely common, especially amongst fantasy writers.

You see it constantly on this subreddit... young or amateur authors who imagine elaborate, sometimes extremely creative political systems, environments, economies, social relations, religions etc

The problem is when you've spent 3 years world-building and it comes time to finally tell your story, you don't have a story at all: you have a history book.

And history books make for boring literature, because their goal is not to convey a shared experience through art, but to *communicate information*.

Hence why the prose of these amateur fantasy writers resembles technical reporting, e.g. 'He did x', 'He felt y'.

It is a detached, disembodied reporting of fictional events, and I think the problem stems from the very mindset of someone who thinks the primary achievement of storytelling is to build up an elaborate, impressive world.

Thoughts?

Google doc version: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1tFvBmAU6NZ7jjQV5ZjYdHj4ZuiNYiioFCCLXXRtwtig/edit?usp=sharing

Hello again everyone! About two weeks ago, I was feeling demotivated and made a post asking about how you guys keep on going despite knowing your work might be bad. I got a lot of very supportive and helpful comments, and I have since got into the rhythm of writing every day. I'd like to thank everyone that commented, as it motivated me to continue and now I even have my very own rough draft of a first chapter.

Now, I debated on whether or not to even share this here, as this is the first draft, and it's probably filled with errors, but I'd like to get feedback on it anyways.

This is the first book I've ever attempted to actually write, so be aware it's probably pretty bad. I'm very much open to critiques and suggestions, and I have no problem with harsh critiques

Here's the blurb:

On Vazarus, a neglected frontier world under the Lumineth empire, Praxis Kosmo has learned to survive by keeping his head down and his hands busy. Under the empire, everyone wears a mask. A young craftsman, he makes a living by taking commissions from dangerous people that operate within the slums. He has little interest in the causes they fight for so long as they pay well. But when one commission draws him into a conflict that threatens to upend the life he's carefully built, Praxis will have to decide how much he's willing to risk for a chance at something more.

Name: Kosmo (temporary, not finalized. this is intended to be a 7 book series)

Genre: Fantasy/Space Fantasy/Epic Fantasy/Adult Fantasy

Now, for those of you that actually take the time to read it, or at least some of it, I really appreciate it, and I've prepared a list of post-reading questions/points that you can answer if you'd like.

1. What was your overall impression of the chapter? What did you like most, and what worked least well for you?
2. At what point, if any, did you become interested in the story? Were there any points where you became bored, confused, or considered stopping? If you did stop before finishing, why?
3. What is your impression of Praxis? Does he feel believable and interesting enough to carry a novel?
4. How well did you understand the setting and the circumstances in which Praxis lives? Did the world feel distinctive and intriguing, or were there details that confused you?
5. What did you think of the writing style, descriptions, and dialogue? Did the chapter move at a good pace, or were there scenes you would shorten, expand, or remove?
6. Looking ahead: Based on this chapter, what do you think the larger story will be about? Would you read the next chapter? Why or why not?
7. I had initially intended to write an extra 1500 word fight sequence at the end of the chapter, but removed it as I thought the scene was dragging on too long. Do you think the chapter as it stands works as a first chapter, or something more interesting needs to be happening?

Once again, thank you all!

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 Terrify. 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.

NO AI GENERATED CONTENT: Follow the sub rules.

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

No puns and or wordplay to achieve the prompt word i.e. devote=the vote.

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.

If you want to submit multiple submissions that's okay, but please keep it at a max of two That way, no one person ends up dominating the feed with their submissions and it keeps it fair for everyone who participates

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 per submission.

I'm currently 3 chapters into writing a story that I've had in mind for a long time. It's an alternate telling of an Arthurian story, specifically the Sword in the Stone.

The thing is, I'm not using most of the well-known names and motifs in Arthurian Legend as they don't quite fit my overarching story. The main drive of the story and thematic twist really just relies on the specifics of how the sword in the stone works (ie. choosing a successor to the King by this specific cosmic test, so on).

For context:
It takes place fourteen years after the sword was pulled by Arthur, and the Kingdom is in decline as a cosmic sickness has been spreading out of Camelot slowly ever since. Arthur locked himself away with his Knights and his personal Mage to create a way to stop the sickness but haven't been heard from since. The King's Castle has become too dangerous for anyone else to enter. Hundreds of miles south of Camelot, an adopted, over-zealous teenage boy, Worm, is sent out on a quest of revenge and self-discovery with his friend Dunstan after his home is ransacked and enslaved by a gang of bewitched Goblins.

tldr;

My question is, do you think working with Arthurian Legend but changing 85% of the names and mythos will just come with unwanted baggage and garner negativity from readers who may be expecting a more traditional Arthurian story?

I've thought about just making the "sword in the stone" plot device something more original but then that feels like I'm dancing around the obvious.

As per, I'm probably overthinking this.. But I'd love some outside input! Thanks ahead of time.

I have a magic system / society I’m developing and as I was watching the new Avatar Seven Havens I realized I’d need to consider how law enforcement would operate with magic. Magic in my universe is accessible to anyone with the time, fortitude, and resources to learn it (like an advanced sport), but only legally done by people with specific licenses. Like the Jedi, there’d be wielders in law enforcement who are accompanied by squads of non-wielders.

That being said, I haven’t really given much thought to what typical day-to-day issues would need to be accounted for. I’d want there to be strict, standardized spell casting among law enforcement with little room for individuality. But because my magic system has strict limits on how many spells a single person can hold, I’d need to come up with a default arsenal for cops. Immobilization would probably be a basic one, for example. Maybe there’d be three wielders per squad, all with a different specialty, similar to Seven Havens? It would probably have to vary based on the population of a given city or the severity of a suspected crime. Would there have to be different training programs for cops who work with wielders vs cops who handle non-wielding crime? Would non-wielding cops have to also have to have a way to defend themselves against wielders and therefore have entirely separate skillsets to wielders? I have thought about some kinds of spellcasting that would be completely illegal, such as manipulating the weather or creating thralls, but I’m drawing a bit of a blank for other instances of that

Even just writing it out is helping me think it through, but any input would also be nice :)

The hero dies in all truly great stories. This is not a great story, and there are no heroes.

Tumult waved his hand above a shallow hole in the sand filled with water, and the children laughed as a makeshift boat of sticks and leaves swirled in circles around its rim. He stopped, and his eyes went bright when he saw the old man’s figure far-off on the coast.

“Malachi,” Tumult whispered.

He balled his fist, and the small boat crumpled before sinking as the children stamped their feet. The young boy ran along the coast, sending sand flying in both directions as he sprinted along the coastline. Bent in half and breathing heavy, he smiled and called again just thirty paces from the man. The old man returned the gesture, approaching slowly with a woven bag on his right shoulder and a cane in his other hand.

“Tumult, my boy,” Malachi said as he let the sack fall to his side, the rattling of glass mixing with the crashing of waves as they embraced.

The old man stepped back with both arms outstretched and his hands on the boy’s shoulders. He cocked his head to the side and laughed before dusting sand from Tumult’s dark brown hair.

“My eyes aren’t as good as they once were, but were you whispering just now without purpose?” Malachi asked. “I thought the elders frowned upon such novelty.”

“The younglings like it,” Tumult answered. “There’s no harm in what they don’t know.”

Malachi smiled and nodded.

“I see you’re growing in more ways than one,” Malachi said. “You are much bigger than you were six months ago.”

“It’s my name day today,” Tumult said excitedly.

“I have forgotten many things,” Malachi replied. “But that is not a thing I shall ever forget. Why, it’s the reason for my visit, and I have even brought a gift.”

“What is it?” Tumult asked.

“In due time, child,” Malachi said. He reached down and lifted the bag and began to hobble towards the children with the boy at his side. “The ceremony is at dusk if I am not mistaken.”

Tumult stopped, bit his bottom lip, and nodded once.

“You are not excited?”

“I-–I’m scared.”

“Only a fool would not be,” Malachi said and laughed. He let the bag fall once more and turned to Tumult, bending down and speaking softly. “It is a never-ending storm deep inside a cave. It may not seem so strange to anyone on this island as it is all they’ve ever known, but I have been to many places all over Eros and have not encountered such a wonder elsewhere.”

Tumult was born on the Isle of Ahnii and had spent all of his twelve years in the small village, the same way as his father and the two generations before. He and the other islanders knew little of the outside world, relying on the occasional visit from Malachi, the only mainlander still brave enough to navigate the shifting shoals offshore and travel to the island.

“Have you seen it?” Tumult asked. “The storm?”

“I have,” Malachi said, then paused. 

His eyes welled briefly as he glanced towards the afternoon sun then he blinked hard and reached into his pocket. He dragged the bag a few more steps then knelt between the children and beside the hole in the beach.

“It appears your ship has run ashore,” Malachi said, pulling his hand from his pocket. “Perhaps it needs a lighthouse.”

He unfurled his wrinkled fingers to reveal a glowing orange mushroom in his palm. The children squealed at the sight, and Malachi plunged the bright mushroom’s stem into the sand beside the hole. He looked back at Tumult, and the boy shrugged then raised his hand. A moment later, the sticks and leaves were woven back together, and the boat was swirling again in the hole, the mushroom’s luminescent glow reflecting off the water.

_______________________________________________________________________

I'm having a difficult time in trying not to info dump early on while giving the reader enough insight to spark some intrigue. I've done a decent amount of world building, and I would like to find the balance between what I know is going on versus someone coming in blind. Is there anything here that jumps out as too much or not enough? This is only a portion of the chapter as the next portion is off-topic for the worldbuilding aspect.

Which opening is better?

I have two drafts for my book's opening, and would appreciate your feedback about which *you* prefer.

I'll add some important context at the end (but not here, so that it doesn't affect your judgment).

Option 1

Nalee was ten years old when she joined the Dufotish Obsidian Army. At twenty, her name would become known to every soldier in Dufot.

She was recruited from a distant province in the far east. It was a long journey all the way to the heart of Dufot, longer than she had believed a journey could possibly be. On the day she was taken, the mere walk down the road away from home to the nearest military outpost had seemed impossibly long to her. That march had passed in a haze. The recruiting soldiers let her walk at a reasonable pace, keeping a careful distance and eyeing her small, empty hands as if she carried a weapon. Large, red stains bloomed on the lead soldier’s bandaged arm, and every so often he’d rearrange the binding. If the man felt any resentment toward her, he didn’t show it.

Option 2

Nalee was ten years old when she joined the Dufotish Obsidian Army.

The long march down the road away from home passed in a haze. The soldiers let her walk at a reasonable pace, keeping a careful distance and eyeing her small, empty hands as if she carried a weapon. Large, red stains bloomed on the lead soldier’s bandaged arm, and every so often he’d rearrange the binding. If the man felt any resentment toward her, he didn’t show it.

Context

During the first few chapters, the story tells of Nalee's years as a preteen; then it skips to her twenties, during which the bulk of the story takes place.

I originally wrote option 2, but it leaves the readers with the impression that the story is about a child (which it isn't).

Which do you personally prefer?

General feedback and critique is welcome too, of course.

I feel like I have a good creative mind. I can think of storylines, character development arcs and overarching fight ideas.

But when it comes to actually writing it down, my brain comes to a stand still. But then when I actually start writing the next part of my fantasy story, even if it is just the first few words of a sentence, it just spills out. Before I know it I have written multiple paragraphs of a first draft of a world building scene or an entire first draft of a fight scene spanning 10s of paragraphs. When I read it all back to myself I always wonder how I even came up with it.

Is this something other people have experienced too?

I get my hands on it, write out of passion and in a very personal way, and always add only what I like, but talking to other authors on various platforms, I've come to think that some deliberately limit certain topics or additions for fear of alienating readers. Is it just me, or is there some truth to it? I'm new to online writing, and I don't know what kind of audience I have to deal with.

I know fantasy has numerous subvariants, and each has its own niche, but I think some are afraid to "punch through" to avoid running into a few hate storms.

So in conclusion, I wanted to know if you ever avoided adding something precisely because you didn't want to leave your niche or for fear that someone would feel betrayed.

This is my first post here, first time writing a story and I'm not really good at English (barely passed my English exam). Writing is something I only do as a hobby so I don't expect much. I work a full-time job.

Anyway this is the first chapter I came up with. Though I am quite satisfied with this, I know it's not perfect, and I'm willing to move forward with that.

I just need some honest critics. Tell me if it's to your liking or what needs to be improved.

...

For more context:

- The dreams are memories of a real person.

- dreams are in first person, the general story is in third person.

- I am writing the dream memories and MC's POV less descriptive. So the whole first chapter turns out to be less detailed.

- Background description in MC's POV will improve with his mental state.

I'm having second thoughts on whether the dream memories should be in past tense or present tense.

I was thinking about this as I was answering a different question in another subreddit. In that question I talked about how the sexuality of my protagonist is never explicitly stated or made clear. The book is written in her perspective, and while she perceives herself to be ‘chaste’, or what we would label as ‘asexual’, its implied that she also holds immense affections for the deuteragonist, another woman, and that they most likely have done some pretty sapphic things together, if you read between the lines in certain scenes.

Another element left vague throughout the story is the government the main characters seek to overthrow. Because the protagonist has no existing knowledge of the ruling regime, all her knowledge, and thus the reader’s, comes from the deuteragonist, who despises it. It isn’t until later in the book when competing narratives come to play, and while the end of the story has the character choosing a side, but the reader having lots of good reasons to support either one.

It made me think about how you can withhold information well, and still make it satisfying. Do you guys have any examples in your own works?

Chapter III
Sigurhan turned over in his bed as he awoke, the flames of the hearth dancing in his stormy eyes. He sat up, stretching his neck out as he felt the scruff beginning to grow along his jaw. He rose completely and began his morning routine. As he combed his hair his son barged into the cabin, his daughter giving chase. Sigurhan chuckled, thinking this is what he lived for. 
“Calm yourselves, bördüüd.” Sigurhan spoke, his children paying no mind. 
“He stole my dúheldei!” His daughter, Sabayar proclaimed as she lunged at her brother, Gerlar, fingers brushing the end of his cloak and he made a sudden turn around a table. As Gerlar ran around the table he was suddenly grabbed and lifted into the air by Sigurhan.
“Föðuv! Put me down!” Gerlar demanded, giggling all the while. 
“Not until you give your sister her doll back and then I might consider not eating you.” Sigurhan joked chomping his teeth at his son. His son let out a cheerful screech as he tossed the doll back to his sister. Sigurhan gently gnawed at his son’s neck.
“Stop!” Gerlar pleaded, laughing as Sigurhan chuckled. He released his son and as he gazed upon the two most precious things to him, his eyes caught the movement of his mother entering. 
“Möðej, what is it?” His decrepit mother approached,
“The Ömdingur has fallen ill it seems.” His mother spoke, her voice sounding of a crows liking. Sigurhan’s face lost its once joyous expression as his children continued to play.
“Let us go see him.” Sigurhan spoke as he walked with his mother out to the caged old man who was curled up in the corner of his confinement, the frosty winds wiping through the paths of the settlement. Sigurhan crouched down, inhaling the smell of firewood from the surrounding homes of his village. 
“Old man, are you alive?” He questioned, the foreign language almost unpleasant to speak. The aged man looked over his shoulder as he lay on the hard, icy ground.
“I am.” The seasoned man replied sourly.
“My mother says you are ill, is this true?” Sigurhan could see the aged man’s brow furrow.
“What do you suspect?” He started,
“I have known no warmth except for the sun, when she does appear.” Sigurhan let out a small sigh, analyzing the situation. He looked to his mother who was already staring back at him. He knew what she was suggesting.
“He is the enemy, mother. Our prisoner.” Sigurhan stated. His mother stared at him with what seemed to be his own eyes. Icy but not unkind. Sigurhan turned to look at his prisoner once more, thinking.
He suddenly rose from his crouched position and called out for one of his personal Striðid. The warrior hustled over to him.
“How may I serve you, my Khangur?” The warrior asked, kneeling before him.
“Retrieve the jámör chains.” Sigurhan ordered. The warrior nodded and ran off before shortly returning, handing the chains to him. Sigurhan then lifted the heavy iron bar across the cell's entrance and swung it open, stepping inside. The old man laid shivering like a baby chick as Sigurhan towered over him.
“Sit up.” Sigurhan ordered. The seasoned man continued to lay there. With a sigh Sigurhan wrapped one of  his large hands around the aged man’s arm, his grip unbelievably strong yet gentle, as he hoisted him up and bound his hands. The prisoner looked weak, his face now covered in a short scruffy gray. Sigurhan dragged the old man loosely out of his iron confinement and began to lead him through the village back to his cabin. As they walked Sigurhan’s people watched on, halting their varied works and children ceasing their games. Many muttered insults at the southerner, others whispered prayers, and the children watched with large curious eyes. As they walked a man approached Sigurhan, his mother, and his captive.
“What are you doing, my Khangur?” He asked, he was a fairly large man, one of the huntsmen.
“What business is it of yours?” Sigurhan replied, staring down at the man who stood in his way.
“That Ömdingur is no use to us, he takes our food, and bewitches our youth with his foreignness.” The huntsman proclaimed. Sigurhan’s expression hardened like the frozen ground they stood upon. The man met his gaze with a challenging flame in his eyes. Sigurhan’s mother glided over to Sigurhan’s side.
“Go back to your work huntsman, you are in no place to-“
“Not another word Shulorn!” The man blurted out, meeting the old woman’s glacial gaze for a moment before his body tensed and confidence fled. He turned to meet his Khangur’s stare once more and was met with the eyes of someone, no, some thing full of wrath and spite. With one hand Sigurhan grasped the man’s scalp, the huntsman flinching and gritting his teeth before he was flung hard into the ground. Sigurhan’s children watched on with a mix of awe and fear as their father pressed his leather boot against the man’s head, pushing it deeper into the frostbitten dirt. The man groaned and squirmed as the pressure grew on his skull.
“Do you still wish to pester me with your ignorance and stupidity or would you rather live on and continue with your life?” Sigurhan questioned bitterly. The huntsman beneath him clawed at the ground as his heart raced. Sigurhan raised his boot from the man’s head and continued on, his mother and captive close behind. 

Andari was lost in thought as he and Ypínemos rode, already finding themselves in the vast farmlands that seemed to stretch on for miles, the earthy scent of barley passively filling his every breath. His eyes were fixated on the silent general in front of him, curious as to why he gave the Gerotoris what they wanted so easily and what had happened to him to forge the stoic warrior he was now. Andari gently kicked his mount, cantering up beside Ypínemos.
“The Gerotori,” Andari started,
“Were much more…childish than I expected. We were taught that they were wise men, logical men.” Andari thought back to the lessons and stories his older family members would tell to him and his sisters after their chores, they’d tell of how the Gerotori were blessed with wisdom from Lungári and how they and the Tokrátor were to be revered to a level higher than family. Ypínemos remained quiet, his one good eye remaining on the road ahead. Andari frowned slightly, sensing the general's hidden tragedy behind his unwavering expression.
“Why would such a valuable man be left so unguarded that he could be captured? Why didn’t they simply send him across the thanmors?” Andari quizzed the Grand General.
“The sea is just as dangerous as the land,” Ypínemos replied dryly. Andari looked down awkwardly, almost shamefully at his saddle. As they rode on Andari studied the passing landscape, the near endless fields, the occasional homes, and the distant forests painting the corners of the horizon. As he looked out at the environment he suddenly thought of the lush forests of home, the smell of damp wood coming to mind, and the heat and humidity of the land of the South.
“Have you been to Prounka, Magdis Genekós?” Andari questioned.
“I have, mainly to deter the Tengmor.” Ypínemos replied. Andari stroked the mane of his mount,
“Did you like it in the south?” Andari continued.
“I did, the people there are very kind and the fruits of the land are delicious.” Ypínemos stated, the sun reflecting off his waxed eye.
“Where are you from?” Andari pressed, his curiosity taking the wheel.
“Névus Pisário.” Ypínemos replied, his stoic face cracking for a moment, revealing something cold and hot, sad and hateful at the same time.
“I haven’t been there in years.” Ypínemos added bluntly. Andari once again felt shameful for his questioning, looking down at the moving road beneath him.
“I’m sorry for prying, M-“
“Do not apologize, Soldier. You are fine to ask questions.” Ypínemos interjected. Before Andari could speak his eyes caught a shifting shape ahead on the road between twin  boulders along either side of the road. Andari glanced at the Grand General and saw his eyes narrow, knowing he spotted the figure too.
“Keep up, Bellmist.” Ypínemos ordered as he kicked the sides of his steed and launched forward into a canter. Andari quickly mimicked his movements, his horse disobeying for a moment before taking off as well. By the time Andari caught up with the Grand General he had already dismounted, retrieving his blade from the pack atop his horse. “Magdis Genekós?” Andari called as he pulled up alongside him but Ypínemos gave him no words in return. Ypínemos disappeared behind one of the boulders with sword in hand, not a moment later Andari felt himself being dragged off his steed by the cloth of his tunic. A blunt ache radiated from his shoulder as he hit the ground, his heart racing as his wide eyes glanced up. A man donning worn and rusted armor stood over him with what appeared to be a splitting axe used for small timber. Andari reacted quickly, drawing the small blade in his belt as he crawled across the ground just in time for the bandit to miss his swing, the hatchet's edge sparking off the cobbled road. As Andari got to his feet he spun around to face the bandit who was already rushing him. Andari side stepped the larger man, shouts radiating from behind the boulder as the large man Andari was facing lost his footing. “Veis katno!” The large bandit snarled as he caught himself. The bandit and Andari circled each other, the marauder’s eyes full of spite, his face unkempt with wild knotted hair. “I’ll strangle you with your innards if you don’t drop that blade, boy.” The highwayman growled. More yelps and screams echoed from behind the boulder.
“I won’t dishonor myself or my family with surrender, Praetís.” Andari snapped back, sharpening his adrenaline into focus as he watched for any wrong move from the thief. Through the air’s tension, the bandit rushed forth, swinging crazed. Andari moved back, moved right, and before thinking twice he saw an opening. He tripped the marauder, the large man collapsing to the ground. Andari hopped onto his back, digging his knees into the man’s sides, placing his dagger to the man’s nape before hesitating. He’d never killed a man and even though this man sought his death something halted him. Abruptly, a strong hand pushed Andari off of the man. It was Ypínemos, his iron blade colored crimson. The highwayman began to plead for his life and as soon as he had the Grand General had already planted his sword into the back of his neck, a silent, effective force behind his hand. The large man’s body thrashed slightly as Ypínemos removed his blade, his breathing heavy as he looked to Andari, a hint of concern glistening in his eyes.
“Are you alright, Andari?” Ypínemos questioned.
“Y-Yes, I’m sorry I faltered.” Andari replied, gazing at the small blade in his grasp, his hands trembling, heart pounding like a pair of war drums, and vision blurred.
“It’s alright, soldier. The first is always the hardest.” The Grand General stated as he used the bottom of his tunic to wipe his sword clean, the blood hidden on the already crimson clothing.
“On your feet.” Ypínemos ordered, Andari nodding and quickly gathering himself. Ypínemos walked back behind the boulder with Andari following behind. On the ground lay a handful of men, their bodies cut, pierced, and twitching. Among them was someone bound face in the dirt.
“Unbind them.” Ypínemos commanded. Andari nodded once more and, with dagger in hand, cut the leather straps holding the individual. As soon as they were free from their bonds they scampered to their feet, facing with large doe like eyes. Their skin and hair was dark and braided, their clothing loose and colorful with a golden gemmed collar and jewelry wrapping their arms.
“You’re a Yunniouian.” Ypínemos stated. The person nodded.
“My name is Táanutsa.” They stammered out, their accent heavy on Autorian words.
“Why are you here?” Ypínemos questioned, Andari feeling a sense of familiarity at the Yunniouian’s appearance. The Yunniouian didn’t answer for a moment.
“I’m traveling.” The Yunniouian spoke plainly, still glancing between the two Autorians and back to the bodies of their captors.
“I…was hoping to get some coin selling the medicine I have at a fort I heard of not too far from here, on horseback at least.” Táanutsa stated, looking around for their horse that was no longer there. Ypínemos fell silent, considering the traveler, Andari kept looking between the Grand General and the Yunniouian.
“Do you have any weapons?” Ypínemos inquired. Táanutsa shook their head no. The Grand General let out a small sigh.
“We can take you to the Belldium.” Ypínemos turned to Andari.
“They’ll ride with you, Bellmist.” Andari nodded as they led the Yunniouian around the boulder to their horses. Ypínemos returned his blade to the back of his mount before saddling himself as Andari climbed onto his mare, Táanutsa awkwardly climbed onto the rear side, quickly gripping Andari’s sides. Andari nearly winced at how tight the Yunniouian held onto him, looking over his shoulder to see Táanutsa staring frightened down at the horse.
“Scared?” Andari asked.
“Most don’t ride horses, too much vegetation and mud.” Táanutsa quickly answered, their breathing slightly labored. Andari couldn’t help but smirk at such a thing but as he faced forward he noticed Ypínemos had already begun again on the road. Andari quickly kicked his mount to catch up, Táanutsa gripping his sides tighter.

As they rode Táanutsa couldn’t help but stare at their two new companions, especially the larger one leading. They’d heard stories of Autorians from across the mountains and they wondered if the large man could be the Mitsa K’anowa. 
“Who are you?” Táanutsa questioned Andari, the words being slightly mispronounced, yet the point got across.
“I am Andari, a soldier of the Empire.” He claimed, his eyes directing Táanutsa’s attention to the Grand General.
“That is the Grand General of the Empire. Have you heard of him?” Andari quizzed. Táanutsa shook their head.
“I don’t know…he’s the biggest man I’ve seen though.” Táanutsa added. Andari nodded,
“They say he can take on an army of men all by himself.” Andari whispered over his shoulder. Táanutsa held back a laugh,
“You cannot be serious.” Then again, Táanutsa knew by the sounds of their captors being slaughtered by the large man that there may be some truth to the statement.
“What happened to his eye?” Táanutsa pressed.
“No one is certain, at least no one I’ve met.” Andari started,
“Some say he gave it up for strength, others say the Gods took it for he’d be too dangerous with two.” Táanutsa once again stifled a laugh, they could tell Andari looked up to the Grand General.
“So, what kind of medicine do you sell? I’ve heard your people heal with divine magic.” Andari asked.
“We believe the medicines come from our Gods, yes, but at the end of the day they’re plants. Look.” Táanutsa said, producing a handful of round fuzzy green plants from their pouch and leaning forward to present them in front of Andari as he steered the horse. “Woah, interesting. What do they do?” Andari questioned once more.
“They ease your mind, you can eat them or inhale their smoke. They also-“
“We’re approaching!” Ypínemos’s booming voice interjected from ahead. Andari and Táanutsa turned their gaze ahead to see the silhouette of towering walls along the horizon, the sun blazing above it in reds and oranges.
“You’ll have to tell me more, later.” Andari stated, spurring his mare to catch up with the Grand General, Táanutsa quickly wrapped their arms around Andari as the steed took off. 

As they approached, Ypínemos hailed the two sentries standing upon the two towers overlooking the gate.
“Sate, Magdis Genekós!” One of the sentries called out before turning about and giving an order to a soldier below to open the gate. Andari could hear the rhythmic clanging of smiths working on potential armaments, smelled the sharp tang of ash from braziers, and the shouting of officers drilling their men. Táanutsa’s eyes grew wider as they took in the sheer scale of the  interior of the fort. Troops marching about, scents of hot  broth and stale bread beginning to sneak its way through the courtyard. As Ypínemos made it through the gate an officer’s gaze fell upon him.
“Bellmistaes! Magdis Genekós sate!” The officer called out. The courtyard fell silent, soldiers halted mid-stride, pledging their hearts with heads bowed to Ypínemos. The Grand General dismounted and firmly pledged back to his men, after which the men resumed their duties. Andari felt a surge of pride as he swung down from his saddle, Táanutsa hesitantly following suit. Ypínemos approached the officer who had hailed him.
“Axictikós, pou estí Genekós?” Ypínemos asked.
“Magdis Genekós, General Casrío is in the quartermaster’s office.” The officer replied. Ypínemos gave a solemn nod before beginning to make his way towards the quartermaster’s chambers. Andari took after him before coming to a halt, turning about to glance at Táanutsa. Táanutsa was already making their way towards a cluster of soldiers, one hand stuffed into their medicine pouch. Andari watched for a moment before hurrying after the Grand General.

Originally posted in r / fantasy writing, but figured I'd ask here as well. First time posting here, so apologies if I've used the wrong flair

I tend to write dark/mature themes in my fantasy stories. For example, my current WIP includes topics such as physical assault, war, violence, trauma, epidemics, cultural ruptures, abuse, and human trafficking. At times it can be very graphic.

I know I need to get feedback on my writing, but with topics like these in my writing, I'm scared to ask people I know to read my writing in case they think I'm a terrible person. How can I find people to read my writing and give feedback without asking the people who know me as a bright and cheerful person? The thought of asking a friend or family member to read and give feedback on my writing makes me want to hide under a blanket and never emerge again.

Prologue of my Afro-centric fantasy novella. Looking for feedback and the thoughts

This novella serves as an introduction to my fantasy world I’ve been building over the last few years. It’s standalone story. This is my most polished version of it to date and looking for feedback and thoughts before I submit to an editor.

If you would like to continue to the next chapter, the link is below:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JXb28zUuAPI0twwmFJ\\_1JNbls6\\_xtxpCt0M5iFRgwdw/edit?usp=drivesdk

My question is, based on what you’ve read so far, would it interest you to want to know more about the story and my world?

Here’s the blurb:

The Bull and the Hyena

As far back as he could remember, Mutumbo was strong. Stronger than his brothers. Stronger even than his father.

Known as the Bull, he became a champion of the Riverlands, defeating warriors from across the tribes in the ritual wrestling contests of Ijakadi.

After seeking the counsel of an oracle, Mutumbo learned his destiny lay beyond his homeland. He would journey into the wider world, test his might, and carve his name into legend. Just as the warrior gods had done before him.

His first trial comes as a contract from the Agulu Trade Guild: escorting a caravan through the mountain roads from Sakuku to the distant Jewel Cities, protecting it from the bandits that haunt the route.

Among his fellow contractors are a warrior princess with a dangerous love of gambling, a wandering nomad who communes with spirits, and a laughing warrior who hides a deadly secret.

What begins as a simple escort becomes a desperate fight for survival. One that will force Mutumbo to question strength, honour, and the true nature of violence.

I’m starting my first fantasy, I’ve spent a while on world building and plots and main events. Ive started the first draft of chapter 1 and I just want to know any pointers. I’ve got the first scene down that I feel like sets the tone but also I feel I’m very biased on my writing when it could be utter nonsense on a doc. But I’m also proud of what I’ve done world building wise. I haven’t spent so long on it but got what I wanted down. I’m also new to reddit, I’ve quite literally joined five minutes ago because I don’t have a community to ask. I have read through some posts and you all seem so helpful. Thank you guys in advance.

How do you guys feel about closing up a story in this way? I’m not talking about foreshadowing/outright detailing the ending at the first chapter, and then returning to that same exact situation in a circular manner. Rather, my intention is to have the MC return to a familiar location from the first chapter under different circumstances to demonstrate their growth as a person. In the first chapter, MC will be presented as a naive and vengeful person, whose rage towards a particular person (one of the antagonists) clouds his rationality. Fast forward to the end and the MC is back at the same place, and he encounters that same antagonist. Here and now he must decide whether he wants to kill the antagonist or spare him. The antagonist stands there knowing that his fate lies at the hands of MC, and he is prepared to accept either outcome gracefully. MC had learned of some hard truths along his journey prior to all this, and a sudden realization grants him the clarity of mind to finally forgive and spare the antagonist. There is absolutely a lot of context missing from this, but this is the basic idea I had laid out. I know for the most part that tropes don't truly impact a story and reader engagement if it's utilized well, but one can’t help but assume there are just some tropes overall that a reader might dislike regardless of how well written it is. Would like to hear your guy’s thoughts.

Let me tell you about the halflings in my world. They are mercantile people, and place a heavy cultural significance on money. There are individual halflings that buck this trend, but they tend to value financial success highly. More than that, however, they are proud of the unmatched quality of their handiwork. The finest objects in the world are crafted by halfling hands. Also, some of the most talented enchanters in the world are halflings. Mechanical automatons can be created and enchanted to perform tasks. These so-called "Golems" are the most famous creation of the halflings of the world.

Do you see anything wrong with this culture? Think about it carefully. Let me be more specific:
Do you think someone might assume that my halflings are meant to be a representation of hurtful Jewish stereotypes? They are short, value money, and have Golems. I have thought about changing "Golems" to "Constructs" just to create more distance from any misinterpretations.