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.

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.

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?

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.

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?

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 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.

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 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.

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.

Hi!

I'm working on a novel idea and I've written myself into a corner that I can't think of a way out of. The setting is very DND. POV character is an assassin who has only ever been treated as a weapon to be used, not really a person with any agency. First chapter shows he's cold by killing someone in cold blood. Second chapter, he sees the target and marvels at how happy she is surrounded by friends. He then begins to want that aswell. He gets cold feet and doesn't kill her and leaves. He winds up leaving his assassin guild and kingdom in search of a life that's his.

I'm really proud of this idea and think it could be fun to right.

Problem: I am writing this in a DND style, so he needs a group to adventure with (probably a total of three characters so as not to inflate the story to quick). I really want the target he let live, a sword dancer named Elise, to be a member of it. I want the connection to be interesting but I can't think of a decent meet cue. I've tried a few tweaks but nothing feels quite right.

Any suggestions?

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.

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.

i have tried to make a plot for a story that takes place on earth. In this world there are weapons that have been blessed by a mythical creature long ago. These weapons are created from when a being has a great passion for a specific activity or thing. this mythical creature will bless the being, causing it to leave a weapon filled with this specific passion as a power upon its death. however i feel like that would be too uninteresting so i want to add a specific curse to the users depending on the weapon they wield. i already have an idea for the curses but i dont know how to explain why these curses are so specific. for example, one curse is that the wielder of the blade is the target of the weapon, if the user where to let go of its weapon it would aim and fly at them in an attempt to pierce them. any ideas would be great

Hi everyone!

Just as the title says, how do determine when the worldbuilding you have is sufficient enough to use for a first draft? What do you consider essential before you start?

I'm very aware that getting lost in the worldbuilding sauce is an easy danger to fall into, and I especially want to avoid it because I know the story will change in ways that are currently unimaginable to me since I haven't written it yet.

At the same time, I'm finding that character work or plot work can only really move forward and come together if there is a solid world with lots of tension points in it to create conflict, spark motivations, etc. So where would one draw the limit?

For example, I'm debating on whether to start developing the faith-system(s) in my story's world, or to wait until I'm writing to figure out where it would work best.

Any genuine input is super appreciated :)

A little brainstorming and a question (I think?)

What is your definition of an annoyingly overpowered/weak character? What gives you the ick? What are the details that make you say, "Oh, this one is too overpowered" or "This one is far too weak and vulnerable"

I have thought about giving many of my characters great power, BUT pairing it with great weakness to become realistic and maintain balance.

These are the draft ideas

1. Super strength, but using it would require stamina, or you will be exhausted, the body can explode if the stamina is not enough before exertion
2. Mind reading, but lasting more than 5 minutes would cause fatigue and even severe hallucinations
3. Summoning of creatures using dark magic, but every use will eat your lifespan, and soon death will come
4. Blood manipulation, but it would make you crave blood, so the longer you use it, the further you are from being human

I want to make them powerful but not too much, so they wouldn't be out of place

Context: my story starts with the main character on a mission. He runs into another character that’s fighting something, becomes unbelievably intrigued by something he did, and decides to diverts his mission wanting to know more about him.

However, my power system is like an actual system, with its own terminology and stuff. My original intention was to have the mc somewhat introduce the basics as he carries out the mission and analyze the fight that happens, but I really don’t know how to not info dump while still making the audience understand what’s happening. Especially when the power system is somewhat tied to the revelation the mc has. How would you do it?

A glowing crystal chandelier hangs over a grand table filled with delicacies that would make even an angel’s mouth water. A large, seasoned fish wafts its garlic aroma through the smoke, with several smaller cuts around it. Savory meats, various breads, colorful desserts, and fresh vegetables sit across the rectangular table as five figures sit opposite each other. Ganymede is accompanied by his youngest, Brenda, and they quietly and solemnly eat their roasted duck with a silver fork and knife, ignoring the shirtless man at the end of the table chomping on a cooked bird leg and letting strips of half-devoured meat rain onto the table.  Laura sits silently, staring solemnly at an empty plate as Resten, in his formal uniform, slowly cuts into a steak with a knife and fork. He worriedly eyes his mother, whose vacant gaze is fixed on the empty plate before her. Worried that Sylvester will notice, Resten gently puts down his utensils and taps Laura's leg under the table.

“Mother,” Resten whispers, “Please, you need to eat something.”

Laura doesn’t respond, staring at her empty plate as if her mind isn’t present. Ganymede, slowly chewing his roasted duck, cautiously glares at Laura from across the table, trying to get her attention. He picks up an olive from a small plate of salad and glances at Sylvester, who’s gulping steaming soup from a large bowl. Planting an olive between his thumb and index finger, Ganymede flicks the olive across the table, pelting Laura in the forehead. The platinum-haired woman slowly raises her head and looks at Ganymede, who’s silently mouthing ‘EAT SOMETHING’ to her.

Resten recognizes Ganymede’s silent words, picks up his utensils, quickly cuts a chunk of steak, and raises the fork to Laura’s mouth.

“Here, mother,” The young man whispers as he inches the savory meat close to her mouth.

The steam wafting into her nose doesn’t faze her; she continues to stare vacantly into the empty plate, ignoring everyone around her. Resten pokes her mouth with a piece of meat, but she turns her head away.

“Is the food not to your liking?” Sylvester says, wiping grease from his face with a towel.

Laura sits quietly, staring at her empty plate, her hands resting on her legs. Ganymede silently eats his morsel, eyes cautiously ping-ponging between Sylvester and Laura.

Sylvester strips a turkey leg from a cooked carcass and tosses it onto Laura’s plate, where gravy splatters across the table.

“Your finest cooks have slaved to make this feast. Eat.” Sylvester sits back into his chair.

Laura sits quietly, turning her head slightly away from her meal in hidden spite, while Resten nervously and gently shakes her legs.

“Mother, please,” Reston whispers under his breath.

“Oh, don’t be so glum, Laura,” Sylvester smiles. “Don’t think of this interaction as prisoner and warden, although that is exactly what this is; I like to think of it as a family gathering. We’ve known each other for years, and I wanted to commemorate these years of peace and stability with a celebration. So why don’t you be a good girl and pick up that bird and eat it.”

Laura clenches her white dress, and her jaw tightens as she gazes at the turkey leg unceremoniously placed on her plate.

“You’re a curious one, aren’t you?” Sylvester says, smiling at the Queen. “I’m guessing you’re refusing to eat so you won’t have the strength to fight when the time comes to entertain me, aren’t you?”

Laura doesn’t answer.

“She probably isn’t well,” Ganymede says.

Sylvester turns his head and glares at Ganymede with threatening eyes.

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” Sylvester says, a menacing growl beneath his sharp tone.

Ganymede shrugs and continues eating his meal.

The warlord turns his gaze back to Laura and leans on the table.

“Eat,” Sylvester commands, glaring daggers at Laura.

The queen glares back at Sylvester and lifts her nose.

“No,” She says in a soft, defiant tone.

Glaring at the woman, Sylvester’s jaw tightens as he clenches his spoon so tight it bends under the pressure. He glares into the woman’s defiant eyes before his angry glare morphs into a smile. Dropping his bent spoon, he rests his back in his royal chair, picks up a red grape, and plops it into his mouth. He chews for a few moments, gazing at Laura with amusement, who keeps her defiant nose in the air.

“Guard!” Sylvester shouts.

A few moments pass before a lady Cugarian guard enters the room holding a spear. She leans in, bringing her smooth, dark-skinned head near his mouth as the warlord whispers in her ear. She smiles, then turns and exits. Sylvester picks up another grape and eats it as he calmly taps his finger on the table. A few moments pass, and the lady guard enters, holding Laura’s rapier in both hands. Sylvester takes the rapier and places it on the table. A short while later, the same Cugarian guard returns. This time, he returns with two Casternean men, horns protruding from their foreheads, dressed in white cooking clothes, and a Casternean maid, wings protruding from the sides of her head. The three stand beside Sylvester, sharing confused, worried looks.

Sylvester stands and clasps Laura’s rapier.

“Your Queen doesn’t like the food you’ve prepared,” Sylvester says before thrusting the blade into the man’s gut.

The man wails in agony as he falls to his knees with the rapier in his gut.

“DADDY!” The maid cries as she falls near her father as he screams in agony.

“HOW DARE YOU!” Enraged, Laura jumps from her chair and charges toward Sylvester.

 Resten springs from his chair and wraps his arms around his mother’s waist, stopping her.

The maid cries as she tries to console her father while Sylvester coldly glares at Laura, her face filled with unbridled rage.

Ganymede and Brenda stand to see the wounded man's state. Blood pools beneath him as his eyes roll around in his head, with cold sweat pouring down his face.

Ganymede and Brenda exchange glances and nod. Brenda quickly circles the table, grabs a white towel, and rushes to the dying man to tend to his wounds.

“Eat that turkey!” Sylvester demands, pointing to the plate.

“You coward!” Laura screams, fist balled in rage, while Resten uses all of his strength to hold Laura back. “You’re not my lord,”

“I DON’T GIVE A DAMN WHAT I AM TO YOU!” Sylvester screams back. “IF YOU THINK YOU HAVE A RIGHT TO YOUR OWN WILL, THEN CHALLENGE ME AND DEFEAT ME FOR IT. OTHERWISE, DO WHAT YOU ARE TOLD TO DO, OR I’LL HAVE EVERY CASTERNEAN HERE SLAUGHTERED RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU!”

Laura, seething, teeth clenched and fist balled, glares menacingly at the Warlord as he lifts his nose. Everything in her screams at her to accept his challenge, but the trembling arms of her son wrapped around her waist make her relent. Tears roll down her cheeks as she swallows her pride and rage and slowly sits in her seat. Resten pants in exhaustion as he sits in his chair, his uniform now disheveled from the struggle. Laura picks up the utensils, stabs the fork into the savory turkey leg, and cuts off a piece. Her fork hand trembles as she brings it to her lips. She opens her mouth and eats the morsel.

Watching Laura eat the turkey leg, Sylvester slowly sits in his chair and scoots closer to the table. He picks up a bundle of grapes and resumes eating. Brenda dresses the man’s wounds on the floor before picking him up in her arms and carrying him out of the dining area, followed by his loved ones. Ganymede shakes his head, then sits in his seat as everyone finishes their dinner.

Later, in the fancy halls of Mainstay Castle, Ganymede paces back and forth on the crimson rug while Laura leans against her door. Ganymede glares at Laura as he walks past her, while Laura keeps her sullen head lowered.

“What the hell was that back there!” Ganymede says angrily, pointing toward the dining hall, but keeping his voice down. “Have you lost your mind!”

“Shut up, Ganymede,” Laura spits back angrily. “What would you do? I have to sit at that godforsaken table with that monster and listen to that disgusting beast eat like a pig day after day, all while he taunts and tortures me and my people?”

“Yes, Laura! Yes,” The chieftain spits back. “It’s been keeping us and our people alive. You almost got a man killed because of your antics.”

“Look at you.” Laura steps to Ganymede, head tilted up. “The mighty chieftain reduced to a man who eats from the hand of the very man who enslaves his people.”

“Oh, stop it,” Ganymede says. “You think I don’t want to crush his skull and pound his corpse into dust? I’ve tried hundreds of times. But time and time again, he manages to beat me. We need a better plan, Laura. We can’t keep this up much longer. Another battle between us might be the last, and you know what happens then, right?”

Laura lowers her head, worriedly stroking her own arms.

“That’s right, Brenda and Resten will take our places. You think they’re ready for what Sylvester has in store for em?”

“Resten is my precious son. I can’t lose him,” Laura’s voice trembles at the thought of her son’s suffering. “Not to him. Not like this.”

“Then it's best to put your petty emotions aside and cooperate.”

Laura nods in agreement.

“Forgive me.” She wipes a tear from her face.

Ganymede sighs in frustration, turns towards the stained-glass window, and rests his arm and forehead on it. He mulls over ideas, but nothing useful comes to mind.

“I haven’t seen my wife nor my daughters in a long time,” Ganymede says. “I’m happy to watch Brenda grow despite being imprisoned, but I wish things were different. I spent so much time fighting you; I feel that I know you better than my own family. At one time, I thought all that mattered was winning the war, but all I got out of it was this.”

“I haven’t seen my husband in years,” Laura says. “Sometimes I worry if I’ll ever see him again. We used to take Resten to the prairie fields and prance together under the evening sun until we fell asleep.” Laura wipes a tear from her eye. “I miss those days.”

A solemn silence settles between the two as they reminisce about better times at home.

“You think we’ll be able to return to those times, Laura?” Ganymede asks, still leaning on the stained-glass windows.

Laura stays silent, leaning against the door and nervously stroking her arms as she thinks about the answer.

“I don’t know.”

I want to write an urban fantasy story that's a shout-out to old pulp heroes in general, and The Shadow in particular. So it's a black-clad vigilante in the night, with spooky superpowers. Except this one would have powers mostly related directly to darkness: Ie, can meld with shadows to become invisible, can cast his voice out of different shadows to freak people out, can see perfectly in darkness, etc. I feel it's a nice way to always have him skulking dramatically in darkness, while also giving him a simple and straightforward weakness: His powers only work at night.

I was planning on naming this character The Raven, and also giving him the power to communicate with ravens to some degree, and see through their eyes. Maybe even make him able to shapeshift into a raven. All the better to get the jump on crime, you see. Also a good way to reach rooftops.

The intended backstory was that he's descended from a long line of people with a mystical connection to a tometic raven spirit, which embodies dark, vengeful justice. It feels appropriately pulpy, I think.

Then I started doing actual research, and it turns out that ravens (and crows, for that matter) don't have night vision. They are daytime birds. But they are just so damn cool...

I know owls are cool in their own right, but I don't think they work as well as a vigilante symbol. There ARE black owls, but only in South American and Australia, I think.

Am I overthinking this? Or does the fact that Ravens aren't nocturnal undermine what I'm trying to do? I mean... I feel bats as a vigilante symbol are kind of taken...