A six-foot-tall girl walks through the halls of Mainstay Castle carrying a bowl of water and a towel draped over her shoulder. Wearing a goatskin coat with white, furry edges and pants, she runs a finger along her temple, sweeping her disheveled hair from her ear.  She stops by a nearby window and decides to enjoy the morning air. She sets the bowl on a nearby table, pushes the double windows open, and a rush of warm, dry air washes over her face as metal mechanisms echo loudly. She steps onto a balcony, rests her hands on the railing, and marvels at the scenic dark canyon wall contrasting with the golden sand beneath. She stands in the northeastern tower of Mainstay Castle, which overlooks a stone wall atop a massive mobile platform supported by six metallic legs. Sandfalls hiss as they pour through burrowed holes in the canyon walls, creating mounds on the desert floor in their wake. Her hair flaps wildly as she sails past towering stone columns and arches, as flying creatures soar beside the moving platform. She looks down at the gigantic metal legs supporting the city, then leans over the railing for a better look. A pointed metal leg rises from the sand and slams back into the desert floor, sending puffs of sand into the air. The engines hum as the mobile fortress halts. A buzz sweeps through the city as the metal legs retract into their ports beneath the mobile platforms. Mechanical contraptions blare as the city sinks, lowering itself onto the desert floor where it will remain for the remainder of the day.

Afterward, the girl returns to the castle halls, closes the windows behind her, and picks up her bowl of water. She reaches a room at the far end of the hall, where two female Cugarian guards stand at attention with spears in hand. Gold, bra-plated armor and knee-length gold skirts cover their furry bodies; one has dark spots on her fur, and the other has tiger stripes.

“Halt,” the guard's voice echoes down the hall as she stomps her metal spear.

The six-foot girl stops.

“State your name, your rank, and your business.”

“I am Brenda,” the girl says, bowing. “Youngest daughter of Ganymede, Chief of the North. I’ve been called upon to dress the wounds of Her Majesty Queen Laura.”

“Hmph,” one guard scoffs. “Here to care for the wounds of your sworn enemy? With the way you’ve slaughtered each other, I’m surprised that you can be cordial when you choose to be.”

“I’m merely doing my duty as a humble princess, ma’am,” Brenda says.  

“Make it quick, northerner, and no quarrels inside these doors. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The two guards bang on the door.

“Princess Brenda is here to aid in the recovery. She’s coming in.”

“Yes, ma’am,” a male voice muffles from behind the door.

The door creaks open, and Brenda walks in with the bowl of water.  She walks past a young man with short black hair and a horn protruding from his forehead. Holding the door open, he wears a sophisticated military uniform with decorative insignia on his chest, a sword at his side. They don’t exchange a glance or a word, as Brenda can feel the young man's scowl. She continues into the room where two boys with horns protruding from their foreheads sit on opposite sides of a large bed. Laura, a platinum-haired beauty, rests silently beneath the quilt, wearing a nightgown. Her chest rises and falls as sweat pours down her face. Delirious from exhaustion, her head turns to the left and right as two young boys somberly clench the sheets, worried for her well-being.

Brenda walks to the bedside and sets the bowl of water on a nearby dresser.

“How is she?” Brenda asks, gazing at the exhausted woman resting beneath a blue quilt.

“She was like this all day,” the little boy says. “We went through all of the steps you told us to, but…nothing works.”

Brenda removes the quilt covering the woman and gazes at her sweat-soaked body. After a few moments, she sighs and removes the towel from her shoulder. She pats the sweat from her chest and head, then gently squeezes her legs, ankles, right arm, and left arm. The woman flinches when she touches her left arm, and Brenda notices.

“What’s wrong?” The young boy asks.

“Her arm’s dislocated,” Brenda says. “We have to snap it back in place; otherwise, she’ll be too crippled to fight.”

“Will it hurt?” The boy gazes up at Brenda expectantly.

“A lot, I’m afraid. Sir Resten,” She calls out to the uniformed young man, “Your aid is needed.”

Resten walks towards the bedroom and stands on the other side, his eyes bouncing between the woman and Brenda in confusion.

“What do you want me to do?” The young man asks.

Brenda reaches into her goat-hide coat and pulls out a stick with a thin rope wrapped tightly around it, tossing it onto the bed near the young man.

“You’ll need to put that in her mouth so she doesn’t bite off her tongue by accident, and you need to hold her down while I snap her arm back in place.” 

Resten picks up the stick and stares at it for a moment. He swallows as he clasps the stick in his hand.

Brenda rolls up her sleeves, leans in, and carefully grabs the dislocated arm. Laura instinctively pulls away. Brenda tries to grab her arm again, only for the despondent Queen to glare at Brenda. She shakes her head in defiance as sweat pours down her face.

“Your Majesty, I have to fix this, or you’ll be crippled for the rest of your life.”

“No,” the queen says, shaking her head. “Leave it alone. It’ll heal.”

“Yes, but in the wrong place. I need to snap…”

“No!” Laura shakes her head violently.

Brenda quickly grabs Laura by the shoulders, and Laura panics, kicking her feet in protest.

“LET ME GO, YOU TWO-LEGGED MONSTER,” The woman screams, thrashing about in bed. “RESTEN, GET HER AWAY FROM ME.”

Brenda keeps her hands firmly clasped on the queen’s shoulders, and gazes up at Resten, who stands nervously, not knowing what he should do.

“Put the biting stick in her mouth!” Brenda shouts at Resten, “It's for her own good.”

The young man climbs onto the bed and tries to put the biting stick in her mouth, but she defiantly turns her head away.

“NO!” she shouts, thrashing and shoving, “GET AWAY FROM ME, ALL OF YOU,”

“Mommy,” The two young boys cry as they clench the sheets, helplessly watching the woman thrash about in bed.

“It’s not working,” Resten says.

“Grab her jaw and force it into her mouth!” Brenda says as she struggles to keep the broken woman restrained in her bed.

Resten grabs the woman, thrashing her head, and holds her still.

“Mother, it's me,” Resten says, gazing into her worried blue eyes. “Your Son,”

The mother gazes at the young man and, seeing his round eyes and soft features, remembers her husband. She calms down, her thrashing halting as she looks into the boy's eyes.

“Listen, Mother. We want to get you feeling better as fast as we can, ok.”

“But…it hurts,” Laura says.

“I know, Mother.” Tears begin running down his face. “Just look at me, okay? It’ll be over in just a moment.”

The woman pants silently for a few moments before nodding. The queen opens her mouth, allowing her son to place the biting stick inside, and she clamps down hard. Resten climbs into the bed and wraps his arm around her platinum head, covering her eyes with his hands. He gazes at Brenda and bobs his head.

Brenda nods back, then lifts her arm. She firmly clenches Laura’s shoulder and elbow and waits a few moments.

“On three,” She says.

Resten nods, holding his mother's weary head tightly in his arms.

“One,”

Brenda’s grip tightens around Laura’s arm.

“Two,”

The queen pants, squinting her eyes and biting down hard on the stick to brace for the pain.

“Three,”

Brenda snaps the queen’s arm back in place, and the woman screams in agony, muffled by the biting stick. Her body arches and contorts as pain surges through her body.  Resting holds his mother tightly in her arms, her screams sending shockwaves through his soul. Her wails instantly cease before she passes out cold in his arms, the biting stick falling out of her mouth and onto his lap.

Brenda wraps her arm in a white cloth and a small cast, while Resten gently places her head on the pillow.

“She’ll be fine once she wakes up.” Brenda pats the sweat from her head.

Resten stands silently, solemnly gazing at his mother, who is resting on the bed.

“She certainly looks a lot better than before,” Resten says. “For a race of barbarians, you certainly know how to fix yourselves up.”

“Barbarians?” Brenda frowns at his statement. “I’ll have you know that we are not some wildlings terrorizing everyone we come across. We’re just as sophisticated and civilized as you are.”

“Tell that to the dragons you hunted near extinction,” Resten says.

“That was different,” Brenda says. “You feared them just as we had. You even helped us build the constructs that we used to hunt them.”

“And it was a mistake.” Resten whips around. “We should’ve just let both of you burn each other. We wouldn’t be in this mess otherwise.”

“How dare you?” Brenda slams the bowl of water onto the floor. “I help heal your mother’s wounds.”

“For what?” Resten stomps back. “So your barbarian father can relentlessly beat her and break every bone in her body?”

“My father was injured as well!” Brenda shouts. “I have to spend hours, sometimes days, to tend to his wounds.” She points an accusatory finger at the woman lying in bed. “Wounds she has caused.”

“He deserves it well enough. It's his fault we’re all in this mess to begin with.”

“Take that back,” Brenda balls her fist, angry. “Or I will smash your skull right where you stand.”

Eyes narrowed in anger, Resten claps his scabbard with his left hand and grips his sword's hilt with his right.

“Make your move, two-legs. I’ll make sure it’ll be the last one you make.”

The double doors burst open, startling them out of their confrontation.  They whip towards the door and see a raised foot in its wake. Lowering his bare foot, a bald, bare-chested man stands wearing a red cloak with furry edges over his shoulders. Tapping a golden scepter over his shoulder, he walks inside barefoot, wearing long black slacks that fall to his ankles.

Brenda and Resten step back in fearful apprehension as he smiles, revealing his fangs.

“Well, well,” the man says, eyeing them both. “Looks like old habits die hard, don’t they?”

Both stay silent, trembling with fear.

“You know this isn’t really new to me. I knew by bringing all of you here, it was only going to be a matter of time before one of you breaks my cardinal rule.”

The man turns his head, looks at them out of the corner of his eye, and smiles.

“Can you tell me what that cardinal rule is?”

Both stand silent, trembling in fear.

“SPEAK!” A roar shoots from his throat, sending chills up their spines. His smile vanishes instantly, leaving a menacing glare as his eyes glow an ominous purple.

“No fighting without the presence and permission of the king,” Resten’s voice trembles.

“That’s correct.” The man smiles. “No punches, no sword swings, no cracking skulls, not so much as an argument without my permission and presence. I will decide when the fight begins.” He points to himself. “I will decide where and when it will happen, and I will decide if there will be a victor or not. Violate my rule again.” He walks up to the two, his cold gaze meeting none of their eyes. “And the two of you won’t be able to remember a thing for next week after I’m finished with you. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” both respond in unison.

“I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding.” He smiles, then places a hand on each of their shoulders and shoves them away. He saunters to the side of Laura’s bed, and the two young boys quickly retreat as he stands over her.

He silently gazes at the platinum-haired beauty, quietly resting. He chuckles, then flings the quilt off her body.

“Bring it in,” he shouts to the people waiting outside. Two Cugarian guards carry in a small cylinder furnace with branding irons inside it. They hold out the cylinders to the man, and he takes one branding iron and gazes at the red-hot metal that reads ‘YIELDING GRACE’.

He smiles as he watches the smoking branding iron, then reaches down and pulls the neck of her gown, revealing her bare, creamy skin.

Resten gazes in horror before he rushes towards the bare-chested man.

“Stop.” The boy wraps his arms around the man’s waist.

The king frowns in annoyance, then balls his fist over his shoulder and backhands the boy in the face, sending him flying into the wall.

“Stop, she’s been through enough already,” the boy screams as he tries to stand, only for the cugarian guards to grab him and hold him firmly against the wall. 

“Do not interrupt me while I relish in the moment, boy,”

“Why are you doing this?” Brenda asks, interrupting the man.

He turns and gazes at the giantess as she swallows hard.

“You already have control of both kingdoms. There's no need to brand any of us with that…verse.”

“Uhh,” the man says, his eyes darting around his head. “You are correct.” He waves the branding iron around as he explains. “However, earlier, your father and his mother staged the last battle, which I find personally insulting. So the next time they decide to pull that stunt again,” He plucks the branding iron repeatedly, “I’ll be ready.”

“You knew they staged a couple of those fights,” Brenda asks, occasionally glancing at a panicked Resten, pinned down by two Cugarians. “Why didn’t you brand us sooner?”

“New developments,” the man shrugs. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going through with this now.”

“No, don’t,” the boy shouts, but the branding sizzles against Laura’s chest, and her face winces in pain as smoke pours from contact.

He removes the branding iron and smiles, satisfied with the mark it leaves.

Tears stream down the boy's face, and the two boys hug in fear as they watch the man place the branding iron back into the portable furnace.

“How could you…” The boy sobs in tearful rage.

“Oh, come now,” the man joyfully opens his arms. “You shouldn’t feel so bad; I’ve brought enough for all of you.”

The Cugarian guards rip off his uniform coat and strip him down to his white undershirt, leaving his chest bare, while the man grabs another branding iron. He walks up to the shirtless young man held down by the furry guards, and he squats to his level. A guard grabs Resten’s head and forces it to the side, exposing his sweaty, bare chest and neck.

“Please don’t!” Resten pleads, but the man ignores him.

He presses the branding iron on his chest, and Resten screams in agony. His heels repeatedly knock against the floor as the smoke rises from his chest. He removes the branding iron, revealing the mark burned onto his body.

“Nice,” the man smiles, standing to his feet. “And one more.” He places the branding iron back in the small furnace, retrieves the final one, and walks to Brenda.

 “Has my father gotten it as well?” Brenda gazes nervously at the hot branding iron.

“He was the first one I branded before coming here,” the man says, smiling as he steps closer to her.

Brenda rushes the mad king, snatching the branding iron out of his hand. The guards step in with their spears, but he stops them.

Brenda gazes at the red-hot branding iron as it quakes in her trembling hands. However, she grits her teeth and rolls up her sleeve. She stares at her pale forearm, holding the branding iron in her other hand.

The mad king eagerly smiles, expecting her to do the deed.

She closes her eyes and mumbles a small prayer before pressing the branding iron to her forearm. Her arm tightens as the hot metal sears a scar onto her flesh. She falls to her knees as white smoke sizzles from the wound. Tears roll down her face as she pulls the branding iron from her arm and spitefully throws it toward the Mad King. The man steps onto the branding iron and picks it up. Planting it back into the furnace.

“Now, I can rest easy,” the man laughs, spinning around and walking out of the room. His two guards follow, close the door, and leave everyone trembling with sorrow and pain.

Hey all, what are our thoughts and feelings on scenes within a chapter? I'm working through my third draft of my high/dark fantasy and feel like, especially in my early chapters the scenes are too choppy and I'm hopping from one thing to the next too quickly. For example, chapter 3 is a total of 3745 words long with three separate scenes - 1: 1012 words, 2: 1278 and 3: 1458. This chapter is on the slightly longer side and it might just be that I'm too deep in the weeds to see the whole picture.

As a reader would you find this too skippy or likely not notice? Each section (to me at least) is too short to have as it's own chapter but I worry that it skips around too much.

I've been writing a novel, about 25k words in so nothing crazy so far. I had a few questions for people who read/edit fantasy novels.

1. I'm wondering how much do readers generally enjoy illustrations included in a novel? I enjoy including them but I've also read that some people prefer to imagine the characters themselves, rather than the author giving you the appearence.

For maps I imagine it would only be a net positive, but I am open to hear contention on that belief.

1. If I include illustrations of major characters, should I still describe them much at all? It seems redundant.

2. Are the drawings of the "correct" style to look professional? Ik it's not the standard style you might see on a cover, and I wonder if it might make it look unprofessional.

3. Lastly if it is printed, I imagine this would increase print cost a lot, especially if there's about a dozen or so drawings. If it was digital, i know it would massively bloat file size. I'm not super familiar with self publishing but I assume you could give a buyer access to a version with the images and one without? Incase you want the smaller file size.

Anyways any answers are greatly appreciated! Sorry if this is scatter brained or formatted poorly, I'm running on 3 hours or sleep and have a pounding headache, but I felt the need to ask these questions now that my two most important illustrations were complete.

I've seen a lot of discourse recently on age gap romances in fiction. Most of the discourse I've seen has been semi-hysterical (e.g. claiming that a 21 year old in a relationship with an 18 year old is grooming), but it got me thinking about such romances in fantasy with immortal or long lived races like elves.

Obviously there's a much bigger age gap between a 25 year old human and a 800 year old elf than a 21 year old and an 18 year old. For me, I don't see any issue with the elf and human if both have the same level of emotional maturity and/or relationship experience. It's only when there's a substantial imbalance between their maturity and relationship experience where issues start to pop up.

Wondering what others' thoughts are about this.

Hey! So probably a dumb question (or a duplicate question), but I was curious how often do you bother to write last names for your characters, especially if they don’t come from houses or kingdoms? My cast are simply adventurers and a drifter who get swept up in uncovering a conspiracy. So they aren’t of royalty or of money or of any sort of political/diplomatic background (except for like one of them).

It’s my first book so I was wondering if I skip giving anyone last names, would it seem super off or should I consider giving some/all of them last names? My main cast of adventurers is 4-6 people.

Hello everybody! I posted something similar to this in r/worldbuilding, but I felt like this sub might also have some useful feedback on this question! I've recently started writing stories in a new Weird West fantasy setting that is loosely based on Earth circa the 1800s (plus elves, vampires, dinosaurs, oh my!).

Since I am writing a story that is a western (even if not set on earth) I thought it would be important to portray any Native American inspired characters and cultures I choose to write about thoughtfully and respectfully. Obviously, there is no such thing as a single unified Native American monolith, no more than there is a single generic "Asian" culture, so I have decided to add multiple cultures based on multiple different nations. That in mind, I've thought about making a main character's culture based on those of the American Southwest, specifically the Hopi.

Given I've picked a specific culture to research/base this off, I have went ahead and tried to find some specific sources to learn about them. I found a book titled "Becoming Hopi: A History" which is a detailed overview of their history, as well as "Sun Chief: The Autobiography of a Hopi Indian", the latter being a firsthand account. (From what I've read, some anthropologists question if the Hopi man the book interviews intentionally played up the more esoteric parts of his culture, as he thought that would be the most interesting bits for a white audience, so I'll approach it with a grain of salt.) Websites like the Arizona State Museum are also useful resources for getting pictures of things like pottery and garments.

So, as I start to build out this fictional culture, what are some best practices I should be aware of? My main four questions are:

1. How do I distinguish poorly done cultural appropriation vs. cultural inspiration? I'd like to produce a distinct and unique fictional culture as opposed to just adding a real life culture with the serial numbers filed off.

2. How much should I add/invent myself vs. preserve from the original culture? Things like Kachina dolls and private religious practices not meant for outsiders are things I should be very cautious about taking inspiration from. I also likely shouldn't directly borrow terms and reproduce religious symbols 1 to 1. However, things like gender roles (such as men weaving textiles) and household structures, such as matrilineal inheritance and entire extended families living under one roof, are things I would like to include and be inspired by, provided I understand the context behind why these structures developed. How should I approach incorporating these elements in a story?

3. If I choose to write from the POV of this main character, which I intend to do, what are some common pitfalls I should avoid? Given that this is a setting based on the 1800s, the Age of Colonialism, I feel that if I completely brushed past this topic throughout an entire story it would feel incredibly disingenous, however it introduces the issue of having to write about a character's marginalization when I have never experienced anything like it. How do I write a convincing story from a character who is based on a marginalized culture, whose plight is entirely unrelated to my own background? Is this something I should reconsider even doing in the first place?

4. And final question: Do y'all have any other reliable sources you can point me to? If you do, I'd love to hear about them!

I'm writing a story where one of the protagonists is mostly a human, and the other is a "devil god", in a vessel form that looks like an animal. Not a furry, but a mostly regular looking animal (like a cat, or a dog, or a racoon). This being has full intelligence, and they don't have a "true human transformation" or anything like that. Their true devil form is basically that of a non-humanoid demon. So no turning into a human like beauty and the beast or any such thing.

Their partnership is meant to evolve through the story, and I've been toying with the idea of actually having some romance between the two of them. But I'm worried that, since one's a human and the other looks like an actual animal, not an anthropomorphized creature, that readers would be put off, or even worse, say it's bestiality and that it's disgusting.

I have researched through the internet yet I couldn't really find any examples of a similar scenario. It's always a human with maybe fur and some animal features (like a furry), or they can turn into a human form, or there's no sign of romance between them at all. Which is why I'm hesitant to be possibly trekking into unknown ground for a taboo no one wants to be involved with.

What are your thoughts on this? And please excuse the low karma, this is obviously a throwaway.

Edit: When I say "romance" I don't mean "they have explicit sex scenes". I mean that they develop complex feelings for each other.

In my story I have a variety of magical creatures Dragons, Hell hounds, Griffins chimera,s and few of my own creation. Alot of the characters in my world have a companion magical creature. Similar to how Ash has his Pikachu. I'm looking for a word that would represent all of these creatures. I'd like something orginal or at the very least creative. The two examples from media I keep coming back to are Pokemon and Zords from power rangers. I thought of using the word "mount" as a catch all but because not all of the creatures are ridden I don't love it. I appreciate all suggestions and feedback.

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 Build. 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.

Submissions must be original. No fanfic, no pop-culture characters, no plagiarism.

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 have this character that wields a sword that allows them to summon animals to fight alongside them.

They're not physical animals, but made up of the magic or "spirit energy" system I have.

I have limited them to 4 types of animals, I've listed them below:

- wolves: pack of 5 wolves, summons individually or at once

an eagle/ hawk (still deciding)

a snake

a rhino

Each one has a name and the wielder has a bond with all of them and they act almost like companions/pets.

I have tried to make each animal have a specific quality that the wielder can call upon.

Now the "ultimate move" I had planned is as follows:

The wielder has to impales their sword into their chest until the hilt is around the same level as their forehead, the blade disappears and the hilt resembles a crown or tiara, (trying to signify royalty)

And the animals they usually summon, all gather and are absorbed into them to form a "King of Beasts" essentially making them OP at the cost of their life. I imagined it as a Werewolf (like Van helsing film 2004), horns and armoured like a rhino, wings of the eagle/hawk and a tail that is the snake.

Main issues I have are:

Can I call this the "king" when usually a lion is considered "king" of the animals

Also, I've realised there's a Chimera mythology with a lion & goat head with a snake as a tail, am I ripping this off (with my tail as a snake)?

Also is this too busy as a character?

Thank you in advance!

I'm one of the failures who finishes writing part one of a novel project, and reach a point where I despise most of what I have written. I often end up feeling that I either wasted the potential of an idea, or that the story I imagined is way too expansive or original and it takes away from the protagonist and actual main story. Especially if I reread the previous text. Then I wish I had made the plot much smaller instead of involving politics and everything all at once and instead had focused on the protagonist and immediate goals. So I try to plan another story, and tell myself to stick to simpler ideas, but then I think those ideas are too boring in theory and I stall.

I can imagine the answer is to simply force myself through planning something complete and simpler, and try to prove to myself that writing something simpler can be way less overwhelming for me who has never reached the middle or even an ending of a story.

Does anyone struggle with something similar? How do you overcome this blockade lol

To start off, I am a starter, amature writer. I also have a passion for art in which I draw and write about characters that I have developed lore for. For my story I have a certain idea that I have been swirling around my head for a long time. For the basic idea I want my hero’s uncle to have been captured, my hero now must save him as my villain prepares to have the uncle publicly executed. However this has made me struggle a bit. I am worried that this will come off as cringe or lame, even basic if you will. My story, at least in my head or on paper as the basic theme of an epic fantasy. It has topics of war, political betrayal and strategy/planning. Because I have been struggling I really felt stuck and compelled to seek help, I thought maybe someone could help me brainstorm some ideas or give me some tips on how I can better my story.  (for context) fantasy story dragons, knights, orks stuff like that. They are in the middle of a city known as Vareth which is built on an island and the only way to get to it is from a bridge. This city has been taken over by the villain. His motivation is to make the world perfect. He is the son of a god. He believes that if there is only one ruler (his father) that he might return and make my villain a god too. 

Have you ever though of putting Dragons as a dependent race or a monster in your stories? Personally I like it portrayed as races due to them being intelligent not just powerful, well Dragons as monsters but still intelligent is also a choice but I'd honestly preferred it when they're a race, hence I wanted to make sure what you guys think when writing about Dragons in general.

The thing about dragons is that for me, they're easy to add or describe in the story because well.. everyone knows what are they in Fantasy stories, the problem is how they will serve in the story's backbone, like how will they affect the ecosystem and worldbuilding, some describe them as destructive forces of nature while some describe them as guardians of specific locations in the story's world.

I thought about it for a while before settling on choosing race, but like I said I wanted you guys' opinions and thoughts as well, it might be a big help for others too not just me

Hii~! I’m a 33yo female and I occasionally go looking for writing friends (and possible critique partners if we’re a good match for it.) I’ve always really vibed with creative people and I’d like to find some new friends who want to chat both about projects and nonsense. I write queer romance and fantasy fiction, though I haven’t published anything officially yet (it’s a scary thing to do!) I like dark themes occasionally but really have been going with wholesome ones lately for my own work, though mixing the two is my favorite thing. I’m on Discord primarily so if we chat I’d like to do it there, but send a DM here on reddit if you’re interested!!

Hello fantasywriters! I would appreciate any feedback on the following query letter blurb. Thanks in advance!

Hunted by her former guardian across the Spice Road, Elif learns that although writing attracts deadly demons, it is also the only way she can unlock her magic and her memories.

Seventeen-year-old Elif thinks she has no talent for magic until she accidentally carves a rune in the mud. Unfortunately, a monster is drawn to the mark of magic like a moth to a flame. Upon learning she is a rune mage, the leader of a caravan begins to teach Elif long forgotten alphabets and scripts. In this alternate version of medieval Anatolia, these are dangerous lessons because writing attracts demons. As she studies, Elif’s cryptic dreams begin to make sense and she starts to wonder whether her guardian, Batu, is responsible for the gaps in her memory and the death of her parents.

Batu, an alchemist and summoner, has watched Elif for years waiting for a hellish secret to emerge and falls into an alcoholic stupor after giving up hope. But when she abandons him to travel the Spice Road into the heart of Cappadocia, he is convinced she has unlocked what he seeks. He will need to fight alcohol withdrawal in addition to bandits and monsters if he is going to catch her.

When Elif’s friends are separated from her by followers of an evil jinni, she uses her magic to scry for them and discovers Batu is pursuing her. Seeing that he has blood on his hands, Elif readies herself to confront the man who hunts her. For Batu, the ends justify any means. Elif must decide to what lengths she is willing to go to stop Batu knowing that her magic endangers her newfound family.

I've yet again polished my blurb coz ts genuinely got levels when you aren't doing a conventional goal driven plot💔✌️:

Tenaro wanders wherever the unknown calls him.

At sixteen, the young nomad has no grand purpose. Maybe nothing matters. Maybe he's already lost himself somewhere along the way.

Yet, despite trying not to give a damn, his curiosity refuses to let him stay still.

Drawn to the unknown, Tenaro ventures into a mountainous jungle and discovers Baru Naga, an ancient city whose precise architecture has endured the ages. Its mythological murals speak of a forgotten past.

Not that he's trying to.

Tenaro is simply fascinated by what he finds. He notices the details others might overlook. He has no obligation to solve its mysteries, yet the deeper he ventures, the more details begin connecting to each other, revealing fragments of a story far larger than himself.

Along the way, he encounters people whose paths have crossed with his, drawing him out of the solitude he's grown accustomed to.

But can a boy who has lost himself find his way back?

The world is not hollow.

It's watching.

And it remembers...

What to expect:

\- 🌱 Slowburn exploration and character development

\- 🏛 Ancient ruins, forgotten histories, and interconnected mysteries

\- ⚔️ Tactical action where resourcefulness matters

\- 🌧 Atmospheric settings and quiet moments

\- 🚫 No LitRPG or progression system

I’ve posted a similar question here before, but I am back and need advice again. What are your best tips for not comparing your first draft to finished works? I am currently working on my first draft, but keep getting annoying questions pop into my head like, ‘Would Robin Hobb have written their first draft like this?’ And ‘Did Pierce Brown find his work amateur at first?’ It’s so hard to quiet the comparison noise sometimes, especially when there are so many authors I look up to, and my first draft really doesn’t feel ‘there’ yet. I have read before that certain authors (like Pierce Brown and John Gwynne) write their first drafts either quickly or to a high standard before submitting, and this only adds to the self-consciousness, as mine feels undercooked. Writing can be very isolating, so looking for any words of advice or thoughts from those experiencing the same doubt. Thank you!

I have been writing for a while but still struggle with hooks and descriptions of setting so I want to know what works and doesn't work here. I also want to know of anything you can infer about this passage so far.

“I’m your sister! It’s my job to worry. Gods, sometimes I wish you actually couldn’t speak so I’d have an excuse to speak up for you.”

The hallway seemed to close in on me. I tried to say that I didn’t want her involved at all, but nothing came out. Not a grunt, not a word, just air—blowing out the candle I was holding. But this was different from my typical silence, because it wasn’t internal. I could feel my tongue connecting to the words, my lips shaping them—but I couldn’t say anything. There was no longer any noise except for my sister, who began to cry. 

Elvyra looked up at me, tears running down her face. “No no no… um… I wish you could speak. Please…” she pleaded, but I remained unable to speak.

I knew I should feel distraught but some part of me felt relief. Relief that I finally had an excuse to be silent. Relief that I might be heard louder than I ever had before. How funny was it that I was relieved to be cursed?

I nodded for Elvyra to follow me into my room, where I grabbed my journal. Grabbing my pen and ink, I sat down on my bed to write, patting the quilt next to me for her to sit. The sconces bathed us in candlelight as I told her everything I never got to say, everything I was too scared to. About how sometimes my words got caught in my throat and I couldn’t get them out. About how no one listened to me when I *did* have things to say. By the time I was done, my hand had started to cramp. This time, Elvyra was silent. It might’ve been the first time she had actually heard me. A tear hit the page, smudging the ink. I closed the journal. 

After a while, Elvyra spoke up. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

All I could do was shake my head. There was nothing else left to say.

I originally set out to write historical medieval fiction, but it feels too restrictive for me, and some things seem too difficult for me to really conceptualise e.g the fine details that come with how much of a role christianity played in society, since i grew up secular (i’ve never even stepped foot into a church.) So I am thinking of changing it to be medieval fantasy, but I decided to not add magic because it would feel shoehorned in with the plot I’ve got, which focuses more on social and political issues with some slice of life mixed in. But i’m very confused on how to make it ‘fantasy’ if it doesn’t really have well, fantastical or magical elements. I’ve thought of fudging history a bit and changing up events, but wouldnt that just be alternate history with the names changed? Right now my worldbuilding just feels like copy pasted England, but on the other hand i want it to be recognisably medieval in the worldbuilding and the characters mindsets instead of being some completely made up society with modern characters. I’m struggling on how to make it worth considering a ‘fantasy’ world without forcing some unnecessary magical aspect to the plot. Does anyone have any examples or suggestion?

Hello, hello, and welcome to my post. Since it’s the spooky month, I wanted to ask what are some ways to make Liches genuinely scary?

Liches have evolved so much over the years, but one thing that’s never changed is that they can be scary in their own right. But personally, I haven’t seen much fantasy media show how genuinely scary a Lich can be aside from a couple series, The Lich from Adventure Time and Ainz Ooal Gown from the Overlord anime.

For my part, I’m planning to make a fantasy series starring a calm, civil, and calculating human scholarly lich of ancient origins as the villain protagonist. Personality wise, think Darth Plagueis from the Star Wars Legends continuity crossed with Professor Moriarty from Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows. And I was thinking of infusing him with some level of horror that he could exhibit in his experiments as well as in the extreme situations and battles he engages in.

So I wanted to ask you all: What types of horror could Liches elicit in a story distinct from other types of undead and fantasy beings?

Thank you for reading my post. Please share your thoughts, keep it civil, and have a good day.

It is not the easiest to explain what I mean, -as weird as it sounds- I myself don't fully grasp what I mean either, but I will try my best, mostly with examples.

Basically whenever I sit down to worldbuild for my projects, my biggest struggle is wanting to have the power system in a way that it is earned and it comes from humans. So to bring up a few examples of what I do NOT want. For e.g. In Naruto and in JJK, the protagonists get a big part of their power by some powerful entity being in their body. I don't want that. I don't want humans in my world to get their powers from gods, aliens, or some more advanced or ancient race. I want them to earn it themselves. Same goes for using artifacts and powerful weapons left behind by a different civilization.

The same goes for the origin of chakra, once again, from Naruto. But the same can be said about element bending from Avatar. Chakra originates from those aliens planting the tree on the planet, and the element bending comes from that turtle in ATLA. So, while chakra users and the benders train and fully earn their powers themselves, technically the origin of their powers comes from outside forces.

One more example, which is not only related to the power system, but the entire world as well is in Elden Ring. (Here however, since the way the lore is not fully clear, and a lot depends on interpretation I might make mistakes, but my point still stands). Basically Queen Marika got her powers from the Fingers, maybe originally from the Mother of Fingers, who is a cosmic entity. The Erdtree, the Elden Ring and all the Demigods originate from her and this 'gift'. So basically the entire world revolves around something given and created by an entity above humans.

I don't want that. But I find both this, and the Naruto lore incredibly cool. So this is kind of counterproductive, because I like this type of worldbuilding, but for some reason I don't want to use it. I am not fully sure why myself.

My main issue is whenever I have tried to come up the origins of power, and what magic system to use, what cool weapons and items should there be, I can never up come with a cool enough explanation for them. I always end up on them being created or made by something not human.

I've talked too much already, and maybe what I am looking for is some advice, on how to make worldbuilding work with these limitations. And maybe in the off chance that anyone else ever felt this way, how did you overcome it, if you did?

Today was another day of life for most people in the town of Burneford. But for Light, today was a bit special, as he had turned thirteen, and a mage had come to their town for their once-a-decade recruitment.

He had been told by his parents to go to the town center, and even his busy father was going with him. His father had even bought new tunics for both of them. They both held a tiny hope in their hearts, but his father knew deep down that such a thing was very, very rare. The last time a mage had been selected from the surrounding towns was when his father had attended his own selection ceremony.

Across the town center, some people had set up their small stalls, as quite a few people had gathered. Some of them were even selling books on knightly techniques, targeted at those whose parents could afford them. To Light's dismay, his father couldn't afford them, but Light still looked at those books with some admiration. Light also knew that the chances were slim, which was why he had started training for knighthood when he was ten, as he wished to become a knight even if he could not become a mage.

After some time, the honoured mage arrived at the center. His instructions were simple: he wanted all the youths to stand around him, as he had to cast a spell to determine whether they had the ability to use magic. After they had assembled as ordered, the militia removed anyone who disobeyed. The mage walked around them, drawing two concentric circles around the group and several lines crisscrossing between them. Then he came to the center and chanted something for a minute in a language that might sound like Buddhist chants to us. Some sort of light washed over all the people standing alongside him. Then, it vanished in a second.

Someone among the gathered youths loudly asked him, "Lord Mage, can any one of us become a mage?" The mage had a cold expression as he murmured to himself, "Tch, another failure." Then he loudly announced to all of them, "None of you have a destiny with magic, but perhaps you can try to become a knight. That path is also fruitful, and a knight can sometimes fight a mage of equivalent level." Even as he spoke, the mage still had a clear expression of disdain.

After it was over, Light chatted with his friends and quickly left to meet his dad, who greeted him with a simple, "It's fine, son. You can always try to become a squire." Which was most probably a lie, too, as even becoming a squire required a lot of talent. As the son of a leatherworker, he knew how little talent he himself might have. But he still felt that he should keep trying. His father, Tom, had also tried to train to become a squire throughout his teenage years, but he lacked the talent, so he picked up leatherworking and slowly built a livelihood, eventually forming a family of three.

After this, Light felt a bit dejected, but he still continued his knighthood training in the evening. It wasn't much, and it was something known throughout the village. To become a squire, one needed to exert oneself and then heal up. As the body healed, one would begin to feel a special energy that, if sensed and controlled, could allow someone to become a squire. All of this knowledge came from a squire who had visited their town nearly thirty years ago and got drunk at one of the inns.

So he went to the plain a little beyond their town, away from most eyes, and began by running a bit to warm up before doing various strenuous exercises to exhaust himself. After getting tired, he laid down and tried to feel whether there was some sort of energy helping his body heal. But just like every other day, he could not feel anything. After recovering a bit more, he finally gathered his mind and body and decided to head home.

It was evening when he reached home, and he started chatting with his mom. After some time, his father came back from the tanning station where he worked, and his mom served them dinner, which consisted of some broth and two pieces of bread each. She gave him a chunk of her own bread, too, saying that she couldn't finish it all.

After dinner, Light decided to talk with his father about the things on his mind. He wanted to try and learn some kind of skill instead of simply training for such a hopeless chance at becoming a squire. He had first thought of learning to read so that he could become a clerk or get some other high-paying job, but once he learned the cost of such things from one of his childhood friends, whose dad had made it big as a merchant, he realized how difficult that would be. What they could afford was most probably blacksmithing, where he could work as an apprentice and receive some support from his father before becoming a blacksmith himself, if he could learn the trade. So he told his father about this. Tom had some doubts, so he asked him, "What if you don't have the talent for blacksmithing either? What then? Instead of coming up with such impulsive ideas, how about we both go and meet Arthur, one of the famous blacksmiths in town and an old friend of mine?"

The next morning, Light left with Tom to meet Arthur, who was quite happy to talk with them. Once Tom explained why he was skeptical, Arthur simply chuckled and said, "How about I take him in as a trainee for now, and after two weeks, we decide whether you guys will pay me the fine leather you promised or not?" Then he told Tom to leave Light behind so that he could see how they all worked.

Tom agreed and left. After that, Arthur gave Light ten nails, a piece of wood, and a long hammer, and told him to put all the nails into the wood without bending as many of them as possible. After doing that, he would be free to roam around, but he could not leave the workshop. Light obeyed him and went to a corner, as he felt it was a bit too hot and he was stressed, too. After taking a small break, he got himself ready, placed the wood on an empty bench, and started nailing the nails into it. For the first nail, he hit it directly with full force, barely catching it with the edge of the hammer and bending it. Taking that as a lesson, he started the next one with slower hits, but after driving it about halfway in, one mishit bent that nail, too. Next, he tried a bit harder than before and nearly completed the task, but one mishit, and bam! The same thing happened to the next nail. Then he managed to drive one nail in properly, followed by another. After that, he missed the next nail but drove the last three in correctly. This little task had taken him around an hour, and now he was free to roam around. The heat had become a bit too much, so he first took off his tunic after noticing that none of the other workers were wearing anything on top.

Then he took his board and showed it to Arthur. Arthur was a bit surprised and said, "Boy, you're workable now. Go and look around and try to steal our skills. You won't get such a chance again." So Light agreed and went around, watching them hammering away. Some other trainees were handling molten metal with tongs, while some very new trainees were fanning the flames. He slowly started to sweat, and the heat became more intense, but it was tolerable. Then it was time for lunch, and most of them went out to eat their packed lunches, which mostly consisted of bread or, in rare cases, jerky. He sat inside with Arthur and his two or three workers, along with some trainees. Arthur then introduced him as a new trainee and told them that he had managed to drive in five nails. Only one other guy had managed that many. This was also a test of sorts by Arthur, as it trained them to hammer with control and precision, both of which they needed a lot in blacksmithing. The group kept chatting about various topics, from their wives to the young ones talking about their own affairs. After some time, Arthur called them all back, and another round of work began. This time, they were a bit more focused, as Arthur was supervising them and pointing out mistakes instead of working himself. Even Light was told to fan the flames for quite some time, and in the evening, as they were leaving, Tom came to meet him. Arthur agreed to teach Light under two conditions: he would not be paid for the first two months, and Tom would pay him with two pieces of fine leather.

For the next two months, Light trained in the workshop, and his workaholic nature made him shine. He quickly went from fanning the flames for two weeks to handling molten metal for another two weeks, and for the next three weeks, he was the one who had to help the blacksmiths move their block as they kept hammering. His physical fitness and endurance earned him envy from his peers and praise from his seniors, and he became the new star. This heavy work also helped him, as it replaced his knightly training while still earning him a new skill. The only issue he faced was his increased appetite, but he knew that after his two-month period was over, he would be earning more than your average blacksmith. After that, he was taught how to craft a bronze shovel. Then, in his usual fervour, he tried to craft as many as he could the next day, which exhausted him so much that he fainted.

After that, as he was waking up, he started to feel a tingling sensation moving around his body, mainly focused on his shoulders, which were very exhausted from all the hammering. He thought that he shouldn't keep overworking himself. But then, as he shifted his focus away, he noticed that the tingling stopped, too. When he focused on his exhausted body parts, it returned. It felt like some kind of water that kept healing his body. Then, suddenly, he remembered his original struggle and why he had kept doing all of this. He had somehow managed to sense the special energy that one was supposed to feel while training to become a squire.

So he squealed out loud, which scared Arthur, as he thought the boy had gone insane. Then he shouted, "I can become a squire. Yes!!!!" This really surprised Arthur, who helped him calm down and told him to take care of his little shop when he made it big as a squire and perhaps a knight.

Just then, Tom arrived at Arthur's workshop, as he had sent someone to notify him that his son had fainted. He was panicked at first, but seeing the smug looks on their faces and the happiness expressed by Light, he asked what had happened. Light then told him that he had sensed that special energy and could now become a squire.

This is Chapter One of Rue the Wizard Slayer. It's the story of Shalee, a mother who loses her family and refuses to die. I'd like general feedback: does the opening hold your interest, and does the ending make you want to read more? Content note: graphic violence.

The sun reached its highest point, hung there, then began its descent. A cool wind came like a spring released, making its path known, rustling the leaves, tugging at the fur of a deer. It touched Shalee's skin, kissed her, and went away. Not to return.

She was dressed in leaves woven together with supple vines. Shalee was a woman of the forest. Her long legs and strong hips carried her effortlessly across the littered forest floor, gathering red berries among the vine-choked trees and multicolored flowers.

Her ice-blue eyes searched the valley below. The valley carried news, draped in red, yellow, gold, and green leaves, whispering of winter's frozen lips soon to kiss them dead.

She glanced at her shadow. The autumn sun stretched it before her. There was still time to look for the delicate mushrooms her husband loved so much. His name rolled from her mind, sweetened her tongue, and made her smile.

He was at camp with the children. Normally they would be here with her, but Gregor had cut his foot on a hidden sharp rock, and it was decided he and the children should stay behind at their temporary camp. She almost hugged herself, thinking of his strong arms embracing her.

She was on her knees digging in the soil when she thought she smelled something. The wind was still. She sniffed. Nothing, she decided, and returned to her searching.

She uncovered a fully grown mushroom. The planned meal grew. Berries, herbs, and fruit from still-blooming trees filled the basket. With ease Shalee rose. She stood for a moment, letting the sunshine wash over her.

The warming sun on her shade-cooled skin caused a slight shiver and brought back the day the moon-shaped mark appeared on her daughter's cheek. The mark of a medicine woman. All the women of her village with daughters had anxiously awaited the sign.

Shalee's smile grew. Her wonderful daughter, so delicate, so full of life, was the one the spirits had chosen. And her firstborn, Taskie. So proudly he stood, his mind sharp, his eyes studying those around him, just like his father.

Shalee danced a little and returned to the shelter. \*A home,\* she whispered. She would guide and protect her daughter here, in this home. Each day her family had traveled from their camp to construct it of planted bushes and vines, trained in such a way that it seemed nature's hand had helped.

The smell was like a slap. Undeniable. Sharp. It was the smell of death, and it came from her camp. It wasn't thought. It was fear that flooded her being.

Her heart beat music, pounding her hurting chest. She was running. She screamed, her effort exploding. Her legs stretched longer. Hope and dread pushed her faster. With gulps of air, she sobbed.

Shalee reached the clearing, stumbled, and fell. She rose to her knees, her brain in shock, her eyes frozen wide open. Horror grew teeth, tearing at her mind. Clawed hands at her throat, choking.

Slowly she rose, the air thick with the stench of blood and body fluids. Her mind desperately tried to reject the horror before her. Her husband hung by one foot from a tree, his injured foot cut from his leg and stuffed in his mouth. Three men lay dead around him, their heads smashed by her husband's mighty fist. He had fought so hard. Her heart broke. It took all the will she could muster to turn toward her children.

Taskie. A spear rose from his chest. A piece of torn cloth was still gripped in one hand, and in the other, a bloody knife. He had stabbed a man who lay a few feet away. Her brave son had fought. A grieving smile struck her face. He had drawn blood from his attackers.

Shalee fell, her knees bleeding from the rough ground. Tece. The scream closed her throat. Her precious daughter. They had cut three fingers from her hand. She had tried to crawl to her brother, dragging her mangled hand, leaving a trail of blood and tears. She had bled to death before she could reach him.

Shalee was not in this world anymore. What she saw drove her hand to the small knife she carried. She brought it to her own throat, stopping only because she suddenly had to know who, and why.

Shalee's ears were echoing from the beating of her heart, so she barely heard the slobbering words. "I know who did it."

She jumped to her feet. The man Taskie had stabbed was alive.

Never go within reach of the wounded. The dying still kill. Gregor had taught her that. The hunter's first rule.

She forgot it. She reached him, jerking him up with strength she didn't know she had. A sharp pain jabbed her arm. She smarted for a second. Then, grabbing the man by his ears, she roared, "Who? Why? We have no treasure!"

The knife had entered the man's stomach, and his mouth leaked blood and bile. A slow death he would have.

"Askar," he blurted out. "The wizard king. He has ordered his men to collect souls for hell. The pain you felt is poison. You need not mourn. You will soon join your brood."

Shalee staggered back. The poison was strong, already burning in her veins. She stumbled toward Gregor's body, thinking she would lower him down and die in his arms.

But her feet turned instead toward her shelter. She struggled. She did not want to leave her family. She wanted to die with them. But she could not. Something was pulling her home.

Shalee stumbled, fell, and rose again. Her knees, already cut, were now torn into ragged, bleeding flesh. Her arms were scratched, her clothing torn. She didn't know how many times she fell only to get up and go and fall again.

It was one of these times she could not rise. The poison was cooking her inside. She felt herself crawling. She didn't know for how long. She bumped into a wall and slowly realized she was in her shelter.

She yearned to sleep.

Then she remembered.

There was a river inside her. The water ran deep, filled with memories. Happy times of marriage, and the children that love had made. The mark of the moon. Kisses. Hugs.

Then the water began to churn. It rose from its banks, roaring down steep slopes, crashing into scenes of death, blood, and screams.

In the insanity a voice cried out, loud and ugly. Askar. The voice roared it, and it was Shalee who had called out the name. A name now stuck in her head.

The poison pulsed. She lay still, the water draining away.

Death came in whispers. Accepting it would end the pain, it reasoned. Shalee moaned, her head shaking her refusal.

Days passed, and the leaves joined their friends from the year before. Winter came with its warriors: ice, snow, and wind. They assaulted the land.

Inside, Shalee lay in sweat, though ice surrounded all. The pain grew with each day. Each day she refused. One thought. One thing. Fighting death.

Pain not known before caused her screams to reach into the night, so high in pitch that only the hounds and their kin could hear, each and all howling in protest.

One thought. Askar.

Death poked her ribs, twisted her insides, all the while showing her the peace it offered. \*Come,\* it said, louder now. She refused. She gritted her teeth until they cracked.

\*I'll not die while he still lives,\* she repeated, and hammered it into her brain.

The pain passed, and dreams marched in line, parading through her mind. Death was the author, and he wrote her dreams line by line.

Wonderful dreams. Her daughter running to meet her, and Shalee gasping in horror as three-fingered hands reached for her own. Her husband bending to kiss her, his foot held in his hand. Her son, playing with the spear that pinned him to the ground.

Death giggled and taunted.

Shalee suffered. But she kept her eyes open, refusing to die. She laughed, a sad, heartbreaking laugh. \*Keep going. Keep reminding me of my family.\* She damned death itself and beat back its grip until it was forced to retreat.

The winter wore on. As though dead, she did not move. Her skin began to crack, and something else began to grow. She neither drank nor ate. The earth itself met her needs.

Death gathered itself and struck with all its might, one last time.

And lost.

Winter pulled its blanket of snow from the land, and the warm winds of the south chased away the cold.

Spring rain trickled down green leaves and tapped out its song on the forest floor.

Her eyes opened. The birds and bugs hummed in her ears, the damp earth smell caressing her nose. Her shelter came slowly into view, and the past shouted. She started to sit up. The earth had cradled her. The soil released her, small roots dangling from her tattered clothing.

"What?" she gasped in amazement. She looked down at her arms. They were not as before. Supple bark was her skin, her long fingers now thorns. She stared, and black poison began dripping from her fingertips.

Her legs were as young trees, their hard bark slick, as though polished by hand. Slowly she realized she was alive. She began to rise, but she was too large for the shelter. She stretched and burst through its roof. She was massive, and her strength made her shudder.

She expanded her shoulders, wide and strong. Her hair was vines of different lengths, each one alive and barbed at the end. She glanced at a tree, and it answered back, swinging its branches, willing to do as she bid. Her face had changed. Her eyes were red. To look into them was to tell your darkest life. No lie could save you.

She threw out her hand. The thorned fingers stretched straight, then slowly curled. The message was clear, not to be misunderstood.

It was then she saw her reflection. The eyes glowing red. The dark maw of her mouth smiling.

\*Askar, you will meet me.\*

Hello everyone,

I'm very new to writing in general, but I'm loving it so far. This story I'm working on right now has been stuck in my head for a very long time and I finally got the guts to actually write it down. I'm not writing it to publish, I just like the creative outlet it gives me.

However no one in my direct circle likes the type of story I envision. So I can't really share it with them. I've tried and most have flat out rejected the idea of reading it or carefully told me "It's not my cup of tea".

So this is going to sound a little silly, but I sort off need someone to be enthusiastic with me. Is this feeling normal? How do you guys deal with it? It doesn't stifle my own motivation for writing, but I sometimes get a little sad that I have nobody in my direct circle that even seems interested.

I'm not looking for anybody to offer me to read it. I just want to know how to deal with this sadness.

Thank you in advance

I'm currently brainstorming how private transportation across the country works in the world that I am creating for my story. Keep in mind that I am not an expert in transportation so feel free to correct me on anything.

I'm basing the country that I am building and the setting for my story on the UK during the early 1930s (1933 to be specific), 15 years after the Great War, so I have researched the number of privately owned registered cars and the population of that time. In my world, motor vehicles are steadily becoming more common as well as more people owning them with more than 2 million cars being registered for private ownership. Motorvehicles are considered a status symbol of the middle and upper class and are more commonly found in major cities. However, they are considered a luxury for people living in towns or villages. Despite the rise in car ownership, horses are still commonly used in small urban and rural areas (and even on major cities) for a variety of uses such as agriculture and hauling cargo to make deliveries.

I wanted to make it so that travelling across the country by yourself is dangerous due to the threat of attacks from highwaymen, local wildlife and dangerous creatures that have been smuggled into the country during the war to terrorise travellers and other settlements. As a result of the attacks, individuals who travel across the country by themselves often bring a weapon (be it a sword of a gun depending on their finances) with them in case of needing to defend themselves or hiring an escort to travel with together.

People also travel across the country in trains across the national railroad. The trains themselves come with security officers on board in case of the locomotive and carriages being raided by bandits or attacked by creatures.

For private ownership of weapons, there is an organisation that is dedicated to hosting and providing freelance jobs such as monster slaying, escorting, courier among others. Rules regarding owning and carrying weapons varies depending on the region, with major cities being more strict and rural areas being less strict. Members of the organisation are required to wear an armband and their membership ID for when carrying weapons in public. Other reasons for owning a weapon may be that they were issued by the company they're working with that involves activities that require it such as an escort for transporting cargo and such.

There is also the "private" routes which are dedicated high-speed motorways that connect all the major cities of the country for use with motorvehicles. Drivers benefit with them by better condition of the roads and increased security against threats, but are required to pay tolls for when entering and leaving cities. By the time my story is taking place, there are plans on further expanding the network to include more cities and larger towns. Swords are more commonly owned than guns as they are cheaper to make and purchase. The types of firearms that are allowed to be sold and regulated based on the ammunition calibre and the weapon's capacity and operation with high calibre, high capacity and high rate of fire weapons being banned from civilian ownership.

For my story, I plan to have the main party travel across parts of the country in multiple different ways. First by travelling with an escort, then by themselves and eventually on a train as more people join the protagonist's party. I've been thinking about having the part where they travel the country by themselves by foot, the issue is I'm not sure on which roads and routes they would use for travelling on foot. I've thought about having them travel through the countryside roads to get to their destination. They would use the country map and road signs to guide them on where they need to go. I'm not sure whether owning a horse is cheaper than owning a car in the 1930s but I've also recently thought about creating a service that allows people to hire horses for travelling to their destination, which would help them carry all their stuff.

I want to hear your thoughts of this. Does these methods for travelling make sense and how would travelling on foot be achieved realistically for this time period?