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Author Topic: The Tapestries of Faith (Chapter I, Scene III In Progress)  (Read 529 times)

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Offline Myen'Tal

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The Tapestries of Faith (Chapter I, Scene III In Progress)
« on: April 1, 2018, 05:49:42 PM »
All critique welcomed and appreciated  :). Non-fan-fiction by the way. Am getting the urge to write some 40k fan-stuff though ;D.

EDIT: Made some changes based off of feedback!

Chapter I
Born of Dust and Barren Moon

The Storm Peaks, The Kingdom of Hallorn
41st Day of the Southern Rains


   A horn sounded from the fore of the caravan, over the clatter of wheels on the mud and rock of the mountain pass. Erasyl remained perched upon an open-topped wagon, commandeered on a whim and not fated to travel very far, an endless rain upon her rickety hide would see to that.

   Erasyl threw his cloak—of snow white cloth embroidered with ancient scripture from a forgotten era—around himself and fastened it more tightly over his shoulders. Metallic fingers coiled around the wooden haft of a Warhammer topped with a smooth crescent shaped head of some magnificent creature’s bleached bone. The hammerhead curved and terminated into a sharp sickle spike. A primitive weapon in this age of iron and steel, but one of symbolic significances to an ancient such as he.

       Raindrops cascaded down his hood and over an intricate golden mask chiseled into the image of a stoic human male. Inset into the forehead was a large, flawless ruby which gleamed in the light of a hundred bolts cast down from the sky. Rain cascaded down an armor crafted from drab mahogany quilted cloth, stitched through with raven laces on the hem of his garment. Greaves forged from dark iron padded his lower limbs over beige stockings and reinforced his arms.

   Erasyl craned his head in the direction of his loyal guard and gestured for them to mobilize. The Zarquin Guard. Sons and daughters Erasyl had chanced upon in their infancy. Those born of the Old Gods. Children who bore the mark of his history and heritage from birth. Healthy or infirm. Placid or wrathful, none such trivial issues mattered anymore. Those of the Old Gods numbered too few already in a world that had forgotten them.

   As children they had begun, but the span of decades under Erasyl’s deliverance had seen them moulded into new forms. From a myriad of backgrounds, each were now given one and the same origin. It fell upon his shoulders to teach and educate them. To remind them of who once ruled across the lands in the east.

        The Zarquin Guard were kindred who shared comradery and oaths of loyalty with one another and to their master. Each was gifted a name from Erasyl’s dead tongue. One day, there would be none among them who would remain unworthy of what was promised since birth. Before he had deigned to rescue those he could, much of their lives were all but squandered since the eve of their conception by the ignorant. None-the-less, what awaited them across the sea now would be a hundred-fold more than what they had been given.

        The Survivors of the Coming End would become masters over nations, rulers over subjects, who in turn could rival the stars in the constellations.

        A wicked echo of thunder cried out from wrathful, rain-drenched heavens. Ancient mountains quaked from the fury of nature made manifest. Shrill cries of the gale pierced Erasyl’s mind and brilliant lightning descended over the mountains. A hundred brilliant bolts arced down from the blackened sky, each not unlike the faded sapphire hue of the Storm Peaks itself. 

   Another horn sounded in reply from somewhere in the distance. Erasyl stared out over the caravan in silence as the Halish mercenaries burst into activity. One after another, the dozen wagons ahead of Erasyl halted before a great granite wall that ran across the breadth of the mountain past. A pair of great braziers burned on despite the storm upon either side of a massive portcullis carved into the heart of the great stone wall.

   In the backdrop, a nightmarish fortress towered defiantly against the storm. A fortress of burnished iron spires buried a keep of moss-encrusted granite stone. Lesser towers and turrets seemed to cobble together across different styles as if the entire fortress had been pieced together from the remains of what had stood before. A thousand torches and braziers burned from one end of the fortress to the next and bestowed light on the labyrinths of interconnected hovels and cramped markets.

   The Hand of the Titan.

   “Devastation and desolation,” Erasyl emitted a metallic sound through his ornate mask. “So thorough in its scouring that not even a trace remains of those fated to be stricken from the annals of time since time itself was immemorial. What mortal civilization could possibly avert such sudden disaster?”

   Erasyl sighed and gestured for his personal retinue to dismount. “Zarquin Guard, attend your master.”

   Erasyl observed his warriors rise synchronously into single-file and disembark without question. Aslan maintained their cohesive formation, his ferocious voice alone sparking as if flames from under the boots of even the Halish Mercenaries.

   Aslan, commander of the Zarquin Guard. A fearless warrior since the days of his upbringing and courageous to an incredible fault. An individual forged from a lifetime on the march, etched with scars from a dozen battles he had fought for lord and liege. Nigh-untamed strength rippled through him from head-to-toe as if fit to burst from him in one overwhelming wave.

   Scarred skin the shade of fresh chestnuts shone from out of the gaps of his armor: an ebony-crimson brigandien that clad most of his physique. Boiled ebon leather boots reached up into the cuffs of pristine beige stockings and completed Aslan’s seasoned look.

   “Sworn Lord.” Aslan snapped a buckler of engraved steel across his left breast and a crisp salute with a fist slammed upon his buckler. “As always, remain near and never stray far.”

   “As always, Aslan.” Erasyl picked himself up with some measure of reverence and gallantly strode forward to disembark alongside his comrades. He mired himself in the mud and muck of the mountain pass and the Zarquin Guard listened for his command with rapt attention. “The Halish mercenaries were paid their due, no? Harry them no further, then. Whatever fate may wait for them in the end of all things, it shall not be decided here.”

   “Erasyl, I would not think it.” Aslan cradled a heavy helm in his other hand, scarred and burned, decorated with a frayed plume of crimson dyed horse hair. He looked down upon the helm and weighed it in his arm. An impish smile crossed his lips. “A hundred swords my helm may take, but a dagger in the back shall seal my fate. Honor and Devotion.”

   “Honor and devotion.” The Zarquin Guard lowered their heads and intoned.

   Erasyl nodded once. “Shall we begin? Zarquin Guard, you know your task. You no longer require my aid. Whoever you may find… bring them before me unsullied and unharmed. I shall do the rest.

   “Achieve our aims in any manner you see fit. I shall not harry you as a father would his daughter, Aiman.” Erasyl smiled as if he spoke of nothing more than simple conversation, rather than blatant human abduction. “Whatever your whim fancies and the method most true to yourself.”

   Aiman. A cherished heirloom whose stoic nature resisted the pull of mountains and sundered the hearts of men. Never quick to emotion was she, but none was as quick to find her mark with a longbow than Aiman. She had spent her childhood languishing in the depths of winter when Erasyl had chanced upon her. No soul most yearned for the eastern sun on her back then she.

   Aiman’s skin was smooth of touch and shimmered as if the desert dunes under a crystalline night sky. Soft amber eyes glimmered even in the dim of night. Lustrous streams of russet hair danced upon her right cheek and cascaded over her left shoulder in one intricate braid woven with precious gemstones. Silver bracelets inset with small gems of jade dangled from her wrists and an ornate necklace ringed with teardrops of unblemished amber gleamed defiantly into the storm.

   “No need for wiser words, Sworn Lord.” Aiman offered up a weary smile. “Hopefully, our martial means of acquiring our quarry shall have no reason to be invoked nor forced upon the innocent. For those who must resist, I shall… pray, for them to the Gods of this nightmare world.”   

        Erasyl did not nod nor command. “Zarquin Guard. You know your task. You no longer require my aid…”

   Aslan executed one wordless, cutting gesture. The Zarquin Guard formed up into a marching column behind their commander, two by four, and advanced by the sound of his command.

   Erasyl observed them march in the direction of Titan Fortress. He rapped a metallic finger lightly across the head of his hammer, Sun Caller and considered Aiman’s words for a moment. ‘I shall… pray… for them to the Gods of this world.’  Dangerous logic… or perhaps harmless in the greater scheme? Erasyl supposed that none of that mattered, for his kind were too few to consider much anything else. He had no choice. But he would consider Aiman’s words for later reflection.

« Last Edit: April 13, 2018, 03:32:38 AM by MyenTal »
“Evil is relative…You can’t hang a sign on it. You can’t touch it or taste it or cut it with a sword. Evil depends on where you are standing, pointing your indicting finger.”
― Glen Cook, The Black Company

Offline Myen'Tal

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Re: The Tapestries of Faith (Chapter I, Scene I)
« Reply #1 on: April 4, 2018, 06:35:46 PM »
    Millennia seemed to drift in-and-out of Azat’s consciousness even in the dimly lit streets of the Titan. He focused and bore witness to great creations spawned out of moss-patched granite, surrounded with stagnated waves of decrepit slums. Submerged in the aether, he patrolled grandiose temples and labyrinthine academies in split second intervals. One moment he stood in the forlorn halls of a great castle and in the next, he watched scholars tucked away in their spartan dormitories.
   
         But an ill omen overcame Azat’s second vision. A great burden felt as if it had been clasped onto his shoulders and Azat struggled to move any further with his mind-sight. Naturally, the ether-sight sharpened as he channeled his concentration, but each act of focus was met by a greater, more mysterious force. The dim of night faded with each labored foot he planted forward until it felt as if the darkness had been banished by some searing pillar of light cast from the sun itself.

   Azat sighed and fluttered his eyes open to unveil reality once more. He could still envision the searing contrails of light imprinted on him as if he was struck in person. Azat found himself in the neatened architecture of the Guardian Plaza, but he could feel Hinariath’s presence blaze within his mind without even making one step into the Halish Goddess’ temple behind him.

   An hour of omens for the Priestesses who slumbered in their satin bunks. A whirlwind of spilt blood and venomous steel swept through their flame-scoured corridors and hallowed sanctums. The desecration of the Sun Goddess’ altar would spell an end for Azat’s sudden burdens and restore his ether-sight. But such methodical blood-shed would require more time than Azat particularly cared for. He could always lend his brethren his sword, but Azat had no interest in mass-slaughter decided to simply wait out in the storm.

        Azat watched the storm rage before him with an expression of bored indifference. From where he stood upon the highest stair that led up into the temple, he shifted his gaze a fraction and notcied Aiman sat upon the lowest stair that led back into Guardian Plaza. Even without sight, he could sense raw anguish bubble up from somewhere deep in the pit of her heart. But Azat could not trace even a slight hint of emotion as Aiman craned her head to shoot him with an irritated twinkle in her hazel eyes.

        To her credit, Aiman did not fight her order. Nor did she cradle her head in her hands in defeat. But she did sigh before her gaze was whisked away by the storm-wracked sky once, then several times. 

   “Azat,” Aslan’s voice rumbled like the thunder of the storm, but from mere feet behind him. “What say that obsidian mind of yours? Tell me what you can see…”

   “Hinariath’s Folk,” Azat pointed his chin toward the shattered doors of the temple and shrugged. “What of them? I haven’t heard even a sound of swords cutting through flesh and the moans they reap. Did you do as I asked?”

   “You deafen your ears on the cries of the storm.” Aslan scoffed, then hawked and spat without much concern. “You needn’t concern yourself. You should know that the Zarquin leave no survivors... So achieve your end of the bargain.” He shifted onto Aiman, who fixed them with a watchful stare that smoldered into the night. “I am sorry, Aiman, you know we had no choice. Well, you know how I feel about having my word elevated over yours already.”

   “Of course,” Aiman acknowledged Aslan with a swift nod. She cast a weary look in Azat’s direction. “You should make this one count, Azat. Don’t lead yourself into an ambush, understood? No one here can come to your rescue. All of our hands are for Erasyl and he desires to be in Titan Fortress before the end of the hour.”

   “A moment, Aiman.” Azat interrupted, brow furrowed in irritation. “Did you know about this, Aslan? You would have your most veteran warrior trudge through muck and detritus on his own? Why each of you do what? Lounge in some high lord’s castle? Drink his wine and feast on his food while I am to do what? Wade down to my knees in amphetamine parrot.”

   “Enough.” Aslan dismissed him with a wave. “Command was never suited for you, Azat. For reasons that need not be said. Do as our master commands. You call yourself veteran? Then you should be capable of handling yourself.” He turned back to his second-in-command. “Aiman, are you content with remaining on guard?”

   “Forgive me, but I am not.” Aiman shook her head to Azat’s surprise and made to stand on her feet. She fixated Azat with an intense look and shared a weak smile with Aslan. “I would administer last rites to our sacrifices. They are owed that much, I would think. Wouldn’t you agree, either of you?”

   “Do as you will.” Azat shrugged and waved Aiman toward the Temple. “Old Gods preserve their souls and whatnot. What happens to them makes little difference to me. But you may send their souls my condolences.”

   “As rare as it is, it is as Azat says.” Aslan placed a firm grip on Aiman’s shoulder and motioned her toward the site of the massacre. “I shall stand guard here then. I’ll make certain no one enters in search of a late hour prayer. As for you…” He stared Azat down. “Your vision is well, so be upon your path. No one shall be here by the time you come back. A guard at the Titan Fortress Gate shall be on the search for someone of your description.”

   “Upon a nearby day.” Azat pointed his finger square into Aslan’s chest. He proceeded down the temple stairs in a confident, reverse stride. “You’ll remember that I am your equal, Aslan. You’ll come to the realization too late, mark my words.”

   “Hmph,” Aslan did not bat an eyelash. “You remain our equal only through title and nothing more. You have much to learn. I hope you’ll mark my words before you force my hand. Remember, keep your head on your shoulders while you’re out there. Certain reports betray our nemesis within these very walls.”

   “I shall not be undone.” Azat called from over his shoulder and vanished into the rain. He could feel the ether-sight return in vivid burst that steered him toward the Titan slums. “It has been many years since I have become undone. You have my word that I shall return.”

~**~

         Azat descended into the putrid maw of death itself. A stormy breath that smelt of the decomposed rushed out to greet him from the claustrophobic confines of a road that descended into madness and despair. He scanned the skeletal remnants of a hundred moldering hovels cramped over the path until all of them seemed to slump forward and touch toward the horizon. Azat studied his environment and every minuscule detail until he could trace nearly every crevice that composed the entirety of the vermin nest.

         Azat shook his head, reluctant, and marched into death’s rotten maw with a hand planted onto the sheathed blade upon his waist. Chitterlings voices haunted his footfalls and hazy outlines shifted in-and-out of vision from the greater heights of the urban sprawl. Braver men and women remained where they nested outside of their decrepit homes. He could scarcely blame them, even he would fear to sleep under such destroyed roofs something fierce. 

         Azat pressed onward into the depths of ruin even as the wind weaved around and scoured the rain from his short and kempt raven hair and the brigandine that armored him.

         A sound disturbed the morbid serenity of death made manifest and snapped him out of his marveling. An abrupt noise nearly lost on the maelstrom that began to fight him with each planted step forward.
 
         The fragile form of a Halish woman tucked behind a small fortress of crates and discarded wine barrels bore through Azat with a scattered stare that seemed to notice beyond Azat. Azat grunted and looked the woman over: a thick layer of grime coated her burnished bronze skin and the ragged rags that kept her clothed. The woman seemed to notice Azat’s attention and-with the speed of a floundering amphibian—risked a real glance into his bright hazel eyes.

   The woman never flinched nor shivered from what she must have noticed in him. Azat triggered the ether-sight and penetrated deep into the woman’s mind, but could find nothing of interest. Azat shrugged and moved back toward the road.

   The report of a door cast aside with sudden haste made Azat nearly jump free of his boots. The hand snaked over the hilt of the sword on his waist clenched and ripped the weapon free in one fluid motion. Azat pivoted onto his left foot and fell into a combat stance. Ebon Cobra shrieked as Azat drew upon the weapon. He lifted the wicked scimitar and made to hew down his victim in one rapid blur of movement.

A scream born from horror slammed him with an unseen force and staggered him as if a physical blow. A recoil of movement that spared the Halish woman who charged out onto the road and knelt before him in surrender.

“Do not strike me down!” The woman screamed again, primal fright in the soft glint of her eyes.
 “No need is there for blood to be shed without cause. Please, you must hear my plea!”

   Ebon Cobra poised itself overhead for an attack that could cleave the woman neatly in twain. Azat furrowed his brow, startled, his heart thrummed within his chest like a beaten war-drum. The scimitar streaked downward and made the woman flinch and squeeze her eyes shut, but Azat halted his sword-arm just shy of her left cheek.

   A child-like squeal raged from beneath a bundle of cloth cradled in the woman’s arms and interrupted Azat’s train of thought. Enraged and confused, Azat considered cutting the woman’s head free of her shoulders and being done with it. But he considered the child in her arms and suddenly changed his tack. He channeled his faded anger into a powerful grip and snatched the woman by the collar of her garment. He lifted the woman off of her knees and high over his head before he swiftly lowered her back onto her feet.

   The woman could barely stand from her untamed fear, but Azat seized her attention with a cut of his blade through the wind. 

     “You have heard of us?” Azat calmed himself with several lengthy breaths until he mirrored the becalmed tides of a placid sea. He demanded an answer in a casual tone. “Search mine eyes. Do you know who you disturb?”

      “Of course.” The woman affirmed with a sharp nod. “There can be no mistaking your face... You know your task as I know my own. Warrior of the Zarquin Guard, your master should wait no longer. Accept the child, for he is your own by right.”

      Azat made a show of his grimace and sneers, but kept his hand stayed. “Because you think I should spare your life? Of that I shall remain judge and executioner.” His arms folded in an act of patience. “Reveal him before me then and say that he is of the Old Gods.”

      “Of course,” The woman’s fingers quivered as they unfurled the swaddle that held her child. “He is of the Old Gods, I swear!”

      Azat cocked his head to one side and took in the sight of the child before him. The youth gazed up at him from the unraveled folds of cloth. His eyes shone like the infinite pits of the abyss scarcely  contained by a soft ring of violet that framed them. Unblemished skin that shone like the dunes in the Desolation of Qarth marked him as kindred blood. Azat weaved his gloved fingers softly through clumps of the child’s russet hair and traced a finger down the chalky-white runes seemingly tattooed on his forehead and limbs.

      Azat nodded, content with the pleasant revelation laid bare before him. “Yes, child… you, of the Old Gods. Destined shall become your fate from this day onward. Your fate shall be hallow like the Temple of the Gods and your name shall be sung in their high halls.” He could scarcely lift his enraptured gaze from the child, but he managed to shift back onto the woman. “I shall not take your life, but I expect your eternal gratitude in return. Hand him to me.”

      Azat sheathed his weapon and offered either arm to receive the child, but was interrupted by an abrupt and intentionally timed sound. Understanding of a warning when given one, he shifted around in caution toward the sound of someone who made a show of clearing his throat.

      A Halish man stood before them with his arms crossed in patience. Azat looked him over with an inspectful gaze, but did not shirk from the man’s sheer size. Armored in fine quilted armor the color of deep sapphire clashed upon radiant gold, the mysterious passer-by watched Azat with a curious glint in his eye. He burgeoned with muscle—enough to make Azat hesitate—scarred and stitched from past combats.

      A kempt, golden-blonde beard shadowed much of his facial features. An ornate nasal helmet of polished steel protected what remained beyond his shield-of-a-beard. Engraved centaurs locked arms with each other on either side of the helm, Halish symbolism and letters chiseled into the polished steel beneath them. A single unblemished eye the color of crystal blue waters studied the child cradled in the woman’s arms. Another, squinted and small, and the color of fresh milk studied Azat with lifeless calculation.

       A pair of cloaked rogues flanked the enigmatic warrior, half-melded into the dim of night. Azat held his ground regardless, but a flicker of doubt passed over him. He made to sheathe Ebon Cobra and retrace his steps in the direction he had come. But he knew the moment had come and gone when he had failed to notice his hunters draw near.

       The one-eyed warrior inclined his head in acknowledgement. He addressed the woman burdened with child in a polite tone. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but I have a word or two I’d like to share with your friend here. Do not give him the child, if you’d do me such a favor.”

       Azat studied his enemy with an acute intensity. He scowled at the Halish man’s broad smile. “Who in this cursed place would care for him? The woman you politely address? She surrenders her child to me in knowledge that I can give him a future so much brighter than…” He indicated the ruin that threatened to topple down over their heads. “This. He is destined to become no one should he remain here in such a hellish pit. Do yourself a favor and turn back the way you have arrived, traveler. I shall not ask again.”

      “Vindiaccos would care for him if no one else.” The Halish man indicated himself with a brief gesture and elegant bow. He erected himself and pointed his chin toward the Child of the Old Gods. “You would honor that child with many names and ceremonious fanfare, but he would not stand to gain anything from the laurels you heap around his feet.

      “After all, you should only look as far as yourself, Azat. You do not seem like a man who is where he desires to be in life. You wade knee-deep in amphetamine parrot in search of others who could wade into said amphetamine parrot in your stead. And for what?”

      Vindiaccos interrupted himself. “That is correct, is it not? You must correct me if I have erred. I am aware of your master, who holds your mind and soul in the palm of his eldritch hand. Ever does he seek out children to fuel his own ambition. You would aid such a man who would grind your own kin beneath the wheels of his own industry?”

      Azat readied his sword and clutched her hilt with either hand. He rasped several decibels louder than his usual hushed tone. “You should leave and never return, Master Vindiaccos. For I know of you in turn. The Zarquin Guard know you. The Old Gods know you too. Place your faith in my words, you do not wish to draw eithers' ire down upon you.”

      Azat flicked one hand toward the woman and dismissed her with a vehement stare. As the woman fled back into the confines of her own home, Azat pushed his own doubt out of his thoughts and advanced upon the trio of warriors before him. He unsheathed Ebon Cobra in a blur of movement and deflected the lime light of the storm with a harsh glimmer, thirsty for spilt blood and splintered bone.

      “Honor.” Vindiaccos punched the storm-wracked winds and made his declaration. “I have heard that the Zarquin Guard have a rigid understanding of the concept. Perhaps honor would not hold much sway over someone like you. But I am obliged to make you an offer all the same. You have your mission and I have my own.

      “I shall leave with the child and if that means over your own broken corpse, then so be it. Cross swords with me under the ominous light of the storm. Here and now, before the gods themselves. Your own must be watching this moment with some interest.”

      “A well-versed knight such as you?” Azat inquired with a broad and confident grin. He neared Vindiaccos with each step planted forward. “What man could refuse such a chance? Come then, you shall perish beneath the light of no moon.”

     “Of course,” Vindiaccos mirrored Azat’s arrogant demeanor. “Would that I rather not fight you at all. Perhaps you could change my mind, Azat? Prove that you hold some valor worth my effort.” A sharp whistle from the Halish Knight spurred the rogues behind him into action. “Do what you were paid for. Spare him nothing, not even his life.”


~**~
To Be Continued
~**~
« Last Edit: April 13, 2018, 01:13:25 AM by MyenTal »
“Evil is relative…You can’t hang a sign on it. You can’t touch it or taste it or cut it with a sword. Evil depends on where you are standing, pointing your indicting finger.”
― Glen Cook, The Black Company

Offline Alienscar

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Re: The Tapestries of Faith (Chapter I, Scene II)
« Reply #2 on: April 5, 2018, 10:51:13 AM »
First off thanks for asking for feedback as it gives me the opportunity to point out that the rules of this Forum makes it difficult to leave feedback  if the writer of a story doesn’t ask for feedback of some description.

Recently when people have posted a story in this Forum, and not asked for feedback I have wondered if they realised that they had to ask.

Also apologies for not commenting on your WIP scenes post as I like to at least acknowledge the fact that someone has gone to the trouble of posting a story. Real life can be a bugger sometimes and that is my sorry excuse for not taking the time to show my appreciation.

On to this story and I must admit that my first impression is that there are a lot of words with not much of a pay off at the end.

I hope that doesn’t sound too harsh but personally I feel that this chapter would be better served if it started at the paragraph that begins “A horn sounded from the fore of the caravan,”

As the first chapter its job is to grab the attention of any reader and by starting the way that you have there is little substance to entice a reader to carry on.

By starting with the horn sounding paragraph I think it would add a bit of drama, intrigue and pace to the beginning of your story.

Your use of the name Aslan and also likening that character to a Lion has got to be breaking some kind of literary law I feel.

Your use of the adjectives brief, servile & barbarous as words in their own right I feel is a bit strange.

You essentially introduce Aslan & Aiman twice, which has the effect of the slowing the pace of the chapter.

Overall I liked this first chapter, and I find Erasyl is an interesting character.

I see you have already posted another chapter. I haven’t read this yet, but when I have I will try and let you know what I think.
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Offline Myen'Tal

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Re: The Tapestries of Faith (Chapter I, Scene II)
« Reply #3 on: April 5, 2018, 05:47:14 PM »
First off, thank you for the feedback, Alienscar :). I always appreciate honest feedback and you've helped me realize that there is more I can do to improve myself! I also realized that I didn't ask for feedback for The Nocturnal Phantasma, which I now am in you are interested.

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Also apologies for not commenting on your WIP scenes post as I like to at least acknowledge the fact that someone has gone to the trouble of posting a story. Real life can be a bugger sometimes and that is my sorry excuse for not taking the time to show my appreciation.

No problem ;D, I understand that not everyone has time or might even be interested in providing feedback, for that matter. It's really cool that you do, though!

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On to this story and I must admit that my first impression is that there are a lot of words with not much of a pay off at the end.

I hope that doesn’t sound too harsh but personally I feel that this chapter would be better served if it started at the paragraph that begins “A horn sounded from the fore of the caravan,”

No, it doesn't sound too harsh, you are correct that there is a lot of description of Erasyl's surroundings and not much of him doing anything except contemplating the fate of the Ali'rune. So I think there can be some stuff trimmed down as you suggest.

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As the first chapter its job is to grab the attention of any reader and by starting the way that you have there is little substance to entice a reader to carry on.

By starting with the horn sounding paragraph I think it would add a bit of drama, intrigue and pace to the beginning of your story.

I see where you are coming from and will take your advice to heart. I'll try to cut down on some of the environment description too and only add in the more important bits.

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Your use of the name Aslan and also likening that character to a Lion has got to be breaking some kind of literary law I feel.

I was attempting to show the meaning of the name 'Aslan', which does mean 'lion' if I remember correctly. I guess the broken literary law was that I was being too obvious? I also don't bother to reveal the meanings of any of the other Zarquin Guard's names, so I guess there's that.

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Your use of the adjectives brief, servile & barbarous as words in their own right I feel is a bit strange.

Understood, will change this.

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You essentially introduce Aslan & Aiman twice, which has the effect of the slowing the pace of the chapter.

I have noted that before, but I felt that if I kept their introductions cohesive, the description would be way too long ;D. I'll look into trimming those down though.

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Overall I liked this first chapter, and I find Erasyl is an interesting character.

Once again, thank you for the time you put into your thoughtful feedback. It does give me something to think upon and helps me further improve. Cannot remember the time I got such a critique, very useful :).

I see you have already posted another chapter. I haven’t read this yet, but when I have I will try and let you know what I think.

EDIT: Made the changes, tell me what you think!
« Last Edit: April 5, 2018, 06:37:40 PM by MyenTal »
“Evil is relative…You can’t hang a sign on it. You can’t touch it or taste it or cut it with a sword. Evil depends on where you are standing, pointing your indicting finger.”
― Glen Cook, The Black Company

Offline Alienscar

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Re: The Tapestries of Faith (Chapter I, Scene II)
« Reply #4 on: April 6, 2018, 10:59:53 AM »
I also realized that I didn't ask for feedback for The Nocturnal Phantasma, which I now am in you are interested.

I am interested in leaving feedback as I think that people that go to the trouble of sharing their creative work deserve some kind of acknowledgement.

I was attempting to show the meaning of the name 'Aslan', which does mean 'lion' if I remember correctly. I guess the broken literary law was that I was being too obvious?

Whilst Aslan might mean Lion in some language for me and I think 95% of the people that will read your story, Aslan is the name of the Lion in the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe written by C. S. Lewis.
The broken literary law that I as referring to was just my tongue-in-cheek way of saying it looked like you had "borrowed" a famous name.

EDIT: Made the changes, tell me what you think!

I think the changes that you have made has made the first chapter a lot more interesting. It is also easier to read and the story has more of a grip on the reader now.

I also think that by trimming it the way that you have has let the three characters come to the fore. Because of this, for me, they now come across as three separate people whereas before they got a bit lost.   
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Offline Myen'Tal

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Re: The Tapestries of Faith (Chapter I, Scene II)
« Reply #5 on: April 6, 2018, 02:23:22 PM »
Quote
Whilst Aslan might mean Lion in some language for me and I think 95% of the people that will read your story, Aslan is the name of the Lion in the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe written by C. S. Lewis.
The broken literary law that I as referring to was just my tongue-in-cheek way of saying it looked like you had "borrowed" a famous name.

Gotcha', that was not my intention of borrowing that name ;D. I was actually searching through some Turkish / other names of Middle-Eastern origin when I discovered that one. Figured it fit the profile of the character in question and went with it.

Quote
I think the changes that you have made has made the first chapter a lot more interesting. It is also easier to read and the story has more of a grip on the reader now.

I also think that by trimming it the way that you have has let the three characters come to the fore. Because of this, for me, they now come across as three separate people whereas before they got a bit lost.
 

I am glad that you enjoyed the changes! I'll try to keep your suggestions in mind going forward :).
“Evil is relative…You can’t hang a sign on it. You can’t touch it or taste it or cut it with a sword. Evil depends on where you are standing, pointing your indicting finger.”
― Glen Cook, The Black Company

Offline Myen'Tal

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Re: The Tapestries of Faith (Chapter I, Scene II)
« Reply #6 on: April 13, 2018, 01:18:23 AM »
Okay, I have made changes to the other scenes currently posted in the thread, which is scene II and III. I have re-written some parts and made some necessary cuts that dragged the story down!

Tell me what you think!

And the final scene of the Chapter is coming soon, I promise!

EDIT: Looks like it is here now! And actually, Scene IV is the final scene of the chapter  :P, this is a continuation of Scene III. Changes are still inbound for this scene, just wanted to go ahead and get it up here.

Just a heads up for anyone who is interested, but scene IV will be the last scene I'll be posting of this (I think... we shall see).


~***~


       The rogues flitted across the shadows of the alley as if night-melded ghosts. Their hazed outlines darted in-and-out of vision even as they closed in around Azat from a two-pronged path. Azat strode forward for two steps and made to equip the scutum shield slung over his shoulder. Such a defense would do him no good against daggers and poisoned needles once he was flanked, but could give him an advantage in a direct frontal assault.

        The rogues blitzed forward in a sudden charge and coiled in around either flank. Azat lifted his shield and slid out of reach of the first flurry of blows to rain down upon where he stood moments before. He retreated and whirled toward his left flank in one fluid movement. Convinced of a gained advantage, the rogue which faced him skittered forward  to press the assault.

         Ebon Cobra cut through rain and stormy air toward the rogue and planted a serpentine kiss neatly on the left cheek. Azat drew the wicked sword back behind his shoulder and hefted his shield around in an arced swing. The rogue on his right was caught in the chest by the blow and thrown backward several steps. A quicksilver dagger bit deep into the mail around his arm, quickly followed with a successive strike that caught Azat beneath the chin.

        The rogue cut upward in an attempt to murder Azat outright, but the attack destined for the spot where Azat’s skull remained perched upon his neck was nothing more than a graze. The wicked knife left a nasty cut where it sliced across the flesh beneath Azat’s chin and severed the strap which kept his plumed helmet in place. A sharp uppercut of an elbow rammed into the cut and pried his helmet straight off of his shoulders.

        Azat slunk out of reach to recover himself and charged back into the fray. He flicked Obsidian Cobra in a woven pattern of serpentine strikes that sliced into cloak and armor with a dozen crimson marks left upon his foes. He weaved around several thrust and shoulder-charged the nearest rouge from his feet and into the crumbled wall of a decrepit hovel. The sheer force of the abrupt assault crunched moldering lumber like dried and brittle clay beneath a hammer stroke. The assassin grunted in surprise and was cast away into the darkness, buried in a foot of shattered lumber that collapsed on top of him.

       A sharp pain flared behind Azat’s flank before he could turn to guard himself. Another quicksilver dagger glimmered in the storm light and hurtled over his shoulder for his exposed throat. In the same moment, the knife embedded between his ribs was pried loose and chiseled a ragged cut across his shield arm.

      Stung by the viper’s kiss of the rogue’s dagger, Azat felt his grip upon the shield slacken until it clattered uselessly into a muddied crimson puddle. Haggard from the assault, he weaved away from the dagger hurtled toward his throat. He smashed back behind him with a forceful elbow and stole the momentum garnered from the rogue’s advance. His foe quivered from the counter-attack and missed his mark by a mere breath’s graze.

      The rogue cut his daggers back in a flurry of reversed strikes and masterful thrust. Ebon Cobra struck back much like a serpent reared against a kindred spirit. For every six strikes, Azat parried four with single-minded concentration, but could never avoid the other pair that carved into him each time. Raw pain burst from neat wounds punched into his armor. Crimson droplets dribbled from the cuts left upon his shoulders, chest, and thighs.

      Ebon Cobra lashed out with the speed of a serpent reared up with her fangs bared. The distinct crack of cold steel forced upon thin and fragile metal resonated from one end of the alley to the next. Azat tore away his sword and followed upon the strike with the edge of the shield into the rogue’s fractured mask.

      A scream tore itself loose from the foe’s throat as the mask that hid his features splintered into a mass of tiny, razor-sharp shards. Crimson-liquid streamed from the broken foe and pooled over the rim of Azat’s shield. The rogue staggered and collapsed onto one knee, a gesture of immediate surrender and defeat.

      Ebon Cobra sung through rain and air in a blur of motion. In one momentous sweep, the rogue’s head arced and soared backwards through the air at an angle. A bloody trail streamed into the alley and mingled with the puddles of collected rainwater scattered across the alley. The corpse toppled backward and sprawled itself upon the blood-streaked cobblestones of the alley.

      Azat stood triumphant—haggard, but victorious—over the site of the coup-de-grace he had delivered. A sudden disturbance, the noise of lumber clattered over each other and being scattered made him pause. He spared a hurried glance over his shoulder in time to see the other assassin emerge back into the alley with daggers poised.

      Perfect pearl fangs glimmered in the torchlight as a feral grin split the Zarquin’s scarred lips. Azat did not hesitate, but split the rogue’s metallic mask neatly in twain with a hard flick of his wrist. The rogue staggered backward from the blow, but did not even think to retaliate. The corpse remained on its feet for a lengthened moment until crimson beads began to stream from the vertical wound etched into the mask.

      “Gruesome,” Vindiaccos applauded him as the final rogue toppled in a heap upon itself. “But I shall witness their noble deaths… more than such men could dream for, I would say. I have bore witness to your valor, Azat. Prepare yourself with whatever prayer your gods approve of.”
 
       “Honor.” Azat loomed triumphant over his foe and grimaced from the heavy burden of pain. He raised one blood-slathered metallic fist into the air and limped toward the fallen shield discarded in the murk. “Should I perish in the bleakness of night, I would know who sent you after me?”

       Vindiaccos offered him a mere enigmatic smile and pointed toward Azat’s fallen shield. He nodded. “I would rather not disclose, for I could fall within the very hour myself. You can rest assured, Azat, you shall know in the final hour of your judgement.”

       Vindiaccos studied Azat with a curious glint in his one eye of crystal sapphire. “The Zarquin Guard have chosen their own path, but one long ordained by your master’s hand. I gaze into your soul and can find nothing but a mastermind’s strings woven around your puppet heart. I wonder if there is even a shred of the man you should have been still locked away in the void of your mind? Or does Erasyl impose his entire conscious and will upon inner eye, Azat?”

       A wolfish grin split across Azat’s scarred lips, spurred into a frenzied fury that burst from deep within the Zarquin Guard himself. Azat staggered haphazardly onto one knee and scooped up the heavy round shield by the strap. He did not flinch or waver from Vindiaccos’ eagle-eyed glare, but placed Ebon Cobra reverently upon the slickened, blood-streaked cobblestones instead. Bloodied, but unbent, Azat fastened several leather straps that dangled from the gauntlet clasped around his off-hand until the round shield became an extension of the arm that wielded her.

       Azat rumbled with a throaty peal of laughter. “You ramble at length about things which should now seem meaningless to you, Vindiaccos. You mention honor and freedom and thought. You whisper of fates destined by the forgotten decree of the gods… and you have forgotten that no man or woman—neither you or I, can escape what was promised us from birth.

       “No, Vindiaccos…” Azat declared and reclaimed Ebon Cobra even as he struggled back onto his feet. “You understand that honor is an inconceivable concept for a warrior such as myself. I would not ask for mercy and neither would you. As I would not show you mercy, you shall not deign to send me softly into the next life.”

        Vindiaccos slung a silver-blue kite shield from over his shoulder and hefted a war hammer with the other hand. He offered Azat an unconcerned shrug. “Have it your way. When you meet your Old Gods, do not tell them that I did not warn you.”

        Vindiaccos clashed the war hammer upon his shield and advanced beneath a hundred bolts of forked lightning hurled from the heavens. Azat studied and mirrored the stance of his foe, then likewise advanced. Adrenaline hammered in the Zarquin Guard’s chest and for a brief moment, he could feel some fraction of pain drain from his body like the waning of the tides. His exchange with the rogues had been brief and brutally so, but the combat had left Azat exhausted and struggling for every breath.

       Spurred on by some undeniable force—or simply the will to keep living—Azat found no more room for hesitation or caution. Debilitated, wounded, and shallow-of-breath, Azat continued his advance. Should he show even a fraction of weakness, Azat knew he would be defeated and his fate sealed.

       “You or I!” Azat bellowed and burst into a braced charge, scant distance away from his foe and pounced for the sudden kill. “To the halls of the gods!”

       A fell gust slipped forth from between Vindiaccos’ lips in a momentous expulsion of breath. The Knight chanted into a storm woven from his own design and the sudden surge of wind transformed his beleaguered pace into a ground-quaking charge of his own. Like a sudden gale in a crystal mid-summer sky, an invisible force smashed into Azat as if a rolling wave that sought to take drag him screaming into the depths.

       Azat cried out into the storm, his charge blunted and himself nearly cast aside much like a rag doll. The round shield locked over his arm quivered from the thrashing wind and cast off small wooden shards with each renewed gust. Ebon Cobra continued to sing in his ear with a piercing cry as she cut through air and rain alike. But even in the face of such divine wrath made manifest, Azat pressed forward until each step planted forward was a beleaguered burden.
 
       Out of the maelstrom, Vindiaccos closed the distance in a few bounding leaps, as if his physique was crafted from the very storm itself, at once corporeal and ethereal. Azat could listen to the distinct sound of a furious warrior closing in upon him, but could scarcely trace an outline in the deluge that crashed down upon him. A crushing force slammed into his shield, created from the thunder of Vindiaccos’ voice alone.

      Ebon Cobra thrust blindly into the gale, but could not find a solidified target. In the same moment, the round shield over his arm disintegrated into a storm of shrapnel splinters. An explosion of shards caught Azat and showered over his ragged armor and into the open wounds that it could no longer protect. Azat tried to hold his ground, but found his efforts in vain and became tossed aside like a rag doll across the breadth of the alley.

      Concentration scattered upon the four winds of the storm, Azat forced himself to collect his thoughts from where he laid sprawled upon the bloodied cobblestones. Bruised fingers clenched and clenched in a series of flexes, but Obsidian Cobra had been pried loose from their grasp.

      Scarred amber eyes searched through the furious storm for any trace of the foe who would end his life. Several lengthy moments lingered and faded before Azat could hazily trace an outline emerge out of the impenetrable rains that concealed his advance.

      “Yield, Azat!” Vindiaccos marched forward and threw his arms wide in a challenge. “Yield and I shall bestow upon you the mercy you would deny me! Or stand and fight, Son of Qarth, should you seek an end worthy of your name!”

      Azat somehow shoved himself off of the ground in spite of the ferocious gale that threatened to sweep him into the heavens itself. He shielded himself from the primal wind, but the chill carried upon her currents cut through his armor and penetrated his flesh as if it never existed. How he had managed to reclaim Ebon Cobra in the midst of the storm, he had not the slightest clue.

      Azat roared into the maelstrom, a soundless noise drowned beneath the storm’s keen wails. “I would choose a hundred deaths rather than face defeat!”

       Ebon Cobra impacted harmlessly across the width of a sapphire-and-silver kite shield as Azat charged blindly into the ceaseless rain. The Zarquin Guard coiled backwards in a half-lean, half-spin, the curved blade cutting back with him to block a fatal blow of an unadorned war hammer upon his chest. Azat wove a strange pattern around the war hammer as it searched for him through the storm, each practiced sweep of the mighty weapon made without effort, but each parry cost Azat a fraction of his own inner strength.

       Azat buckled beneath the weight of the kite shield that crashed down upon the nasal guard of his helmet. The sheer force staggered and almost toppled him back onto the ground. He slid one foot backward, grounded himself, and counter-attacked with a pommel strike placed square in the center of Vindiaccos’ blurred throat. The Knight flinched from the blow and the war hammer hesitated for the slightest sliver in time.

       Ebon Cobra slashed through the fabric of the storm even as Vindiaccos surged back into life to defend himself. Azat flicked his wrist, but caught the edge of his sword upon the ridge above his foe’s dead-white eye. He cut downward in a precise cut and left a neat trickle of blood that streamed down the Halish warrior’s left cheek.

       Azat followed his strike with a two-staged attack. Ebon Cobra struck away the war hammer before it could fall upon him from on-high. The second cut struck downward with the cobra’s kiss and stabbed into the armor joint where the pauldron met the gauntlet. A strike executed with preternatural speed, but Vindiaccos had anticipated the blow and smashed the curved sword out from under him with an arced swing of the kite shield.

       Azat grunted once again as the steel edge of the kite shield caught him across the chest and ripped open a small knife wound taken in the previous fight even further. He almost bit his tongue free from the sudden cut of agony, but channeled the sensation into a flurry of strikes that caught his opponent off balance.

       Ebon Cobra stung again and again, each attack poised to bite in and around the war hammer and shield which fought to stave him off. Azat pinned Vindiaccos’ shield with a shoulder-charge, but found himself pushed backward with a broad sweep of a vicious pommel strike. Obsidian Cobra snapped around Vindiaccos’ vulnerable sword-arm and slightly exposed thigh in several strikes that culminated in precise strikes around his helmeted skull.

       “Sleep well in hell’s embrace!” Azat blocked a sweep of Vindiaccos’ shield with a lumbering kick that hurled the defense aside.

       Ebon Cobra flashed toward an exposed throat, poised to cut through chain mail and flesh in one venomous and fell strike. In the fraction of a moment, Azat was rewarded with the spark of sharpened steel upon the metallic rings forged into armor. The thin layer of mail wrapped around Vindiaccos’ neck snapped like a bracelet torn from one’s wrist. The quilted armor divided from the blade’s caress and Azat imagined blood fountain from the fatal cut a mere breath before it could be etched.

        Vindiaccos bellowed. An expulsion of force so unnatural and forceful that the frozen wind it birthed into life tore into Azat and thrust into the heart of every ragged wound it could scour. A life-sapping chill like the great deserts of the Desolation of Qarth in the dim of the starry night surged through the inner fabric which forged Azat in mind, body, and spirit. Where droplets of blood coagulated or dribbled from their wounds, now his life essence streamed freely from every open crevice as if the inner dam which held it at bay had collapsed amidst the currents.

         Vindiaccos visited vengeance upon a stricken Azat before he could even find time to reel. The war hammer fell him upon with unrelenting and incessant aggression, each blow cracked upon his wounds a test to find where Azat was weakest. The Zarquin could not fend off the assault, armor broken open in a dozen spots and his bones shattered in his left shoulder and rib cage.

          Azat parried one final stroke, for he could muster no more of his strength. The breath of winter had seeped him of all strength and stolen far too much of his own intellect. As he crumbled onto his knees, he could feel driven by no preservation to remain alive or desire for the glory of the kill. For a brief and tortured moment, he was nothing more than a husk flayed bare of skin, flesh, and bone, and even spirit.

          Before the final death knell sounded, he managed one last and troubled thought.
Had Azat been nothing but a husk since the beginning?
 
          “Your Old Gods go beslubber themselves!” Vindiaccos racked his hammer across Azat’s temple with all of his strength. The bone cracked and crumbled to give way to sweet and sudden death. The corpse of Azat crumbled without a word and silence descended upon the Hand of the Titan once again, save for a wrathful storm.
« Last Edit: April 13, 2018, 03:35:54 AM by MyenTal »
“Evil is relative…You can’t hang a sign on it. You can’t touch it or taste it or cut it with a sword. Evil depends on where you are standing, pointing your indicting finger.”
― Glen Cook, The Black Company

Offline Alienscar

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Re: The Tapestries of Faith (Chapter I, Scene III In Progress)
« Reply #7 on: August 2, 2018, 11:23:47 AM »
I don't know if it is the pace of your story or if it's the setting and characters, but I am put in mind of Gene Wolfe's Shadow of the Torturer when I am reading it.

By that I mean to say I think that you have the foundation of a really interesting story. So far you have set up a really intriguing background and created some interesting characters. I hope you can develop this further.

Here is a bit of feedback on Scene ii

Quote from: MyenTal
Millennia seemed to drift in-and-out of Azat’s consciousness even in the dimly lit streets of the Titan.

This sentence is a little confused I feel. Why would the lighting conditions affect Azat’s thoughts? The word ‘even’ adds a conflict to the sentence that does not gel with the rest of the sentence.

Quote from: MyenTal
He focused and bore witness to great creations spawned out of moss-patched granite, surrounded with stagnated waves of decrepit slums.

Tense issues within the sentence make it difficult to read. Bore, surrounded & stagnated are past tense, but the ‘he focused’ places the action in the present. Also ‘surrounded with’ should be ‘surrounded by’


Quote from: MyenTal
Submerged in the aether, he patrolled grandiose temples and labyrinthine academies in split second intervals.

A split second is already an interval of time so ‘split second intervals’ is a little confused.


Quote from: MyenTal
Naturally, the ether-sight sharpened as he channeled


You said that Azat was submerged in the aether above whilst here you use the word ether. I would suggest that the use of one spelling when referring to the same subject would be better.

Quote from: MyenTal
The dim of night faded with each labored foot

Step not foot. A foot is just a part of the body or a measurement so can’t labour at anything.

Quote from: MyenTal
Azat found himself in the neatened architecture of the Guardian Plaza,

Neatened is a strange word to use. Not only is it past tense, but as the word just refers to making something tidy your use of the word implies that someone has tidied up just before Azat entered the space.

Quote from: Myental
An hour of omens for the Priestesses who slumbered in their satin bunks.

This is the wrong use of the word omens. An omen is just a portent, sign or warning of things to come.

Quote from: MyenTal
spell an end for Azat’s sudden burdens and restore his ether-sight.

Aether or ether!

Quote from: MyenTal
But such methodical blood-shed

Blood-shed should be bloodshed. By hyphenating the word you have created a compound noun that describes a shed of blood.

Quote from: MyenTal
From where he stood upon the highest stair that led up into the temple, he shifted his gaze a fraction and notcied Aiman sat upon the lowest stair that led back into Guardian Plaza.


The whole highest stair, lowest stair stuff is unnecessary and a bit contrived. It would be much better to say that from his high vantage point Azat noticed Aiman sat outside the entrance to the Plaza.

Noticed instead of notcied.


Quote from: MyenTal
But Azat could not trace even a slight hint of emotion as Aiman craned her head to shoot him with an irritated twinkle in her hazel eyes.

Because of the way you have structured this sentence it reads as though Aiman has shot Azat. The irritated twinkle line just compounds this fault especially as you have included the word ‘with’.

Irritated and twinkle all imply emotions, so their use is confusing given that you have just said that Azat could not see any emotion.

I would try something simpler like this:-

But Azat could not detect even a hint of emotion in her expression as she turned to stare back at him.


Quote from: MyenTal
But she did sigh before her gaze was whisked away by the storm-wracked sky once, then several times.

This is another sentence confused by use of the wrong words & phrasing issues.

Whisked does not mean the same as attracted to, or returned to which I think is what you were trying to say.

Also even though I think you were attempting to write that Aiman sighed several times what you actually wrote was that her gaze was whisked (sic) away several times.


Quote from: MyenTal
He shifted onto Aiman, who fixed them with a watchful stare that smoldered into the night.

Simply speaking the word ‘into’ refers to the movement or action of someone/something that results in that someone/something becoming enclosed, surrounded by, or being in contact with something else. A stare that smoulders into the night therefore refers to a stare that is moving.

Quote from: MyenTal
You would have your most veteran warrior trudge through muck and detritus on his own? Why each of you do what?


'When each of you' instead of 'why each of you'

Quote from: MyenTal
Drink his wine and feast on his food while I am to do what? Wade down to my knees in amphetamine parrot.”

There is no need for you to do the work of this sites autocensor. You should always write the correct word and let the filter sort it out for the people that do not wish to read profane language.


Quote from: MyenTal
“Command was never suited for you,

 
‘To you’ and not ‘for you’


Quote from: MyenTal
You call yourself veteran?

‘A veteran’ instead of just ‘veteran’


Quote from: MyenTal
She fixated Azat with an intense look and shared a weak smile with Aslan.


Fixed instead of fixated. Fixated means unable to stop thinking about something.

Quote from: MyenTal
He could feel the ether-sight return in vivid burst that steered him toward the Titan slums.

‘In vivid bursts’ would be correct.

Quote from: MyenTal
He scanned the skeletal remnants of a hundred moldering hovels cramped over the path until all of them seemed to slump forward and touch toward the horizon.

This sentence has a few tense issues. ‘Cramped over’ should be ‘cramped together over’. ‘Touch forward’ should either be ‘reach forward’, or just ‘touch the horizon’. 

Quote from: MyenTal
Azat shook his head, reluctant, and marched into death’s rotten maw with a hand planted onto the sheathed blade upon his waist.


For me this one sentence shows how important it is to choose the correct word and tense for the subject at hand. First off the adjective ‘reluctant’ shouldn’t be used on its own as an adjectives job is to modify a noun or pronoun.

The word onto is usually used to indicate the direction or movement of something and is usually used with a verb that indicates movement. Your expression ‘planted onto’ breaks all of these rules so makes the sentence hard to read.


Quote from: MyenTal
Chitterlings voices

Chitterlings is a food made from the intestines of a pig. ‘Chittering’ is probably the word that you were after.

 
Quote from: MyenTal
haunted his footfalls

As previously explained the correct word is footsteps.

Quote from: MyenTal
He could scarcely blame them, even he would fear to sleep under such destroyed roofs something fierce.

The phrase ‘something fierce’ is too informal and too modern a phrase to use in this story.

Quote from: MyenTal
Azat pressed onward into the depths of ruin

 
‘the ruin’ instead of just ‘ruin’

Quote from: MyenTal
A sound disturbed the morbid serenity of death made manifest and snapped him out of his marveling.

The word ‘marvelling’ doesn’t suit what has been previously described. The word ‘marvel’ means to feel great surprise or wonder. 

Quote from: MyenTal
The fragile form of a Halish woman tucked behind a small fortress of crates and discarded wine barrels bore through Azat with a scattered stare that seemed to notice beyond Azat.


This is another sentence that has become slightly hard to read due to the use of words that don’t quite work. The words ‘bore’, ‘scattered’ & notice mean different things to the way you have tried to use them.

Bore is okay, but the way you have constructed the sentence means that it is the fragile form of the woman that bore through Azat. Also you can’t imply that a stare bore through someone and then go on to describe that same stare as scattered and seeing beyond Azat.

Scattered refers to objects that are spread untidily over an area.

Noticed means to become aware of, or pay attention to something so is the wrong tense for this sentence.


Quote from: MyenTal
The hand snaked over the hilt of the sword

The word snaked means to move with the motion of a snake, so what you have said is that ‘the hand moved’ whereas the rest of the sentence goes on to imply that Azat’s hand is stationary

Quote from: MyenTal
Azat drew upon the weapon.

‘Drew upon’ means that Azat has drawn something on to his sword

Quote from: MyenTal
A scream born from horror slammed him with an unseen force and staggered him as if a physical blow.

This is very confused and far too melodramatic. Slammed into him would be correct and ‘as if a physical blow’ is an incomplete thought.

Unless the scream has some undescribed supernatural force, unseen or not, it cannot produce a force that would cause someone to stagger.

Something like ‘A sudden scream battered him and caused him to pause his blow’ would suffice.
 

Quote from: MyenTal
A recoil of movement

The word ‘recoil’ already describes a certain type of movement so you can’t have a recoil of movement.

Quote from: MyenTal
Your fate shall be hallow

Hallow is the wrong tense as it just means to set apart for holy use. Hallowed would be correct.

Quote from: MyenTal
He could scarcely lift his enraptured gaze from the child, but he managed to shift back onto the woman

Wrong use of the word onto again

Quote from: MyenTal
Azat sheathed his weapon and offered either arm


Either arm is a little confusing and means he is giving the woman a choice of his arms. Do you mean he offered both arms? Whilst someone can sit either side of you meaning both sides you have to construct your sentence accordingly.

Quote from: MyenTal
Azat looked him over with an inspectful gaze,

In the context that you have used it there is no such word as inspectful. In this context the word ‘inspectional’ would be correct, but a bit clumsy.

Quote from: MyenTal
He erected himself and pointed his chin toward the Child of the Old Gods.

Erected is the wrong tense and the word has been used incorrectly in this context.

Quote from: MyenTal
You wade knee-deep in amphetamine parrot

Again, always let this sites filter mange your swear words.

Quote from: MyenTal
A quicksilver dagger


Quicksilver is another name for mercury which is a liquid at normal temperatures so I don’t see how anyone could make a dagger from it.

Quote from: MyenTal
Azat slunk out of reach to recover himself and charged back into the fray. He flicked Obsidian Cobra

Up to this point Azat’s sword has been called Ebon Cobra

Quote from: MyenTal
He weaved around several thrust

Thrust is the wrong number form when used with the word ‘several’ and should be thrusts.

Quote from: MyenTal
and shoulder-charged the nearest rouge

Rouge is a powder/cream used to colour skin.

Quote from: MyenTal
A sharp pain flared behind Azat’s flank

The word flank refers to the side of a person’s body. So describing something as behind someone’s side doesn’t make sense. If you mean he was stabbed in the back then say so clearly.


Quote from: Starrakatt
"Russ, get your work done or you won't see your damn console for the next month!"
Quote from: Cavalier
Honestly Alienscar, we get it... you dont like painting!

Offline Myen'Tal

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Re: The Tapestries of Faith (Chapter I, Scene III In Progress)
« Reply #8 on: August 2, 2018, 09:37:46 PM »
Hi Alienscar,

Sorry, I've somewhat fallen out of the wagon when it comes to writing. I've been meaning to catch up for awhile now, but things at my workplace have kind of exploded from too many changes implemented too quickly, and I've been too exhausted to write on the weekdays. And as you've no doubt noted, I've been trying to get into the Warhammer Hobby and build a new PC, so that's also taken my attention. But your critique really gives me some inspiration and the urge to take up the keyboard again! ;D

I'm going to sit down on Friday night / Saturday morning and start working on your feedback for both The Tapestries of Faith and the Nocturnal Phantasma. Thank you for the feedback and critique (and the compliment!).
“Evil is relative…You can’t hang a sign on it. You can’t touch it or taste it or cut it with a sword. Evil depends on where you are standing, pointing your indicting finger.”
― Glen Cook, The Black Company

 


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