OK, i need a favour from all of you lovely forumites (i figured early flattery would help). I've started writing a fantasy novel/book/story type thing, only got a page and a bit down at the minute and i figured this'd be a great place to come for some feedback on it. I've seen other people do it and get incredibly helpful replies. Just bear in mind that this is the first thing of any substantial length i've ever written, so this is kind of new territory for me. It's not going to be breaking any new boundaries, i thought i'd keep things a little more simple for my first effort. Anyway, here it is.
Well, there it is, thanks a ton to anyone who read through it, doubly so to anyone who posts about it. Be as harsh as you like, anything you think needs improving let me know, i'd love the help.
Thanks again.
They say that the air is at its calmest in the hours before a storm. The plains city of Darabi held its breath as the clouds began to form on the horizon, staining the sky with grey. The preparations for Maz'jin, the celebration of the first summer storm, had had the city in chaos for the entire day, until the watchers spotted the first hints of black in the distance. Citizens flocked to the walls, swarming on top of them and spilling out of the gates to stand gazing at the long awaited promise of the the storm's power. The horizon sky darkened, becoming a boiling mass of bruised, angry clouds. Flashes of faint light flickered across the darkness, and a deep, distant rumble shook the earth beneath the people's feet. It served as a reminder from Emhoth, god of the skies, of the unpredictable, uncaring savagery of storms, that his power was not to be forgotten. The watchers came from his priesthood, making certain that the city paid it's due respects to their master. The Darabii feared him more than any other deity, being located on the great Damhul plains, they were at the whim of the ever changing weather. A strong wind burst in to life beneath the storm, whipping across the plains towards the great city, flattening the tall grasses as it went. Its impact with the crowd of people gathered at the walls broke the tension in the air, and they released a unified sigh of relief. The storm was indeed headed their way. Emhoth was pleased. The citizens swarmed back into the city to care to all the final preparations for the festival.
Khesan crouched on the roof of a manor house, his loose clothes flattened to his body by the growing wind. His face took on an expression of disdain as he looked at the crowd of people frantically preparing for the coming night. Idiots, he thought to himself. They're fools to think that the gods pay care about our fleeting existence, that we should appease them, throw ourselves upon their mercy. They have none. This much I know. From Khesan's perspective, the whole city was wasting it's time. The entire day had been spent preparing, with all labour and trade cancelled, and the same would be true tomorrow, though no-one officially admitted it. None of the citizens would be in a fit state for anything come the dawn. The night would be filled with celebrations; feasts where the noble families mixed with the poor, music and dancing, with all inhibitions and laws tossed out of the window. Although he hated the gods and their schemes, and felt disgust, and almost pity, for the people and their demeaning party, Khesan had to admit he enjoyed Maz'jin. While the Darabii were drowning themselves in a stupor of alcohol and copulating in filthy alleyways with strangers, he would be roaming the city stealing all their money.
Khesan had travelled to Darabi nearly ten years ago. Or, more accurately, he had fled. He had once been a herald of Iphal, the god of death. Ever since he was nine years old his life had been devoted to serving his master, giving everything he had to the priesthood. Khesan began once again to dwell on a night nine years in the past, a night of crushing guilt and despair. No. I will not think of that night again, nor of that god. The bastard means nothing any more. He forced himself of of his reverie, knowing it to be a dangerous thing to dwell on, especially today, his most profitable night of the year. When he first arrived in the sprawling city, he had no money, no possessions save the clothes on his back and an empty leather purse. He had gone hungry and restless for a week before he began to fill that purse with other people's money. He smirked to himself as he remembered the first time he realised he was actually good at thieving, and thoroughly enjoyed it. The realisation was a surprise, and a not unpleasant one. Since then, he had managed to gain enough wealth to get himself a permanent room at an inn on the city's middle levels. He could probably afford his own house by this point, but thought it best if he were less noticeable, and besides, he enjoyed the freedom the room gave him. He could get up and leave at any point, vanishing from any unpleasant enquiries, which were an unfortunate side effect of his profession. Especially in such a city as this. Darabi had many criminals, from petty thieves and pickpockets to hardened gangs. It also had incredibly full prison cells, and a suitably active set of gibbets.
Khesan settled into a more comfortable position, adjusting the multitude of pockets and pouches sewn into his dark tunic and trousers. He would be up on this roof for another hour or two, waiting for the first bolt of lightning to strike the huge Vinmarian crystal at the top of the city, signalling the start of the festivities. He had no fear of being seen, no-one would look up this night, lest they offend their great sky lord. Quietly chuckling to himself, Khesan began to run through his evenings plans. He would begin with the Manor he was currently perched on, entering through the thin hide stretched across the skylight before removing the occupants of most of their money. This was the only building he would need to enter tonight, the rest of his time would be spent moving through the likely intoxicated crowds, removing fat purses and gleaming jewellery from the richer citizens. He needn't worry about the guards either, they would be joining in the frivolity. They may as well hand me their money on a golden platter. Gods be damned, I love this city. His previous reminiscent anger forgotten, Khesan began to whistle softly to himself, absent mindedly fingering the small silver medallion hanging from his chest. Despite the amount he had stolen over the years, likely a small fortune's worth of money and possessions, it was the single thing of value he owned. He didn't steal with the intention of getting rich, he just did it because he could. He'd never had any plan to do anything at all with the money he gained, had never even given it a thought. It was simply what he did to survive.
Khesan crouched on the roof of a manor house, his loose clothes flattened to his body by the growing wind. His face took on an expression of disdain as he looked at the crowd of people frantically preparing for the coming night. Idiots, he thought to himself. They're fools to think that the gods pay care about our fleeting existence, that we should appease them, throw ourselves upon their mercy. They have none. This much I know. From Khesan's perspective, the whole city was wasting it's time. The entire day had been spent preparing, with all labour and trade cancelled, and the same would be true tomorrow, though no-one officially admitted it. None of the citizens would be in a fit state for anything come the dawn. The night would be filled with celebrations; feasts where the noble families mixed with the poor, music and dancing, with all inhibitions and laws tossed out of the window. Although he hated the gods and their schemes, and felt disgust, and almost pity, for the people and their demeaning party, Khesan had to admit he enjoyed Maz'jin. While the Darabii were drowning themselves in a stupor of alcohol and copulating in filthy alleyways with strangers, he would be roaming the city stealing all their money.
Khesan had travelled to Darabi nearly ten years ago. Or, more accurately, he had fled. He had once been a herald of Iphal, the god of death. Ever since he was nine years old his life had been devoted to serving his master, giving everything he had to the priesthood. Khesan began once again to dwell on a night nine years in the past, a night of crushing guilt and despair. No. I will not think of that night again, nor of that god. The bastard means nothing any more. He forced himself of of his reverie, knowing it to be a dangerous thing to dwell on, especially today, his most profitable night of the year. When he first arrived in the sprawling city, he had no money, no possessions save the clothes on his back and an empty leather purse. He had gone hungry and restless for a week before he began to fill that purse with other people's money. He smirked to himself as he remembered the first time he realised he was actually good at thieving, and thoroughly enjoyed it. The realisation was a surprise, and a not unpleasant one. Since then, he had managed to gain enough wealth to get himself a permanent room at an inn on the city's middle levels. He could probably afford his own house by this point, but thought it best if he were less noticeable, and besides, he enjoyed the freedom the room gave him. He could get up and leave at any point, vanishing from any unpleasant enquiries, which were an unfortunate side effect of his profession. Especially in such a city as this. Darabi had many criminals, from petty thieves and pickpockets to hardened gangs. It also had incredibly full prison cells, and a suitably active set of gibbets.
Khesan settled into a more comfortable position, adjusting the multitude of pockets and pouches sewn into his dark tunic and trousers. He would be up on this roof for another hour or two, waiting for the first bolt of lightning to strike the huge Vinmarian crystal at the top of the city, signalling the start of the festivities. He had no fear of being seen, no-one would look up this night, lest they offend their great sky lord. Quietly chuckling to himself, Khesan began to run through his evenings plans. He would begin with the Manor he was currently perched on, entering through the thin hide stretched across the skylight before removing the occupants of most of their money. This was the only building he would need to enter tonight, the rest of his time would be spent moving through the likely intoxicated crowds, removing fat purses and gleaming jewellery from the richer citizens. He needn't worry about the guards either, they would be joining in the frivolity. They may as well hand me their money on a golden platter. Gods be damned, I love this city. His previous reminiscent anger forgotten, Khesan began to whistle softly to himself, absent mindedly fingering the small silver medallion hanging from his chest. Despite the amount he had stolen over the years, likely a small fortune's worth of money and possessions, it was the single thing of value he owned. He didn't steal with the intention of getting rich, he just did it because he could. He'd never had any plan to do anything at all with the money he gained, had never even given it a thought. It was simply what he did to survive.
Thanks again.
