Fantasy epic - another extract

[The Curious Orange]

Time for another extract. This is the first time we meet our romantic lead / heroine.
Let me know what you think.

Silence shattered in an eruption of splashes as webbed feet and slender flight feathers churned the surface of the lake into a tempest of chaos and noise. The duck thrashed its wings furiously and ran across the water, a far cry from the graceful creature that had glided over the smooth waves a moment earlier. A ground launch made flight seem deceptively simple – only a water take-off displayed the full force needed to break away from the earth’s pull.

Finally the mallard found the lift it needed, and took to the air. It flapped frantically, desperate to put as much distance as it could between itself and the silent predator above. It was already too late.

High overhead a small, fast speck shot through the sky like a quiver from a bow. Moving too fast for the eye to see, it could only be tracked by its mercurial shadow rippling across the fields below - a distinctive pattern and inconceivable speed that could only belong to a peregrine falcon.

The duck did not stand a chance; the falcon had already identified her kill. Tucking her wings behind her, she fell into a dive, gaining momentum with every second as far below her streamlined silhouette sped over the lake. The duck panicked in mid-flight as it realised the falcon was on top of it.

Razor-sharp talons slammed into soft flesh and snapped the fragile spine within. The duck died instantly.

The falcon struggled to retain control now that it carried excess weight. Hunter and prey fell to the ground as one. Men and dogs ran down the hill to search for the fallen fowl.

Princess Esseene of the Royal Kingdom of Neargale placed her little finger in her mouth just the way her father had taught her and gave a loud, shrill whistle. In response to the command, the falcon rose above the tree line, having abandoned its kill, and sped through the air, wings outstretched and motionless as it rode the wind currents back to its mistress’s wrist.

Esseene took a step backwards as she judged the falcon’s flight, and the last of the morning dew soaked through her satin slippers and chilled her feet. Her falcon made flight seem effortless. She wished she could trade places, even if only for a single heartbeat - to know how it felt to fly, to soar through the air, to be free. Surely it was a simple thing, to flap one’s wings and take to the sky? Even birds could do it, and yet she, a Princess, was doomed to remain rooted to the earth forever.

The falcon, whose name was Missy, pulled up on powerful wings and turned to approach talon-first. Esseene braced herself, and her heartbeat sped with the heady rush of exhilaration as it always did.

She held her gloved hand steady. Timing was everything - Falconry was a precise art, and a dangerous one - a fraction of a second either way and Missy would fly off over her head, or worse still, take an eye out. Such danger made the sport exciting.

The falcon alighted on her wrist - a perfect landing. Missy’s sharp talons held on securely yet gently, pinching her flesh through the hard leather as if aware the perch was of Royal blood and would not tolerate the slightest scratch.

The hounds barked as they broke cover and ran up the hill, one of them holding the fallen duck in its jaws.

Esseene took a purple-plumed leather hood and placed it gently over Missy’s head and then fastened the small buckle that held it in place. Falcons always looked rather undignified in plumed hoods, but the purple feather identified Missy as a Royal Bird, and deserving of special attention. She handed Missy to the chief codger, who took her and fastened jesse and bell to the bird’s leg.

Missy was a fine bird, from a strong pedigree, but a good falcon was more than mere lineage. Esseene had trained Missy herself, and over the years mistress and bird had built up a relationship of trust. She had always remembered her duty to the bird, and flew her regularly. Missy had a strong wing and a keen eye; she flew straight and true and always caught what she hunted.

She removed her gauntlet and looked for a servant to pass it to, but there were none around. The rest of the hawking party gathered around the top of the hill, more interested in displaying the latest fashions and trading court gossip than in flying their birds.

She was alone. Solitude was a rare commodity for a Princess. She was still in sight of the guards, of course, but they were of no importance. Breathing a sigh of relief, she relished the moment while it lasted. Sometimes she thought that being constantly surrounded would drive her insane - The Price of Royalty, her father called it.

A cool breeze blew across her cheeks as she gazed across the open countryside. The open green hills and ancient trees made this spot an oasis of serenity. She filled her lungs with the sweet, fresh hillside air and walked to the lake. She had travelled the length and breadth of the kingdom, but the most beautiful place she had seen was at her own doorstep.

From behind her, someone called her name.

She turned around, intent on demanding an explanation from whomever dared to disturb her privacy, and saw her father, Nathaal, King of Neargale, running down the hill towards her.

Tears of joy exploded in her heart and flowed down her cheeks.

#​

“I looked in the mirror this morning and I could hardly believe it was myself gazing back,” King Nathaal said, scratching his fingers through his beard.

Esseene clung onto his arm as they walked side-by-side along the lake as the last of the afternoon’s light faded behind the trees and cast a golden glow across the ground, shining like honey as it surged over the surface of the water. All she could think of was that her father was home, and she was holding him. She had barely listened to his exploits; so engrossed was she in her own schemes to ensure he never left her again. He was alive, he was safe, and he was home. After three years, things were back the way they should be.

She stretched up to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Nonsense, father. You look as if you never left us.” His hair was a little greyer around the temples, his face more careworn around the eyes, but otherwise it was true, he looked just like he had the day three years ago when he rode off to fight Demanas Gruke.

Nathaal laughed. “Thank you, my daughter, I believe I do.” They walked on for a while, enjoying the silence they shared. The Royal Guards were still present, but at the King’s instruction had withdrawn to a comfortable distance.

Nathaal sighed heavily. “Although I do not feel like I am the same person.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

His voice dropped to a hushed whisper, ever cautious in case they were being overheard. “The war does not go well. Our forces are in retreat.”

“I – I do not understand. Surely your homecoming is a glorious occasion?”

“So we will have the people believe. The truth is somewhat different. Even now Demanas Gruke marches on Neargale. He has amassed a huge army, greater than any history has seen.”

He gazed at the ground as he walked and a tone of despair entered his voice. “We are beaten, we cannot fight. They scorch the earth behind them as they advance, burning crops, killing livestock, and putting entire villages to the sword. Tyre has fallen, Salomandia lies burnt to the ground, and there is no news from Cerrian. It is feared even that mighty city has fallen.”

A gentle breeze blew over the lake and caused the surface to ripple into tiny waves, golden sunlight glinted off them and they shone like swords on a battlefield. The breeze was sharp against her face and pulled several strands of hair free. She tucked them back into place as she listened to her father.

Nathaal stood still and stared out across the water. “There are rumours, Esseene, rumours of a foul sorcery that Gruke possesses. They say he commands unspeakable horrors…”

She looked into his eyes, and caught a glimpse of something that chilled her to the core. He was frightened, and his fear made her more afraid than anything Gruke could hope to muster.

He turned back to stare out over the lake. “I should not have worried you, child. I do not even know if such a thing is possible, let alone true, or whether these are the idle excuses of cowards.”

She squeezed his arm. “You are back with us, father. Nothing can scare me again.”

 

[Oykib]

I know they are royalty and I know you are attempting to depict them as intellectual and fine-talking nobility, however this dialog, frankly, doesn’t feel natural. Although you don’t want dialog so flamboyant that it isn’t realistic (you do want dialog original and unnatural to a certain extent—interesting dialog never sounds like real people), I think you should add more character into their dialog. They seem very flat and their conversations are, well, boring. I always look forward to dialog when reading material, as it really gives life to a character!

I would suggest that you give them more playful conversation, like fathers and daughters, that are close, typically have. Let the hint of his despair be more subtle and let her dig until she can get him to tell her why he’s in a state of gloom. I’m sure there’s a ton to catch up on after being gone 3 years. If she’s really happy to see him, she’ll be bursting at the seams with stories of things that happened around the kingdom while he was gone (who died, more servants they’ve acquired, who had children, who was arrested—royal gossip). Let them joke and lie in their dialog, instead of getting right to the point—this will also help us understand their characters and their history. Good dialog is really really tough to write, but I know you have it in you…the rest of your writing is very good and you have a very professional style. Look forward to reading more or a rewrite if you decide.

 

[The Curious Orange]

Many thanks - I see your point.

The dialogue is, I feel, the one piece of the puzzle I have left to master. It's the primary comment my test readers make. This is an epic fantasy, full of powerful mages, barbarian warlords, savage tribesmen, lowly grunts and high-born princesses all talking in the same language. The problem is that it all sounds fine and appropriate to me. It's just my test readers that seem to have a problem with it (yes, I know that means they must be right, but it doesn't help me solve the problem!)
I'm rapidly going word-blind re-reading and re-writing these early chapters.

The other factor is one of length - this baby is lo-o-o-o-o-ong, so every time I extend something, I have to delete something else. In the early chapters this is fine, as it's the descriptive "purple prose" that's getting the chop, but in the latter chapters it gets harder, and I'm cutting into minor plot points and secondary characters.

I write so slowly I make George R R Martin look like he knocks them out, so while it's nice to know I have an audience for a re-write, don't hold your breath!

 

[Oykib]

Dialog is, to me, the most delicate and complicated part of writing—but it’s the part that will give you huge payoff. It adds edge and life to your characters. For example: We live in a characters head for 3-4 chapters. We begin to think like that character, however dialog presents conflict and emotion, which cause us to begin to change our thoughts about that character to form our own opinion.

One big suggestion on dialog I’ve learned to use is, listen to how people talk. Although novel dialog never sounds like real people, it’s neat to watch the flow of a conversation. How we start talking about one thing and end up arguing about another. In the real world, dialog (chatting/talking) is the only way we can “get inside” someone else’s head.

My only real suggestion is practice writing random dialog (which is interesting, I’ve had a whole story idea come from this). Let other people read what you've written (heck post it here). Spice the conversations up! Let the conversation evolve, from a simple talk of weather to a heated argument back to confessing love for one another! Ok ok I’m rambling now, I wish you good luck in your writing, you’ve got talent.

 

[Giovanna Clairval]

Hi, Curious Orange,

After reading your post about local colour/info-dump in another thread you started, I looked for examples of your prose. I then proclaimed myself one of your beta-readers, as someone has nicely called them, and set forth to examine your style.

Your excerpt here does not particularly contain info-dump or description, however I found a little writing tic you have (we all have those and we need someone else to point them out to us).

You tend to weigh down on the action with useless comments. It is as if you felt the urge to explain to your reader any little detail. Give the reader facts and behaviour; she loves working a little, making assumptions, and filling in the dotted lines (but she must have something to chew on, of course). I believe someone else told you the same when you posted your previous extract. It was about the burning barrel, I think. Children appreciate that kind of explanation. We do not. Do we really need to hear from you that a duck whose spine and neck have been shattered would die instantaneously?

As I dislike commenting without showing, I took my gentle sword to your excerpt and acted the editor.

I skimmed the milk of the first half. Below you’ll find my suggestions in red (cut) and blue (add). The copy with colours is not identical to the clear copy because my serviceable and kind sword was carried away, sometimes.

Here’s the thing.

Webbed feet and slender flight feathers churned the surface of the lake into a tempest of chaos and noise. The duck thrashed its wings furiously and ran across the water, no longer the graceful creature that had glided over the waves a moment earlier.
Finally, the mallard found the lift it needed, and took to the air. It flapped frantically, desperate to put as much distance as it could between itself and the silent predator above. High overhead a speck shot through the sky like a bolt from a crossbow, moving too fast for the eye to see.

Tucking her wings behind her, the falcon fell into a dive, and the duck jerked in mid-flight. Razor-sharp talons slammed into soft flesh and snapped the fragile spine within.
Weighed down, the falcon struggled to retain control. Together, hunter and prey fell to the ground.
Men and dogs ran down the hill for the fallen fowl.

Princess Esseene of the Royal Kingdom of Neargale placed her little finger in her mouth the way her father had taught her and gave a loud, shrill whistle.

The falcon rose above the tree line, abandoning her kill, and sped through the air, wings outstretched as she rode the wind back to her mistress.
Esseene took a step backwards. The last of the morning dew soaked through her satin slippers and chilled her feet. Her falcon made flight seem effortless. She wished they could trade places, even if only for a single heartbeat. She wished she knew how it felt to be free.

Missy, the falcon, pulled up on powerful wings and turned in mid air, talons first.
Esseene braced herself; her heartbeat sped, and she felt the familiar, heady rush of elation.
She held her gloved hand steady. The tiniest movement would have Missy fly off over her head or gouge out one of her eyes.

The falcon alighted on her wrist. Sharp talons pinched her flesh through the hard leather, but without scratching it, as if the bird showed respect for such Royal perch.

The hounds barked as they broke cover and ran up the hill, one of them holding the fallen duck in its jaws.
Esseene took a purple-plumed leather hood, placed it gently over Missy’s head, and then fastened the small buckle that held it in place. The purple identified Missy as a Royal Bird deserving of special attention.
She handed Missy to the chief codger, who took her and fastened jesse and bell to the bird’s leg.

Missy was a fine bird from a strong pedigree, and yet a good falcon is more than mere lineage. She had a strong wing and a keen eye, flew straight and true, and always caught the prey she hunted. Esseene had trained the falcon herself; over the years, mistress and bird had built up a relationship of trust.

The Princess removed her gauntlet and looked around for a servant to pass it to, but saw none. She was alone, a rare commodity. The rest of the hawking party gathered around the top of the hill, more interested in displaying the latest fashions and trading court gossip than in flying their birds. Breathing a sigh of relief, she relished the moment while it lasted. Sometimes she thought that being constantly surrounded would drive her insane – ‘The Price of Royalty,’ her father said.

A cool breeze blew on her cheeks as she gazed across serene, open green hills and ancient trees. She filled her lungs with the sweet, fresh hillside air and walked towards the lake. She had travelled the length and breadth of the kingdom, but the most beautiful place she had seen was at her own doorstep.

From behind her, someone called her name.She turned around, intent on demanding an explanation from whomever dared to disturb her privacy, and saw her father, Nathaal, King of Neargale, run down the hill in her direction.

Joy exploded in her heart and tears flowed down her cheeks.

Webbed feet and slender flight feathers churnedthe surface of the lake into a tempest of chaos and noise. Silence shattered in ab eruption of splashes as webbed feet and slender flight feathers churnedthe surface of the lake into a tempest of chaos and noise. The duck thrashed its wings furiously and ran across the water, a far cry from [no longer]the graceful creature that had glided over the smooth waves a moment earlier. A ground launch made flight seem deceptively simple – only a water take-off displayed the full force needed to break away from the earth’s pull.

Finally the mallard found the lift it needed, and took to the air. It flapped frantically, desperate to put as much distance as it could between itself and the silent predator above. It was already too late. High overhead a small, fast speck shot through the sky like a quiver from a bow [the quivering on the rope of a bow? A quiver that holds arrows? I’m lost here. And also, the above sentence should convey speed. I suggest bolt and crossbow]. Moving too fast for the eye to see, it could only be tracked by its mercurial shadow rippling across the fields below [if it is a speck, how big would its shadow be?]- a distinctive pattern and inconceivable speed that could only belong to a peregrine falcon [you don’t need to guess. You just say “the falcon” below].The duck did not stand a chance; the falcon had already identified her kill.
Tucking her wings behind her, the falcon fell into a dive, gaining momentum with every second asfar below her streamlined silhouette sped over the lake. The duck panickedjerked in mid-flight. the falcon was on top of it.Razor-sharp talons slammed into soft flesh and snapped the fragile spine within. The duck died instantly.

The falcon struggled to retain control now that it carried excess weight. Together, hunter and prey fell to the ground as one. Men and dogs ran down the hill to search for the fallen fowl.
Princess Esseene of the Royal Kingdom of Neargale placed her little finger in her mouthjust the way her father had taught her and gave a loud, shrill whistle. In response to the command,The falcon rose above the tree line, having abandoning its kill, and sped through the air, wings outstretched and motionless as itshe rode the wind currents back to itsher mistress’s wrist.
Esseene took a step backwards as she judged the falcon’s flight, and tThe last of the morning dew soaked through her satin slippers and chilled her feet. Her falcon made flight seem effortless. She wished shethey could trade places, even if only for a single heartbeat - to know how it felt to fly, to soar through the air, to be free. Surely it was a simple thing, to flap one’s wings and take to the sky? Even birds could do it, and yet she, a Princess, was doomed to remain rooted to the earth forever.
Missy, the falcon, whose name was Missy, pulled up on powerful wings and turned in mid air, to approach talons first. Esseene braced herself, and her heartbeat sped with the a familiar, heady rush of exhilaration [elation, I would think] as it always did.She held her gloved hand steady. Timing was everything - Falconry was a precise art, and a dangerous one - A fraction of a second either way and Missy would fly off over her head, or worse still [we can imagine that it’s worse], take an eye out gouge out one of her eyes. Such danger made the sport exciting.
The falcon alighted on her wrist - a perfect landing. Missy’s sharp talons held on securely yet gently, pinching her mistress’s flesh through the hard leather as if aware the perch was of Royal blood and would not tolerate the slightest scratch. [I made another suggestion above]

The hounds barked as they broke cover and ran up the hill, one of them holding the fallen duck in its jaws.

Esseene took a purple-plumed leather hood[,]and placed it gently over Missy’s head[,] and then fastened the small buckle that held it in place. Falcons always looked rather undignified in plumed hoods, but tThe purple feather identified Missy as a Royal Bird, and deserving ofspecial attention. She handed Missy to the chief codger, who took her and fastened jesse and bell to the bird’s leg.

Missy was a fine bird, from a strong pedigree, but a good falcon wasis more than mere lineage. She had a strong wing and a keen eye, flew straight and true and always caught what she hunted. Esseene had trained Missy the falcon herself, and over the years mistress and bird had built up a relationship of trust. She had always remembered her duty to the bird, and flew her regularly. [no need to explain] Missy had a strong wing and a keen eye; she flew straight and true and always caught what she hunted [I pulled this up into the previous paragraph].
She removed her gauntlet and looked for a servant to pass it to, but there were none around. The rest of the hawking party gathered around the top of the hill, more interested in displaying the latest fashions and trading court gossip than in flying their birds. She was alone. Solitude was, a rare commodity for a Princess. She was still in sight of the guards, of course, but they were of no importance.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she relished the moment while it lasted. Sometimes she thought that being constantly surrounded would drive her insane - The Price of Royalty, her father called it.
A cool breeze blew across on her cheeks as she gazed across the serene, open countryside. The open green hills and ancient trees made this spot an oasis of serenity. She filled her lungs with the sweet, fresh hillside air and walked to the lake. She had travelled the length and breadth of the kingdom, but the most beautiful place she had seen was at her own doorstep.

From behind her, someone called her name.She turned around, intent on demanding an explanation from whomever dared to disturb her privacy, and saw her father, Nathaal, King of Neargale, running down the hill towards her.

Joy exploded in her heart and tears of joy exploded in her heart [too strong a metaphor. Made me stop reading] and flowed down her cheeks.

 

[dustinzgirl]

I like it, but all the above is fairly spot on.

"Tears of joy exploded in her heart and flowed down her cheeks."

I dunno, I've never actually seen that happen.

 

[The Curious Orange]

Thank you very much Giovanna - Now I've just got to do that all the way through the rest of the book!

Not sure why I thought "quiver" was a synonym for "arrow", when I know darn well it's the thing arrows are kept in...

I'm suffering from IT problems at the moment, so I can't post or e-mail anymore extracts just now - hopefully get it sorted soon!

 

[timelord4]

I liked it. GC is right about your tic though. Once you cut through the fat to the meat, you've got a good story. The first part was interesting to me because I don't know much about falconry apart from what's shown on Discovery Channel. But there it is in a nutshell. You don't want people reading your story because it reads like a Geographical Magazine. *g* A shade too much small print.

But, saying that, I also enjoyed the second part, where father comes home. I personally found the dialogue very good. However, I can see where Oykib is coming from. If my mood had been different, I would have felt the same as he did. I think what generates this, is the mood that's set up from start to finish. Because I was interested in the beginning, I set the voices in my head automatically at the end. But, there it is again. The nutshell. The beginning needs to hook them, for them to set the image in their heads all the way through.

Does that make sense? Or do we both have a headache now?

Keep going TCO. I'd like to see some more.

 

[The Curious Orange]

I've had a bash at re-writing the scene between father and daughter to make it a little lighter - it now starts with her telling him the gossip, and him not really listening. I'm not sure whether I like it as much.

Thanks for all the criticism and support - it's good to know what works and what doesn't!

 

[ysabara]

Lots of good advice in the above comments. Sounds like you have an absolute epic on your hands My only nitpick is that you tend to over describe things. I think you can pare your sentences down and still convey what you need, or want to. There is no doubt that you are able to tell a story ~ you have real style.

Cheers Y