Does this opening work? (993 words)

[allmywires]

I've been struggling with my fantasy WIP for a long while now. I think I've just about polished off the opening segment, though I worry it's too verbose/unnecessary. Would the opening segment put you off reading more? Also, anything else crit-worthy, I'm all ears.

*

In the sun the dry fields of Laurent turned brown, curling into wisps of a half-forgotten memory. In the autumn rains the plants would come to life again, and through the mild winter green would reign over the rises and falls of the country, glittering with frost on Amba’s Eve as the aurora danced above, green and gold and blue. Through spring the fruits would swell and burst, sweet juices feeding insects and colourful birds that flitted across the cornflower-blue skies, and the wind would tickle the forgotten remains of towns torn apart by the War, wood rotting in the never-ending sun, white walls bleached and bare.

Now, in the summer, the skies remained azure and cloudless, insects clouding the air and crickets cawing on the ground. The coastline, much like the rest of the country, was crumbling into the sea: dark, heavy boulders lay scattered on the beach, speckled with the same bright mica that gave the sand such a clingy, glittery quality. Grass on the clifftops buffeted in the wind, soft and springy as fur, and on the horizon blue melded to blue, the distant Breakers invisible, the emptiness suffocating.

Ezia sat among the tall, scratchy grass on the edge of the cliff, watching the beach. She had been hunting rabbit, and overnight her traps had filled with fat, wild animals, stiff in death. Now they were loaded into her pack and she was on her way home, but she’d trod on something sharp in the grass and had stopped to examine it. It was a greenstone ring, and now she turned it over and over in her hand, the dusting of micaceous sand giving its tarnished metal a second shine. A relic.

She flicked it glumly over the cliff, watching as it disappeared into the boulders. There was a pack of stray dogs on the beach, fighting over a half-rotten seal’s carcass. She watched them for a while, dancing near the incoming tide, growling and yapping as the crystal-bright water approached them. In the nearby cove, fishing boats bobbed on the water, anchored by their owners; Ezia was the only person around for miles. On Nâ-day the rest of the town’s inhabitants were in the dark shade of the bosca, receiving their weekly contemplation.

She hadn’t been back to the town for a week now. She wondered if anyone even missed her.

Heaving her pack over her shoulders and picking her bow up from the dusty grass, she stood up. The beach stretched in a lazy curve over a few miles, a soft bite out of the land: to her left, the north, was a rocky outcrop where one of the old pill-box watchtowers stood, leftover from the war; to the south there was a little fishing village, the bleached white houses glittering in the sun and the faint tinkle of the wooden cow-bells audible over the rushing of the tide.

As she followed the dusty path up the cliff and towards the watchtower, she heard the distant sound of conversation. Hurrying off the track and into the berry-bushes – her leather chaps and gloves protected her from the worst scratches – she concealed herself like a sand-cat, breathing shallowly as the voices approached.

‘-bloody place is empty, can’t see what we’re doing lugging this out into the back of beyond. We’ll never find anything.’

‘We’ve gotta keep looking. Keep looking until we find something.’

‘All very well for you to say, but you’re not the one carrying the box, Hodrace. Want to give me a hand?’

‘No, you’re all right.’

‘Right then. Where do you want to start?’

‘There’s a big dyke down by that cove, could be something interesting.’

The voices were nearly upon her, the heavy tramping of boots against dirt a cover for the gentle rustling of the grass as she moved slightly closer for a better view.

‘Why the dyke?’

‘It’s a place to start, isn’t it?’

‘We’re not looking for bloody dykes, we’re looking for-’

‘Shh!’ The second speaker, Hodrace, sounded panicked. Ezia stilled as the men stopped walking, hoping she was fully concealed in the bracken as the first man turned to face the other. His boots were black and dusty, but steel-capped: the others were brown leather, flaking at the toes and separating from the sole in places.

‘What, Hod? Are you afraid the Divinity can hear you?’

‘Why would I be afraid? They sent us here.’ Ezia got a better look of their uniforms. Standard khaki, streaked with dirt and oil: pink hands filthy and swollen with sweat. Not used to the heat; Orians, of course. ‘We’re doing God’s work, Mol, and we shouldn’t be shouting about it.’

‘But God Himself is not paying you fifty reta an hour, is He? Your piousness is really starting to get on my nerves, as is this secret mission. I don’t get why we can’t just bloody use the thing.’

Ezia remained still, frozen with intrigue, her legs cramping from the effort of staying still. She watched as one of the men dropped a black box onto the ground. Heavy, by the sounds of it: a cloud of dust blew up from where it landed.

‘Mol, don’t.’

‘You heard what the knight said. It’ll tell us if anything interesting is near. We shouldn’t have to do all the dirty work ourselves, what’s the point in having the damn thing if it doesn’t tell us what we’re looking for-’

Ezia flinched as there was a heavy crack and the man named Mol crumpled to
the ground, his face inches from the edge of the path. She watched his eyes roll, the blood seeping from the gaping crack in his forehead.

‘Stupid *******,’ the one called Hodrace said, his voice laced with contempt, before lifting the black box with ease and, almost as an afterthought, giving Mol a heavy kick in the back. ‘Sleep well, dear Mol. I hope they don’t tire of your endless complaining in Hell.’

 

[SciFrac]

The Good: I liked this a lot. You're using some wonderful language, and it sounds like I'm reading an experienced writer. That keeps me turning pages.

The Neutral: I'd like to feel closer to Ezia. What is she feeling about her surroundings? What does she think about the night's catch? In other words, in what state of mind do we meet her?

The Bad: While the description was beautiful, I felt it lasted just a tad longer than needed. If we heard Ezia's thoughts about it instead of a removed description, it might work better. I also felt the characters were talking about things they should already know. Ex- "You heard what the knight said..." Is there a different way they could reveal that info?

And a small nit to pick- you use "remained" twice, and both times I thought there was something better. What about, "...the azure, cloudless skies..."

Good stuff. Keep it up!

 

[EricWard]

*

In the sun the dry fields of Laurent turned brown, curling into wisps of a half-forgotten memory. Like the opening line, a sense of decay In the autumn rains the plants would come to life again, and through the mild winter[,] green would reign over the rises and falls of the country, glittering with frost on Amba’s Eve as the aurora danced above, green and gold and blue. That last line took me a second read, but I got that Amba's is a winter holiday of some kind. Through spring the fruits would swell and burst, sweet juices feeding insects and colourful birds that flitted across the cornflower-blue skies, and the wind would tickle the forgotten remains of towns torn apart by the War, wood rotting in the never-ending sun, white walls bleached and bare.

Now, in the summer, the skies remained azure and cloudless, insects clouding since you just used 'cloudless', I would choose another word to describe the abundance of insects the air and crickets cawing on the ground. The coastline, much like the rest of the country, was crumbling into the sea: dark, heavy boulders lay scattered on the beach, speckled with the same bright mica that gave the sand such a clingy, glittery quality. Grass on the clifftops buffeted in the wind, soft and springy as fur, and on the horizon blue melded to blue, the distant Breakers invisible, the emptiness suffocating. When I hear 'breakers' in relation to the sea, I think waves, but since it's capitalized, are they something other than waves? Or is that a typo?

Ezia sat among the tall, scratchy grass on the edge of the cliff, watching the beach. She had been hunting rabbit, and overnight her traps had filled with fat, wild animals, stiff in death. Now they were loaded into her pack and she was on her way home, but she’d trod on something sharp in the grass and had stopped to examine it. It was a greenstone ring, and now she turned it over and over in her hand, the dusting of micaceous sand giving its tarnished metal a second shine. A relic. I'm glad that you started to 'zoom in' here to a character because I think another paragraph like the first two would have been too much. This seems balanced.

She flicked it glumly over the cliff, with the detail and apparent value of the relic, I'm a little confused about why she would throw it. If it's useless to her, I'd emphasize that watching as it disappeared into the boulders. There was a pack of stray dogs on the beach, fighting over a half-rotten seal’s carcass. Good image She watched them for a while, dancing near the incoming tide, growling and yapping as the crystal-bright water approached them. In the nearby cove, fishing boats bobbed on the water, anchored by their owners; I feel like there's a better way to say the boats were anchored. As is, it sounds like the owners were physically the anchors Ezia was the only person around for miles. I would re-emphasize that the owners aren't on their boats, or it contradicts this line. On Nâ-day the rest of the town’s inhabitants were in the dark shade of the bosca, receiving their weekly contemplation. I can infer that Nâ-day is a day of the week or a holiday, but you lost me with bosca.

She hadn’t been back to the town for a week now. She wondered if anyone even missed her.

Heaving her pack over her shoulders and picking her bow up from the dusty grass, she stood up. The beach stretched in a lazy curve over a few miles, a soft bite out of the land: to her left, the north, was a rocky outcrop where one of the old pill-box now I have to nitpick here, does this world have actual pill-boxes to make this comparison? If not, I'd pick another adjective watchtowers stood, leftover from the war; to the south there was a little fishing village, the bleached white houses glittering in the sun and the faint tinkle of the wooden cow-bells while wooden bells do exist and they do make a tinkling noise, cow bells are designed to be very loud and clunking so the farmer can keep track of where the cattle is, not buying it audible over the rushing of the tide.

As she followed the dusty path up the cliff and towards the watchtower, she heard the distant sound of conversation. Hurrying off the track and into the berry-bushes – her leather chaps and gloves protected her from the worst scratches make sure to point out that the berry-bushes have thorns or something, or this aside isn't needed – she concealed herself like a sand-cat, breathing shallowly as the voices approached.

‘-bloody place is empty, can’t see what we’re doing lugging this out into the back of beyond. We’ll never find anything.’

‘We’ve gotta keep looking. Keep looking until we find something.’

‘All very well for you to say, but you’re not the one carrying the box, Hodrace. Want to give me a hand?’

‘No, you’re all right.’

‘Right then. Where do you want to start?’

‘There’s a big dyke down by that cove, could be something interesting.’

The voices were nearly upon her, the heavy tramping of boots against dirt a cover for the gentle rustling of the grass as she moved slightly closer for a better view. Good sense of tension here, well done

‘Why the dyke?’

‘It’s a place to start, isn’t it?’

‘We’re not looking for bloody dykes, we’re looking for-’

‘Shh!’ The second speaker, Hodrace, sounded panicked. Ezia stilled as the men stopped walking, hoping she was fully concealed in the bracken as the first man turned to face the other. His boots were black and dusty, but steel-capped: the others were brown leather, flaking at the toes and separating from the sole in places.

‘What, Hod? Are you afraid the Divinity can hear you?’

‘Why would I be afraid? They sent us here.’ Ezia got a better look of their uniforms. Standard khaki, streaked with dirt and oil: pink hands filthy and swollen with sweat. Not used to the heat; Orians, of course. A style choice, but I would personally separate her observation from the dialogue ‘We’re doing God’s work, Mol, and we shouldn’t be shouting about it.’

‘But God Himself is not paying you fifty reta an hour, is He? Your piousness is really starting to get on my nerves, as is this secret mission. I don’t get why we can’t just bloody use the thing.’

Ezia remained still, frozen with intrigue, her legs cramping from the effort of staying still. Suggest replacing 'still' with something else to avoid needless repetition She watched as one of the men dropped a black box onto the ground. Heavy, by the sounds of it[;] a cloud of dust blew up from where it landed.

‘Mol, don’t.’

‘You heard what the knight said. It’ll tell us if anything interesting is near. We shouldn’t have to do all the dirty work ourselves, what’s the point in having the damn thing if it doesn’t tell us what we’re looking for-’ A little exposition-y, but not too much

Ezia flinched as there was a heavy crack and the man named Mol crumpled to
the ground, his face inches from the edge of the path. She watched his eyes roll, the blood seeping from the gaping crack in his forehead.

‘Stupid *******,’ the one called Hodrace said, his voice laced with contempt, before lifting the black box with ease and, almost as an afterthought, giving Mol a heavy kick in the back. ‘Sleep well, dear Mol. I hope they don’t tire of your endless complaining in Hell.’ Since these guys were just introduced, I could be wrong about the characters, but this seems pretty low key if the other guy's face just melted

I liked it. The opening was almost lyrical and, I think, gave a good sense of seasonal changes on the world while slipping in a few world-building phrases. The dialogue sounded a little exposition-y between the two guys, but it's not too bad (a bickering argument is one of the few places to get away with exposition dialogue in my opinion). I'm intrigued by what's in the box and Ezia seems to be a headstrong, likable character at this point.

 

[Stephen4444]

Hi allmywires, your doing ok with your prose. I found a few things wrong that I will come back and adress later, if no one else does. I put red brackets around some adverbs that need to be deleted. Have to go, so that’s all I have time to do today.

In the sun [,][the]DELETE dry fields of Laurent turned brown, curling into wisps of a half-forgotten memory FRAGMENT. In the autumn rains the plants would come to life again, and through the mild winter green would reign over the rises and falls of the country, glittering with frost on Amba’s Eve as the aurora danced above, green and gold and blue. Through spring the fruits would swell and burst, sweet juices feeding insects and colourful birds that flitted across the cornflower-blue skies, and the wind would tickle the forgotten remains of towns torn apart by the War, wood rotting in the never-ending sun, white walls bleached and bare.

Now, in the summer, the skies remained azure and cloudless, insects clouding the air and crickets cawing on the ground. The coastline, much like the rest of the country, was crumbling into the sea: dark, heavy boulders lay scattered on the beach, speckled with the same bright mica that gave the sand such a clingy, glittery quality. Grass on the clifftops buffeted in the wind, soft and springy as fur, and on the horizon blue melded to blue, the distant Breakers invisible, the emptiness suffocating.

Ezia sat among the tall, scratchy grass on the edge of the cliff, watching the beach. She had been hunting rabbit, and overnight her traps had filled with fat, wild animals, stiff in death. Now they [were loaded]PASSIVE VOICE into her pack and she was on her way home, but she’d trod on something sharp in the grass and had stopped to examine it. It was a greenstone ring, and now she turned it over and over in her hand, the dusting of micaceous sand giving its tarnished metal a second shine. A relic.

She flicked it [glumly] over the cliff, watching as it disappeared into the boulders. There was a pack of stray dogs on the beach, fighting over a half-rotten seal’s carcass. She watched them for a while, dancing near the incoming tide, growling and yapping as the crystal-bright water approached them. In the nearby cove, fishing boats bobbed on the water, anchored by their owners; Ezia was the only person around for miles. On Nâ-day the rest of the town’s inhabitants were in the dark shade of the bosca, receiving their weekly contemplation.

She hadn’t been back to the town for a week now. She wondered if anyone even missed her.

Heaving her pack over her shoulders and picking her bow up from the dusty grass, she stood up. The beach stretched in a lazy curve over a few miles, a soft bite out of the land: to her left, the north, was a rocky outcrop where one of the old pill-box watchtowers stood, leftover from the war; to the south there was a little fishing village, the bleached white houses glittering in the sun and the faint tinkle of the wooden cow-bells audible over the rushing of the tide.

As she followed the dusty path up the cliff and towards the watchtower, she heard the distant sound of conversation. Hurrying off the track and into the berry-bushes – her leather chaps and gloves protected her from the worst scratches – she concealed herself like a sand-cat, breathing [shallowly] as the voices approached.

‘-bloody place is empty, can’t see what we’re doing lugging this out into the back of beyond. We’ll never find anything.’

‘We’ve gotta keep looking. Keep looking until we find something.’

‘All very well for you to say, but you’re not the one carrying the box, Hodrace. Want to give me a hand?’

‘No, you’re all right.’

‘Right then. Where do you want to start?’

‘There’s a big dyke down by that cove, could be something interesting.’

The voices were [nearly] upon her, the heavy tramping of boots against dirt a cover for the gentle rustling of the grass as she moved [slightly] closer for a better view.

‘Why the dyke?’

‘It’s a place to start, isn’t it?’

‘We’re not looking for bloody dykes, we’re looking for-’

‘Shh!’ The second speaker, Hodrace, sounded panicked. Ezia stilled as the men stopped walking, hoping she was [fully] concealed in the bracken as the first man turned to face the other. His boots were black and dusty, but steel-capped: the others were brown leather, flaking at the toes and separating from the sole in places.

‘What, Hod? Are you afraid the Divinity can hear you?’

‘Why would I be afraid? They sent us here.’ Ezia got a better look of their uniforms. Standard khaki, streaked with dirt and oil: pink hands filthy and swollen with sweat. Not used to the heat; Orians, of course. ‘We’re doing God’s work, Mol, and we shouldn’t be shouting about it.’

‘But God Himself is not paying you fifty reta an hour, is He? Your piousness is [really] starting to get on my nerves, as is this secret mission. I don’t get why we can’t just bloody use the thing.’

Ezia remained still, frozen with intrigue, her legs cramping from the effort of staying still. She watched as one of the men dropped a black box onto the ground. Heavy, by the sounds of it: a cloud of dust blew up from where it landed.

‘Mol, don’t.’

‘You heard what the knight said. It’ll tell us if anything interesting is near. We shouldn’t have to do all the dirty work ourselves, what’s the point in having the damn thing if it doesn’t tell us what we’re looking for-’

Ezia flinched as there was a heavy crack and the man named Mol crumpled to
the ground, his face inches from the edge of the path. She watched his eyes roll, the blood seeping from the gaping crack in his forehead.

‘Stupid *******,’ the one called Hodrace said, his voice laced with contempt, before lifting the black box with ease and, almost as an afterthought, giving Mol a heavy kick in the back. ‘Sleep well, dear Mol. I hope they don’t tire of your endless complaining

 

[Mouse]

It's okay to use adverbs when you use them sparingly. There's no law saying you must never use them ever.

Where's Patrick now, AMW? It's intriguing but I can't see how it works in comparison to the rest of it, but then I know you've rewritten it a lot since I last saw it.

 

[Jo Zebedee]

In the sun the dry fields of Laurent turned brown, curling into wisps of a half-forgotten memory. In the autumn rainscomma? for clarity? the plants would come to life again, and through the mild winteragain other wise it sounds like the winter is green green would reign over the rises and falls of the country, glittering with frost on Amba’s Eve as the aurora danced above, green and gold and blue. Through spring the fruits would swell and burst, sweet juices feeding insects and colourful birds that flitted across the cornflower-blue skies, and the wind would tickle the forgotten remains of towns torn apart by the War, wood rotting in the never-ending sun, white walls bleached and bare. Um, it's maybe just me, but I'm sort of saying okay, so where is this going. We've gone through a years worth of description just to tell me how it is now?

Now, in the summer, the skies remained azure and cloudless, insects clouding the air and crickets cawinglike this. I'm not entirely sure they do caw, but I still quite like it. on the ground. The coastline, much like the rest of the country? the rest of the country was crumbling, or it was crumbling into the sea? that's the way it reads, and if so are they on a really small island or something? I'd like this to be a little more precise, was crumbling into the sea: dark, heavy boulders lay scattered on the beach, speckled with the same bright mica that gave the sand such a clingy, glittery quality. Grass on the clifftops buffeted in the wind, soft and springy as fur, and on the horizon blue melded to blue, the distant Breakers invisible, the emptiness suffocating.

Ezia sat among the tall, scratchy grass on the edge of the cliff, watching the beach. She had been hunting rabbit, and overnight her traps had filled with fat, wild animals, stiff in death. Now they were loaded into her pack and she was on her way home, but she’d trod on something sharp in the grass and had stopped to examine it. It was a greenstone ring, and nowdon't need now? she turned it over and over in her hand, the dusting of micaceous sand giving its tarnished metal a second shine. A relic.

She flicked it glumly over the cliff, watching as it disappeared into the boulders. There was a pack of stray dogs on the beach, fighting over a half-rotten seal’s carcass. She watched them for a while, dancing near the incoming tide, growling and yapping as the crystal-bright water approached them. In the nearby cove, fishing boats bobbed on the water, anchored by their owners; Ezia was the only person around for miles. On Nâ-day the rest of the town’s inhabitants were in the dark shade of the bosca, receiving their weekly contemplation.

She hadn’t been back to the town for a week now. She wondered if anyone even missed her.

Heaving her pack over her shoulders and picking her bow up from the dusty grass, she stood up. The beach stretched in a lazy curve over a few miles, a soft bite out of the land: to her left, the north, was a rocky outcrop where one of the old pill-box watchtowers stood, leftover from the war; to the south there was a little fishing village, the bleached white houses glittering in the sun and the faint tinkle of the wooden cow-bells audible over the rushing of the tide.

As she followed the dusty path up the cliff and towards the watchtower, she heard the distant sound of conversation. Hurrying off the track and into the berry-bushes – her leather chaps and gloves protected her from the worst scratches – she concealed herself like a sand-cat, breathing shallowly as the voices approached.

‘-bloody place is empty, can’t see what we’re doing lugging this out into the back of beyond. We’ll never find anything.’

‘We’ve gotta keep looking. Keep looking until we find something.’

‘All very well for you to say, but you’re not the one carrying the box, Hodrace. Want to give me a hand?’

‘No, you’re all right.’

‘Right then. Where do you want to start?’

‘There’s a big dyke down by that cove, could be something interesting.’

The voices were nearly upon her, the heavy tramping of boots against dirt a cover for the gentle rustling of the grass as she moved slightly closer for a better view.

‘Why the dyke?’

‘It’s a place to start, isn’t it?’

‘We’re not looking for bloody dykes, we’re looking for-’

‘Shh!’ The second speaker, Hodrace, sounded panicked. Ezia stilled as the men stopped walking, hoping she was fully concealed in the bracken as the first man turned to face the other. His boots were black and dusty, but steel-capped: the others were brown leather, flaking at the toes and separating from the sole in places.

‘What, Hod? Are you afraid the Divinity can hear you?’

‘Why would I be afraid? They sent us here.’ Ezia got a better look of their uniforms. Standard khaki, streaked with dirt and oil: pink hands filthy and swollen with sweat. Not used to the heat; Orians, of course. ‘We’re doing God’s work, Mol, and we shouldn’t be shouting about it.’

‘But God Himself is not paying you fifty reta an hour, is He? Your piousness is really starting to get on my nerves, as is this secret mission. I don’t get why we can’t just bloody use the thing.’

Ezia remained still, frozen with intrigue, her legs cramping from the effort of staying still. She watched as one of the men dropped a black box onto the ground. Heavy, by the sounds of it: a cloud of dust blew up from where it landed.

‘Mol, don’t.’

‘You heard what the knight said. It’ll tell us if anything interesting is near. We shouldn’t have to do all the dirty work ourselves, what’s the point in having the damn thing if it doesn’t tell us what we’re looking for-’

Ezia flinched as there was a heavy crack and the man named Mol crumpled to
the ground, his face inches from the edge of the path. She watched his eyes roll, the blood seeping from the gaping crack in his forehead.

‘Stupid *******,’ the one called - drop? Hodrace said, his voice laced with contempt, before lifting the black box with ease and, almost as an afterthought, giving Mol a heavy kick in the back. ‘Sleep well, dear Mol. I hope they don’t tire of your endless complaining in Hell.’[/QUOTE]

I like it, although I'm not sure about the opening paragraph. I do miss Patrick, who was not only central, but held the cliffhanger for you, so it seemed apt to bring him in at the very start and establish the relationship with Ezia. But that may all have changed. I think you are a little distant with Ezia, but much closer than previously, and it's much more engaging for it.

 

[allmywires]

SciFrac, springs, I know I have a problem with closeness...I'm working on it though. I like to be distant but omni is too distant for me. It's hard!

Thanks Eric, nipped those little nitpicks in the bud.

I put red brackets around some adverbs that need to be deleted.

Thanks Stephen, I do like my adverbs though. It's my best way of getting close to a character's POV (don't like internal thoughts that much).

Mouse, springs, Patrick is a tricky one. I'm not sure in what capacity he's going to come back; I don't like him much as a character but everybody else who's read the book does. And yes, it has changed almost unrecognisably from its first iteration. So, um, yeah.

Thank you all!

 

[Stephen4444]

Thanks Stephen, I do like my adverbs though. It's my best way of getting close to a character's POV (don't like internal thoughts that much).

It's okay to use adverbs when you use them sparingly. There's no law saying you must never use them ever.

Where's Patrick now, AMW? It's intriguing but I can't see how it works in comparison to the rest of it, but then I know you've rewritten it a lot since I last saw it.

First: I would like to say I am a new writer and new to critique. I apologize if I offend anyone. I'm trying to help, just like I want someone to be honest with my work. I am trying to learn, and hopefully you will bear with me while I get my legs under me.

I agree with what you are saying... but the thing about his adverbs, (other than he is changes tense to use them,)

she concealed herself like a sand-cat, breathing [shallowly] as the voices approached.

is the fact that you can completely remove all of them, (except the one above that changes tense,) and not have to make edits to correct those sentences.

Sometimes a well-placed and specific adverb or adjective strengthens or clarifies an image, but his do not.

The fewer words you use, the more powerful your sentences are.You should strive for lean, powerful prose.

Use specific images, actions (SPIAC) or (SPIC.)

"Using single words to describe actions and objects quickly brings them to mind. When someone "stabs" a straw into their drink you see it, but "pokes swiftly" doesn't work so well." Kim H Peres

 

[Mouse]

AMW is a she. And why would I be offended?

 

[Abernovo]

Hi amw.

I've been a little pedantic about some of the punctuation here, but that's partly because I like the piece. I don't want to see it damaged by small niggles that take me out of reading.

I've used RED for what I thought were issues and BLUE for my suggestions and comments. Anything I've bracketed in red is something I think can be deleted. Don't worry, it's only a few individual letters and commas.

As always, they're just my opinions. Use them if they help, but I'm far from perfect, so take them with a pinch of salt.

I've been struggling with my fantasy WIP for a long while now. I think I've just about polished off the opening segment, though I worry it's too verbose/unnecessary. Would the opening segment put you off reading more? Also, anything else crit-worthy, I'm all ears.

*

In the sun(comma) the dry fields of Laurent turned brown, curling into wisps of a half-forgotten memory. In the autumn rains the plants would come to life again(,) and(comma) through the mild winter(comma) green would reign over the rise(s) and fall(s) of the country, glittering with frost on Amba’s Eve as the aurora danced above, green and gold and blue. Through spring the fruits would swell and burst, sweet juices feeding insects and colourful birds that flitted across the cornflower-blue skies, and the wind would tickle the forgotten remains of towns torn apart by the War, wood rotting in the never-ending sun, white walls bleached and bare.

First off, I'll say that I love this paragraph. It's not over-described for me, but I can see it. A real pastoral scene. A couple of minor things. I think it only needs to be 'the rise and fall', rather than the plural. And, does 'War' have to be capitalised here, though? Could you get away with just 'the war'?

Now, in the summer, the skies remained azure and cloudless, insects clouding the air and crickets cawing on the ground. The coastline, much like the rest of the country, was crumbling into the sea: dark, heavy boulders lay scattered on the beach, speckled with the same bright mica that gave the sand such a clingy, glittery quality. Grass on the clifftops buffeted in the wind, soft and springy as fur, and on the horizon blue melded to blue, the distant Breakers invisible, the emptiness suffocating.

Is the WHOLE country crumbling into the sea? That sentence stopped me for a second. Could it hust be crumbling? The other, and this very tiny, thing was 'crickets cawing'. I love the imagery, but thought cawing might not be the best word for the chirrping made by crickets. However, on the other hand, it might work, so pinch of salt.

Ezia sat among the tall, scratchy grass on the edge of the cliff, watching the beach. She had been hunting rabbit(,) and overnight her traps had filled with fat, wild animals, stiff in death. Now they were loaded into her pack and she was on her way home, but she’d trod on something sharp in the grass and had stopped to examine it. It was a greenstone ring, and now she turned it over and over in her hand, the dusting of micaceous sand giving its tarnished metal a second shine. A relic.

I've removed the comma after rabbit. However, you might consider putting one either side of overnight - it's perhaps a judgement call.

The last sentence of this paragraph doesn't quite site right for me. It might be simply solved by replacing 'giving' with 'gave', but you could consider chopping it into two sentences: the first the statement that it's a greenstone (like the name) ring; the second describing it. Again, a judgement and quite possibly a personal style choice.

She flicked it glumly over the cliff, watching as it disappeared into the boulders. There was a pack of stray dogs on the beach, fighting over a half-rotten seal’s carcass. She watched them for a while, dancing near the incoming tide, growling and yapping as the crystal-bright water approached them. In the nearby cove, fishing boats bobbed on the water, anchored by their owners; Ezia was the only person around for miles. On Nâ-day the rest of the town’s inhabitants were in the dark shade of the bosca, receiving their weekly contemplation.

She hadn’t been back to the town for a week now. She wondered if anyone even missed her.

Heaving her pack over her shoulders and picking her bow up from the dusty grass, she stood up. The beach stretched in a lazy curve over a few miles, a soft bite out of the land: to her left, the north, was a rocky outcrop where one of the old pill-box watchtowers stood, left(space)over from the war; to the south there was a little fishing village, the bleached white houses glittering in the sun and the faint tinkle of the wooden cow-bells audible over the rushing of the tide.

As she followed the dusty path up the cliff and towards the watchtower, she heard the distant sound of conversation. Hurrying off the track and into the berry-bushes – her leather chaps and gloves protected her from the worst scratches – she concealed herself like a sand-cat, breathing shallowly as the voices approached.

‘-bloody place is empty, can’t see what we’re doing lugging this out into the back of beyond. We’ll never find anything.’

‘We’ve gotta keep looking. Keep looking until we find something.’

‘All very well for you to say, but you’re not the one carrying the box, Hodrace. Want to give me a hand?’

‘No, you’re all right.’

‘Right then. Where do you want to start?’

‘There’s a big dyke down by that cove, could be something interesting.’

The voices were nearly upon her, the heavy tramping of boots against dirt a cover for the gentle rustling of the grass as she moved slightly closer for a better view.

‘Why the dyke?’

‘It’s a place to start, isn’t it?’

‘We’re not looking for bloody dykes, we’re looking for-’

‘Shh!’ The second speaker, Hodrace, sounded panicked. Ezia stilled as the men stopped walking, hoping she was fully concealed in the bracken as the first man turned to face the other. His boots were black and dusty, but steel-capped: the others were brown leather, flaking at the toes and separating from the sole in places.

Do you need 'The second speaker'? You've identified him in speech attributes previously.
The other thing that stuck out was the last sentence. Black and dusty and steel-toecapped, perhaps? And, 'the others were brown leather'. What others? The Hodrace's companion's. A moment of confusion for me, there.

‘What, Hod? Are you afraid the Divinity can hear you?’

‘Why would I be afraid? They sent us here.’ Ezia got a better look of their uniforms. Standard khaki, streaked with dirt and oil: pink hands filthy and swollen with sweat. Not used to the heat; Orians, of course. ‘We’re doing God’s work, Mol, and we shouldn’t be shouting about it.’

‘But God Himself is not paying you fifty reta an hour, is He? Your piousness is really starting to get on my nerves, as is this secret mission. I don’t get why we can’t just bloody use the thing.’

A small thing, but would 'piety' be better than the mroe long-winded 'piousness'?

Ezia remained still, frozen with intrigue, her legs cramping from the effort of staying still. She watched as one of the men dropped a black box onto the ground. Heavy, by the sounds of it: a cloud of dust blew up from where it landed.

‘Mol, don’t.’

‘You heard what the knight said. It’ll tell us if anything interesting is near. We shouldn’t have to do all the dirty work ourselves, what’s the point in having the damn thing if it doesn’t tell us what we’re looking for-’

Ezia flinched as there was a heavy crack and the man named Mol crumpled to the ground, his face inches from the edge of the path. She watched his eyes roll, the blood seeping from the gaping crack in his forehead.

I don't think you need 'the man named'. Just 'Mol'.

‘Stupid *******,’ the one called Hodrace said, his voice laced with contempt, before lifting the black box with ease and, almost as an afterthought, giving Mol a heavy kick in the back. ‘Sleep well, dear Mol. I hope they don’t tire of your endless complaining in Hell.’

A repeat of 'Mol' between narration and character. Could you substitute one? Perhaps 'his companion', or 'Sleep well, 'pal'', to give it a variation.

Wow. I know I've made a few notes here, but I really like this. I love the description here. I know some people may not be into description, but for me it creates your world in a much more vivid sense. Please continue with this. I look forward to reading more.

 

[The Judge]

I agree with what you are saying... but the thing about his adverbs, (other than he is changes tense to use them,)

she concealed herself like a sand-cat, breathing [shallowly] as the voices approached.

is the fact that you can completely remove all of them, (except the one above that changes tense,) and not have to make edits to correct those sentences.

We don't allow critiques of critiques, Stephen, but I thought it might help if I just pointed out a couple of things, since you admit you are a new writer, and there might be some confusion.

Firstly, the so-called change of tense here isn't a bad thing. Amw has been using simple past, "concealed", and then uses the continuous past, "breathing", to show that the latter action is continuing. This is commonplace and perfectly correct. She could have written "and breathed shallowly as..." but as a stylistic decision this isn't one I'd call her on. There are dangers in using the continuous past, certainly, and I can see it might be said that amw is flirting with those dangers, but here it's OK. There's a bit about this in The Toolbox which might interest you.

The fewer words you use, the more powerful your sentences are. You should strive for lean, powerful prose.

Not necessarily. Hemingway-like stripped prose is all well and good but it's not a style that suits everyone nor, indeed, that suits every type of story. Powerful prose can also come with gorgeous imagery and plentiful descriptors. By all means point out adverbs and adjectives which aren't pulling their weight in a piece, but don't make the mistake of thinking that adverb = bad even if the adverb could seemingly be removed without affecting meaning -- there is also the question of balance and structure and rhythm of a sentence to consider.

 

[Cosmic Geoff]

*

In the sun the dry fields of Laurent turned brown, curling into wisps of a half-forgotten memory. In the autumn rains the plants would come to life again, and through the mild winter green would reign over the rises and falls of the country, glittering with frost on Amba’s Eve as the aurora danced above, green and gold and blue. Through spring the fruits would swell and burst, sweet juices feeding insects and colourful birds that flitted across the cornflower-blue skies, and the wind would tickle the forgotten remains of towns torn apart by the War, wood rotting in the never-ending sun, white walls bleached and bare.
Poetic description but really not interesting
Now, in the summer, the skies remained azure and cloudless, insects clouding the air and crickets cawing on the ground. The coastline, much like the rest of the country, was crumbling into the sea: dark, heavy boulders lay scattered on the beach, speckled with the same bright mica that gave the sand such a clingy, glittery quality. Grass on the clifftops buffeted in the wind, soft and springy as fur, and on the horizon blue melded to blue, the distant Breakers invisible, the emptiness suffocating.
Again, poetic description but not interesting.
Ezia sat among the tall, scratchy grass on the edge of the cliff, watching the beach. She had been hunting rabbit, and overnight her traps had filled with fat, wild animals, stiff in death. Now they were loaded into her pack and she was on her way home, but she’d trod on something sharp How does she know it's sharp? Barefoot? Sharp in hand? in the grass and had stopped to examine it. It was a greenstone ring, and now she turned it over and over in her hand, the dusting of micaceous sand giving its tarnished metal a second shine. A relic.
At last something interesting. Why not start with this para?
She flicked it glumly over the cliff, Why? watching as it disappeared into the boulders. There was a pack of stray dogs on the beach, fighting over a half-rotten seal’s carcass. She watched them for a while, dancing near the incoming tide, growling and yapping as the crystal-bright water approached them. In the nearby cove, fishing boats bobbed on the water, anchored by their owners Who else would anchor them? 'at anchor' will do; As a point of information, they would probably pick up permanent moorings marked by buoys rather than drop anchor, if this was their regular base. Ezia was the only person around for miles. On Nâ-day the rest of the town’s inhabitants were in the dark shade of the bosca, receiving their weekly contemplation.

She hadn’t been back to the town for a week now. Is the town her home? What has she been doing for the past week? Sleeping rough? She wondered if anyone even missed her.

Heaving her pack over her shoulders and picking her bow up from the dusty grass, she stood up. The beach stretched in a lazy curve over a few miles, a soft bite out of the land: to her left, the north, was a rocky outcrop where one of the old pill-box watchtowers stood, immediately evokes our 1939-45 war leftover from the war; to the south there was a little fishing village, the bleached white houses glittering in the sun and the faint tinkle of the wooden Normally metal cow-bells audible over the rushing of the tide.

As she followed the dusty path up the cliff and towards the watchtower, she heard the distant sound of conversation. Hurrying off the track and into the berry-bushes – her leather chaps and gloves protected her from the worst scratches mentioning bushes and protection like this is clumsy – she concealed herself like a sand-cat, breathing shallowly as the voices approached.

‘-bloody place is empty, can’t see what we’re doing lugging this out into the back of beyond. We’ll never find anything.’

‘We’ve gotta keep looking. Keep looking until we find something.’

‘All very well for you to say, but you’re not the one carrying the box, Hodrace. Want to give me a hand?’

‘No, you’re all right.’

‘Right then. Where do you want to start?’

‘There’s a big dyke down by that cove, could be something interesting.’
The dialogue and phrasing is very 21st century English? Is that intentional?
The voices were nearly upon her, the heavy tramping of boots against dirt a cover for the gentle rustling of the grass as she moved slightly closer for a better view.

‘Why the dyke?’

‘It’s a place to start, isn’t it?’

‘We’re not looking for bloody dykes, we’re looking for-’

‘Shh!’ The second speaker, Hodrace, Eiza knows who this is?? sounded panicked. Ezia stilled as the men stopped walking, hoping she was fully concealed in the bracken as the first man turned to face the other. His boots were black and dusty, but steel-capped: the others were brown leather, flaking at the toes and separating from the sole in places.

‘What, Hod? Are you afraid the Divinity can hear you?’

‘Why would I be afraid? They sent us here.’ Ezia got a better look of their uniforms. Standard khaki, strictly speaking 'khaki' describes a colour, but it has the effect of evoking British military uniforms in my mind. streaked with dirt and oil: pink hands filthy and swollen with sweat. Not used to the heat; Orians, of course. ‘We’re doing God’s work, Mol, and we shouldn’t be shouting about it.’

‘But God Himself is not paying you fifty reta an hour, is He? Your piousness is really starting to get on my nerves, as is this secret mission. I don’t get why we can’t just bloody use the thing.’

Ezia remained still, frozen with intrigue, her legs cramping from the effort of staying still. She watched as one of the men dropped a black box onto the ground. Heavy, by the sounds of it: a cloud of dust blew up from where it landed. What if they discover her? Has she reason to be afraid? I would imagine so. Show us.

‘Mol, don’t.’

‘You heard what the knight said. It’ll tell us if anything interesting is near. We shouldn’t have to do all the dirty work ourselves, what’s the point in having the damn thing if it doesn’t tell us what we’re looking for-’

Ezia flinched as there was a heavy crack and the man named Mol crumpled to
the ground, his face inches from the edge of the path. She watched his eyes roll, the blood seeping from the gaping crack in his forehead. More reaction from her?

‘Stupid *******,’ the one called Hodrace said, his voice laced with contempt, before lifting the black box with ease and, almost as an afterthought, giving Mol a heavy kick in the back. ‘Sleep well, dear Mol. I hope they don’t tire of your endless complaining in Hell.’ Curious reaction, regardless of why the man died.

I have been critical of this, but if you fix the things I have mentioned, including the excessively 'contemporary' dialogue, which I'm sure you are capable of fixing, it would be okay and make one want to read on.

 

[Brian G Turner]

I'm completely thrown by the first two opening paragraphs. All they appear to state is that this world has familiar seasons, seas, and erosion. It doesn't set up any tension at all, and personally feel you're in danger of patronising the reader.

I'd recommend jumping straight into the character POV in the third paragraph

 

[ctg]

In the sun the dry fields of Laurent turned brown, curling into wisps of a half-forgotten memory. In the autumn rains the plants would come to life again, and through the mild winter green would reign over the rises and falls of the country, glittering with frost on Amba’s Eve as the aurora danced above, green and gold and blue. Through spring the fruits would swell and burst, sweet juices feeding insects and colourful birds that flitted across the cornflower-blue skies, and the wind would tickle the forgotten remains of towns torn apart by the War, wood rotting in the never-ending sun, white walls bleached and bare.

Now, in the summer, the skies remained azure and cloudless, insects clouding the air and crickets cawing on the ground. The coastline, much like the rest of the country, was crumbling into the sea: dark, heavy boulders lay scattered on the beach, speckled with the same bright mica that gave the sand such a clingy, glittery quality. Grass on the clifftops buffeted in the wind, soft and springy as fur, and on the horizon blue melded to blue, the distant Breakers invisible, the emptiness suffocating.

It's a bit purple. You go on about things as if the reader hasn't ever experienced the thing. That might be the thing in the southern hemisphere, but for us, it's a bit too much. You could cut quite a bit away, especially since this is the beginning.

Ezia sat among the tall, scratchy grass on the edge of the cliff, watching the beach. She had been hunting rabbit, and overnight her traps had filled with fat, wild animals, stiff in death. Now they were loaded into her pack and she was on her way home, but she’d trod on something sharp in the grass and had stopped to examine it.

When the reader starts with this para, they are in the mindset that she's sitting on the beach, but when they get to the third sentence, she's moving in the scenery. So I would advice you to change the highlighted bit and make it more apparent she's examining the object in her hands.

It was a greenstone ring, and now she turned it over and over in her hand, the dusting of micaceous sand giving its tarnished metal a second shine. A relic.

You got a problem with the word "now." It sticks out too much.

She flicked it glumly over the cliff, watching as it disappeared into the boulders. There was a pack of stray dogs on the beach, fighting over a half-rotten seal’s carcass. She watched them for a while, dancing near the incoming tide, growling and yapping as the crystal-bright water approached them.

Add thoughts to get into her head. Why she's throwing the ring away and why she's not that bothered about the dogs.

In the nearby cove, fishing boats bobbed on the water, anchored by their owners; Ezia was the only person around for miles. On Nâ-day the rest of the town’s inhabitants were in the dark shade of the bosca, receiving their weekly contemplation.

She hadn’t been back to the town for a week now. She wondered if anyone even missed her.

Heaving her pack over her shoulders and picking her bow up from the dusty grass, she stood up. The beach stretched in a lazy curve over a few miles, a soft bite out of the land: to her left, the north, was a rocky outcrop where one of the old pill-box watchtowers stood, leftover from the war; to the south there was a little fishing village, the bleached white houses glittering in the sun and the faint tinkle of the wooden cow-bells audible over the rushing of the tide.

As she followed the dusty path up the cliff and towards the watchtower, she heard the distant sound of conversation. Hurrying off the track and into the berry-bushes – her leather chaps and gloves protected her from the worst scratches – she concealed herself like a sand-cat, breathing shallowly as the voices approached.

This bit flows well until you get to the point of conversation. Why she's scared about them? Explain and exploit an option to do exposition through her thoughts and feelings.

‘-bloody place is empty, can’t see what we’re doing lugging this out into the back of beyond. We’ll never find anything.’

‘We’ve gotta keep looking. Keep looking until we find something.’

‘All very well for you to say, but you’re not the one carrying the box, Hodrace. Want to give me a hand?’

‘No, you’re all right.’

‘Right then. Where do you want to start?’

‘There’s a big dyke down by that cove, could be something interesting.’

Please add identifiers, speech tags.

The voices were nearly upon her, the heavy tramping of boots against dirt a cover for the gentle rustling of the grass as she moved slightly closer for a better view.

‘Why the dyke?’

‘It’s a place to start, isn’t it?’

‘We’re not looking for bloody dykes, we’re looking for-’

‘Shh!’ The second speaker, Hodrace, sounded panicked. Ezia stilled as the men stopped walking, hoping she was fully concealed in the bracken as the first man turned to face the other. His boots were black and dusty, but steel-capped: the others were brown leather, flaking at the toes and separating from the sole in places.

‘What, Hod? Are you afraid the Divinity can hear you?’

‘Why would I be afraid? They sent us here.’ Ezia got a better look of their uniforms. Standard khaki, streaked with dirt and oil: pink hands filthy and swollen with sweat. Not used to the heat; Orians, of course. ‘We’re doing God’s work, Mol, and we shouldn’t be shouting about it.’

No explanation of why she's really hiding. Why the readers should care? Also please add identifiers as I for one am getting lost.

‘But God Himself is not paying you fifty reta an hour, is He? Your piousness is really starting to get on my nerves, as is this secret mission. I don’t get why we can’t just bloody use the thing.’

Ezia remained still, frozen with intrigue, her legs cramping from the effort of staying still. She watched as one of the men dropped a black box onto the ground. Heavy, by the sounds of it: a cloud of dust blew up from where it landed.

‘Mol, don’t.’

‘You heard what the knight said. It’ll tell us if anything interesting is near. We shouldn’t have to do all the dirty work ourselves, what’s the point in having the damn thing if it doesn’t tell us what we’re looking for-’

Ezia flinched as there was a heavy crack and the man named Mol crumpled to
the ground, his face inches from the edge of the path. She watched his eyes roll, the blood seeping from the gaping crack in his forehead.

‘Stupid *******,’ the one called Hodrace said, his voice laced with contempt, before lifting the black box with ease and, almost as an afterthought, giving Mol a heavy kick in the back. ‘Sleep well, dear Mol. I hope they don’t tire of your endless complaining in Hell.’

It's an intriguing beginning but I'm afraid it needs a bit work to get in top shape. So please, don't go overly board and start from the scratch but learn from your mistakes and edit it in right shape.

 

[allmywires]

Thank you all for your comments, both ones that liked it and didn't. Since it's been mentioned a few times, I should say I did originally just have 'crumbling' then added 'into the sea' because it didn't sound right to me - obviously this is causing a bit of confusion.

Obviously it's not to everyone's tastes - I knew that when I posted it - but it's been useful to get a good spread of feedback.