New Fiction: The Lost Heir Saga. Book One: The Heir Exiled - Show us your world through the view of your word.
|namfle||Dec. 2nd, 2012 11:32 pm New Fiction: The Lost Heir Saga. Book One: The Heir Exiled|
Alright, I promised a while ago on Facebook that I would give folks a sneak peak at the new novel. Here we go, chapter 1. If you choose to give this a read, I would sincerely appreciate any and all comments.
This is a work of fiction, taking place in a fantasy setting of my own creation. What you see here is a rough draft after only slight editing for punctuation and spelling issues. The final, finished product may look very different.
Without further ado, I give you...
THE LOST HEIR SAGA
BOOK ONE: THE HEIR EXILED
by V Peter Collins
PART I: Havencliff Keep
CHAPTER 1 - Impact
Dust lifted from the arid ground, raised by the impact of a sixteen year old body. The air filled with the cheers of teenaged boys. The felled young man had seen his opponent prepare for a shield-bash maneuver and, per instruction, lowered his own wooden shield, bent deeply at the knees, and thrust his shoulder into the move. He knew it would not work even before he executed his defense, however; Callan was easily a head shorter than almost the entire remainder of his Advanced Martial Training class. He fully understood that he had neither the mass nor the strength to properly counter his opponent’s bash with the defense his instructor insisted he use. Argur, his brutish opponent, muscled him off his feet and into the air with just a hint of effort, despite Callan’s stance.
The smaller boy was not undone, however. Even as he rolled, buttocks to shoulders, along the back of his leather-plated armor, he could hear the crunch of Argur’s boots on the dry dirt as he moved in for the “kill”. Callan expected Argur to thrust toward his heart while holding his shield to cover his own torso, as they had been taught to do by their instructor Garunth, Castle Havencliff’s Master At Arms. Callan slid his shield up as the point of Argur’s wooden sword came to bear, sending it into the dirt just above his shoulder. He then kicked hard on Argur’s shield. Argur flew through the air, surprised, and slammed into the ground, prone. Callan showed his superior quickness; he scurried to his feet, raced over, and tapped Argur on the side of his leather helmet. The cheers quickly turned to jeers, save for two lonely voices.
A few yards away, standing beside the bench that supported the rest of the class, Garunth sneered. Callan stood proudly, and the two met, eye to eye. Garunth showed the briefest hint of resignation before his face went stony.
“The Prince wins the match,” he announced. His voice had the qualities of a bright brass instrument and the roar of an angry beast, and could be heard throughout the entirety of the large courtyard, should he deem it necessary. The afternoon sun cast his shadow sideways upon Ellis, the youngest in the class. He held a length of parchment on a tablet, and a small quill pen, it’s accompanying inkwell sitting beside him on the bench. Garunth quickly scanned the parchment over Ellis’ shoulder before speaking again.
“Samjin and Kethlen,” he boomed. Ellis scratched the quill against the parchment, marking the next match. Kethlen rose first from the bench, a stout boy with a belly almost as wide as his impressive shoulders. His armor, sword, and shield were in place and ready, and he moved with exuberant energy. Samjin was slower to rise, and carried his helmet under his arm. He had a thick mane of hair and massive eyebrows atop a protruding ridge that shielded his eyes almost as well as any cap. He followed Kethlen leisurely onto the field.
Callan offered his hand to Argur. The prone boy rudely slapped his prince’s hand away and rose slowly. Callan scowled and removed his helmet before clearing himself from the field. Kethlen threw him a sidelong glance as they passed but said nothing. Callan met the hard glance with a resolute one of his own. In any other place, in every other place, Kethlen, Argur, and the rest of the boys on the bench must show proper respect to the son of their King, should their paths cross. On this field, when class is in session, by ordinance of their instructor, they were all equal, and as such they are allowed to demonstrate their true feelings towards the Heir Apparent. The Prince had long since accepted that the boys around the castle, at least those his age, did not care for him. What he could never glean or understand was why.
As they passed, Callan and Samjin touched sword tips, an informal greeting demonstrating their friendship. It was not lost on Callan that the only friends he had been able to make within the castle were the children of nearby Nobles, folk who only visited the castle on occasion.
“Nice move,” uttered Samjin, softly to keep his voice from carrying.
“Make him dirty,” gave back Callan. A sloppy, lopsided grin grew on Samjin’s face as they parted.
Callan took Samjin’s seat in the middle of the bench, beside the only other person that had been cheering for him. Glory bumped elbows playfully with the Prince. Beneath her helmet were large, blue eyes, which she laid on him with almost wifely disapproval.
“Don’t look at me that way,” he gave back immediately. “I used the proper block!”
“And yet look what happened,” she threw back. They booth looked sidelong at Master Garunth. Callan sulked. Glory softened. She pushed him playfully, shoulder to shoulder.
“You recovered nicely,” she said, her voice low.
“Places!” ordered Garunth, his voice echoing around the courtyard. On the field, Kethlen took a ready position; knees bent, shield forward and covering him from nose to shins, sword back and ready. Samjin put his helmet on, gave it a good slap, drew his wooden weapon, then assumed a posture that was a near mockery of Kethlen’s.
“Oh, Sam,” fretted Glory. Callan kept his comments to himself, but he shared Glory’s feeling of dread. Samjin was a decent athlete but he was far from the best at fighting in full armor.
“Begin!” roared the instructor. The boys on the bench erupted in cheers as Kethlen charged forward. Samjin did his best to hold his ground, defending well with his shield and armor. His ripostes and counter-strikes were wild and undisciplined, however, and soon he gave up ground.
“Strengthen your fourth!” cheered Callan, referring to the fourth sword position, meant for attacking at a low angle.
“Center shield!” hollered Glory, referring to her friend’s slipping shield position. At the moment, his shield was too high, leaving his legs vulnerable.
Samjin deflected a short flurry successfully and made a hard counterstrike. Kethlen bashed Samjin’s sword away with his shield, leaving the hairy lad’s side exposed. Kethlen came in low towards the exposed legs as a feint. Callan saw the move for what it was and swore quietly. He watched with sadness as Samjin lowered his shield. Kethlen pulled the feint and deftly brought his sword around for a cross-body strike against Samjin’s exposed neck, a decapitation move. The boys on the bench jumped and whooped triumphantly. Samjin fell backwards from the blow, bouncing on the dirt. Callan shook his head and Glory slumped. Standing beside the bench, Garunth nodded, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes.
“So much for us all being in the semi-finals,” said Glory glumly. Callan shrugged.
“Maybe, but at least two of us don’t have to fight each other,” he retorted.
“You and your rainbows after storms,” she scoffed playfully. Kethlen removed his helmet and strode towards the bench. Callan threw Glory a half smile.
“What my father teaches me, he teaches well.”
Kethlen was mobbed by the rest of the boys on the bench, attending him with gleeful, playful violence. Garunth let the good cheer last for a moment before clearing his throat with the subtlety of smashing glass. The ruckus quieted down. He consulted Ellis’ scoring sheet.
“Congratulations to the winners. You have all guaranteed yourselves a passing grade for this learning segment, and a week free of drills. The rest of you, I expect extra drills at first light tomorrow if you wish to pass this class.” He was answered by an appropriate mix of joy and groans as each student reacted to their own situation. Samjin finally joined Glory and Callan, once again moving without any hurry. They patted his back and arms, but the look on his face showed he needed no consolation; his crooked smile was present again.
“And now we begin the semi-final round. The winners shall earn themselves a fortnight free of drills.” Callan and Glory looked to each other hopefully. Glory had become the first semi-finalist by beating the swift but thin Dabnes. They each wished Master Garunth would not pit them against each other.
“Jarem, of Havencliff,” the instructor announced, reading the lists once more over Ellis’ shoulder. There was a protracted pause. His gaze drifted to the bench, not-so-vaguely in the direction of Callan and Glory. “…and Glory, of Rotherford.”
Callan, Samjin and Glory each shared a look, marking without words how unfair the choice was. Glory had eliminated Jarem’s brother during the first round of matches. Determined, Glory put her helmet on. Callan lifted and held her shield for her to take.
“His blade is swift, but he’s slow to pivot,” coached Samjin. Glory acknowledged with a quick glance, then looked to Callan. He was overcome, and not for the first time, with a desire to kiss her. Such a thing would have been highly inappropriate, and so he refrained.
With confidence, Glory strode onto the field, the taller Jarem a step behind her. They squared off, two sword-lengths apart.
“Begin!” bellowed their instructor. Glory assumed a combat stance but Jarem, a square-jawed, squared shouldered boy, charged with a battle-cry. Glory leaped, shield forward and sword high, aiming for a quick defeat with a rap on the skull. Jarem defended, a move that surprised Callan, then shoved hard, propelling Glory backward. She landed gracefully. He charged again. She slid to her right and attacked his back. Again, he defended, showing surprising speed. She kept at him, however, sometimes attacking head on, sometimes sliding to one side of him or another, trying to create and exploit a weakness. He matched with his shield and armor. They kicked up a tremendous amount of dust which began to obscure the fight to the onlookers. Glory continued her wild, unorthodox but disciplined and precise attack, but Jarem’s defense was impenetrable.
Glory fainted a shield bash then scooted to one side for an attack. Jarem flicked a pinch of dirt at her with his sword. The dirt never made it to her face, but she flinched. He lunged, driving his wooden blade in between her feet. She tripped and fell, sword arm forward and shield beneath her as her training dictated, but her back was open. Jarem slapped the hard padding over the seat of her leather pants with a ‘thwack’ that resounded around the yard. The bench exploded with cheers once more, the loudest of whom was his brother, Billom.
Glory, indignant, quickly sprang to her feet. Jarem stepped right to her, until their noses were barely a finger-width apart.
“Take your Rotting Fish crack back to that rotting fish village of yours, girl,” he spat, loud enough for everyone to hear. She shoved him. He swung his sword at her helmeted head. She ducked and charged, delivering a punch square to his face, her weapon forgotten behind her. With a roar, the bench cleared, Billom leading the others in a charge.
“Straight to the bottom, this went,” said Samjin as he and Callan raced to their friend’s aid.
Glory and Jarem had both dropped their shield and swords and were now holding on to each other with one hand each while pounding away wildly at each other, striking mostly armor and doing little damage. Billom shouldered Glory off his brother. She kept her feet and tossed Billom aside, using his momentum against him. Dabnes was right behind him, but Samjin was behind Dabnes. Samjin kicked Dabnes’ feet out beneath him and the thin boy toppled like a felled tree. Jarem rushed past Samjin and locked onto Glory once more. Samjin moved to help but was tackled by Kethlen.
Callan weaved through and dodged around the group and hit Jarem with a leaping tackle, bringing both boys into the dirt. They tumbled and rolled. Callan worked himself on top, pinned Jarem’s arms with his knees, and had a fist cocked back, ready to fly, when Argur appeared and kicked the smaller Callan clean off Jarem. Callan took the hit on his armor plating and rolled to his feet immediately, ready for the next attack.
“That’s quite enough, students,” said Garunth, still at his place by the bench. Although he did not yell, he did raise his voice enough to be heard over the commotion. Within seconds, there was stillness and silence. Glory and Samjin grouped with Callan; everyone was dirty, but no one bloody or seriously injured, save for the growing bruise on Jarem’s face.
High above the courtyard, at a window of the south wall, a large pair of young eyes spied the action occurring below. Those could have been Prince Callan’s eyes, save that the rest of the face belonged to a twelve-year old girl.
“Miss Tilly,” grumped her instructor. He was a short, stooped man with a severely receded line of hair that managed to maintain its natural dark color despite his obvious advanced age. His clean shaven face showed off a garden of wrinkles, which worked to highlight the impressive protrusion of his nose.
Princess Tilly was far more interested in what was going on in the courtyard, and in particular, what was going on with her brother, but the action had stopped almost as if by magic at the call of Master Garunth. Disappointment lead to a compulsion of duty, and she turned in her seat to face Master Kuord, her teacher in the magic arts. She had held a quill pen in her left hand, but it had sagged in her grip with the distraction. She lifted it again, dipped it in the ink-pot built into the wooden desk that, as far as she was concerned, was probably the same desk Master Kuord sat at when he was first taking these very lessons. By her estimation, that had to have been somewhere in the vicinity of a million million years ago.
“I am most grateful to you, Your Highness, for gracing me with you presence today, as you have many days before,” His sarcasm was not lost on her. Her small, pink mouth formed a line as she pursed her lips with displeasure. “However, you cannot learn the lesson I have been instructed by your king to teach you if you do not pay attention.”
“Yes, Master Kuord.”
“Beauteous. Now if you can be so kind, please read back the last of your notes.”
On the desk before her sat a large, hefty, leather-bound book filled with pages the color of thinned tree sap. It was opened to somewhere near its center. The right side page was blank, as was every page that followed. On the left side, however, were the neat an trim curves and slashes of her penmanship. The book served as a house for the spells she had learned, as well as notes on the theories of magic she was learning to better her understanding of the craft. Her eyes sought and found the last sentence.
“Although light will travel in a straight line, it can be easily influenced, as evidenced by a simple mirror.” Her voice was high pitched and even-toned, thanks to singing lessons she had taken some years before. She silenced herself and looked her instructor in the eye.
“You missed quite a bit, Your Highness,” he chided, glaring down his nose at her. With his gnarled hands behind his back, he began to pace across the width of the small room that held them. Like all rooms in the castle, the walls were stones. Here, the decorations were functional; charts, diagrams and reference tables took up the majority of the available wall space. This being the lecture room where only discussions were held, there was nothing else of interest anywhere about. On the other side of the rear wall, however, lay the laboratory, where the lectures of theory learned could be put into practice. That was the thing Tilly looked forward to the most with this class. The lectures were boring, almost to a lethal degree, but once she learned the delight of the practice of those theories, she found she could tolerate the lectures more.
Kuord resumed the lesson as he paced. As he spoke, Tilly’s quill danced across the page, filling it with black ink and important thoughts. “Also, the glass prism influences light by breaking it into its component hues…”
Below, from the courtyard, Tilly heard Master Garunth bark cut through the dull monotony of Master Kuord’s lecture. She wanted to peer through the window again, but her instructor’s steely gaze was on her like a hawk honing in on prey. Resigned, she continued to write.
“Kethlen of Havencliff Village,” announced Garunth, peering over Ellis’ shoulder as usual. Kethlen gave Glory, Samjin and Callan a hard look as he scooped up his helmet and strode to the field, sword in his belt and shield in hand. The rest of the boys on the bench whooped and cheered him on.
“And Prince Callan of Havencliff Keep.” Glory patted him on the back. Samjin lightly punched his shoulder. As his friends quietly showed their support, he endured the jeering from the rest of the boys. He slipped his helmet on, picked up his shield from its resting place by his feet, and met Kethlen on the field, sword at the ready. They each took identical ready stances; the only discernable difference between the boys was their size; the Prince gave up quite a bit of that to his opponent.
“Begin!” barked the Master of Arms.
Kethlen, ferocity seen clear on his face beneath his helmet, attacked first. Callan expected this and sidestepped. Kethlen adjusted, and the two of began trading offense and defense, chipping wood off their shields and swords and battering each other’s armor plating. Kethlen’s offense was sure and plodding, and he tightened up like a turtle when defensive. Callan was smooth and swift, showing equal precision and skill with his sword, shield, and placement of his body to absorb blows on his armor.
For long moments, the boys and girl on the bench watched in tense silence as the battle continued, far longer than any previous bout. Neither fell victim to feints, charges and flurries were absorbed or redirected.
Kethlen surprised Callan with a sudden shield bash. Callan tried to slide backward, but Kethlen had stepped on his foot. Callan fell backwards but maintained his defense, knocking away what would have been a winning strike from Kethlen’s sword. He struck back but only scored Kethlen’s shield. He kicked his foot loose. Suddenly there was a tug on his shield. Kethlen, using his superior strength, had ripped the focus of Callan’s defense clean from the smaller boy’s grip and tossed it aside, far out of reach. Confident, Kethlen reached back for what would have been a terrible blow.
Callan kicked Kethlen’s leading foot out from beneath him. The strike forgotten, Kethlen twisted to recover as Callan rolled from beneath him. Springing to his feet, Callan ran to the bench.
“Sword!” he cried, looking straight at Glory. She knew what was coming; Callan was the only one of the three taking an additional martial class. He was always looking for a chance to apply what he learned there to Master Garunth’s lessons. Without hesitation, Glory tossed her friend her own weapon. He caught it in his left hand, his shield hand, slid along the dry dirt to stop, then bolted back towards Kethlen.
The larger boy had his feet when Callan’s charge brought them together again. Without a shield to weigh him down, Callan employed his speed to the fullest, and quickly put Kethlen into a purely defensive posture. The Prince was like spinning, wooden mock-death, striking from all sides, bombarding Kethlen with omni-directional offense while slapping away any paltry attempt at a counter-strike. Finally, Callan ended the match with a tremendous blow to Kethlen’s helmet, delivered with the flat of the blade, expertly turned at the very last moment. Dazed, Kethlen dropped to one knee.
Glory exploded with a cheerful cry, and Samjin applauded with exuberance. Prince Callan turned triumphantly, a sword in each hand, and faced his instructor, awaiting the proclamation of his victory. Garunth said nothing, instead folding his thick, armored arms across his powerful, leather-clad chest.
“That was certainly an entertaining performance, my Prince,” he preamble at long last. He shook his head then. “However, as you did not adhere to the rules of the contest, I cannot rightfully award you this victory, and a seat in the final match of this graded tournament.” A hushed, confused murmur ran through the bench. Callan understood before anyone else, however. His rage built at blinding speed within him, and he was almost overcome with an urge to rush his instructor and engage him in combat. “Kethlen is the winner by default,” announced Garunth, officially eliminating Callan from the contest.
The bench erupted once more with cheers. Samjin and Glory protested, but Callan knew from past experience that Garunth was not one to change his ruling, especially when it fell against the Prince. Knowing his ire was impotent, Callan employed a calming technique he had learned in his other martial class, taught by Garunth’s own wife; he closed his eyes, took in a deep breath through his knows, held it to a count of three, then slowly released it through his mouth.
“We shall adjourn briefly, so that Kethlen may recover and ready himself,” Garunth said. The boys rushed the field and surrounded Kethlen, even Jarem, his next opponent. Callan, walking slowly and being sure to not make eye contact with Master Garunth, strode pridefully to rejoin Glory and Samjin. He could feel his instructor’s cold, hard gaze upon him as he crossed the field, but Callan kept his head high and eyes forward.
“A decree most foul,” greeted Samjin with a pat on the shoulder. “And not a single feather to show for it.”
“Sam!” glowered Glory, taking umbrage with the pun. Samjin chuckled lightly.
“Thank you for the loan,” said Callan to Glory, offering her sword back.
“You won that match,” she hissed, throwing an angry, sidelong glance at their instructor. “That was brilliant swordwork.”
“Enough,” Callan warned, keeping his voice a whisper. He glanced over his shoulder at Garunth, to find himself under the intense scrutiny of the Master of Arms.
“You think my ruling unfair, my Prince?” challenged Garunth.
“My opinion is of no consequence here,” returned the Prince quickly, flatly.
“Good, then you will not think it unfair that I expect to see you at first light for drills.”
“I beg your pardon, Master Garunth?”
“Did you not say semi-finalist were exempt from drills?” broke in Glory, eyes wide with ire.
“Your hearing is not faulty, Rotherford,” replied Garunth cooly, “however a rule breaker must suffer penance for his actions.” There was a gleam in his eye. Callan knew he was trying to goad him into challenging him, a fight he knew he would lose thanks to the power his father, the King, had granted the commander of Havencliff’s military, particularly over his students, who would graduate to become Town Watchmen and Guards of the Keep.
“As you say,” said the Prince, working to keep his delivery free of the emotions he felt. “First light, I shall be ready for drills.”
Glory made to protest again, but Samjin clamped a hand over her mouth.
“You’ve gotten him in enough trouble, yes?” he said under his breath. She tore Samjin’s hand away from her face and glared hotly at Garunth, but heeded the advice from her friend and said nothing further. Samjin stood between Callan and Glory, put his arms around their shoulders, and lead them away, their backs toward Garunth.
“We can talk this into the bottom of the sea once we’re through with this class,” he said softly.
“I can’t,” the Prince said glumly. “Tonight is the last dinner with the visiting nobles from the northern territories. I have to attend or risk insult.”
“Breakfast, then,” suggested Glory, her mood lifting.
They sat at the end of the bench, as far from Garunth as they could get. Slowly, the mass of their fellow students returned. In due time, the field was cleared and the final match of the grade tournament was held. Callan spent the rest of the class with sitting between his friends, silent, eyes fixed on the action, his expression reading a mix of anger and determination. He refused to meet Garunth’s gaze.
Chapter 2: Music and Diplomacy
That's the end of Chapter 1. Any comments will be treated as from a beta reader, and will be sincerely appreciated.12 comments - Leave a comment
I love your descriptive tones, man. Action scenes, general setting, you do a great job of bringing it all to life and making it easy to imagine as something real.
|Date:||December 4th, 2012 06:16 am (UTC)|| |
T'ank ya m'lady!
|Date:||December 4th, 2012 03:43 am (UTC)|| |
Just a few things from me, having re-read it a couple times. One grammar correction - Glory feinted, not fainted - two completely different things.Now this next is a personal thing. I found it much easier to like
|Date:||December 4th, 2012 03:46 am (UTC)|| |
Tilly, Samjin and Glory, than I did Callan. He comes across as a sulky boy, not a Prince, to me. Is that deliberate? Otherwise, OMG did you make a movie with your words! Bravo! Keep going!
Also, I hate this new LJ comment thing. I tried to scroll up to make sure I was spelling character names correctly and it entered my comment before I was done with it. Hence the two comments.
Oh and congrats again on the job!
|Date:||December 4th, 2012 06:20 am (UTC)|| |
Thanks for the grammar check. This is why I need an editor.
Interesting that Callan comes off as sulky to you. What specifically made him come across that way? And now I'm curious as to what you will think of him in the later chapters.
And, again, thanks! FEELS SO GOOD.
Very visual but it would be helpful if there was more framing of the situation (past or future, country or world basis, etc.). I always like stories where the underdog wins in epic fashion similar to what you've written. A motivation for wanting to be in this particular martial arts school (warrior king training, perhaps) would create more empathy for the Prince, i.e. a raison d'etre. Otherwise this is an interesting start to a series, good work, V.
|Date:||December 6th, 2012 01:16 am (UTC)|| |
That is tremendously helpful. I think I hint, later on, why Callan is in the class (and Tilly, or that matter), but I should have something fairly clear and explicit.
Thanks for taking the time to read, and comment!
As always I like your characters. I immediately sympathized with Callan's position. Being the prince, he's bound to be disliked by others at the same age, and in a situation like this, where they don't have to show respect, I'd think people would take full advantage, as they seem to do. Doubly hard is that the master is out to get Callan too. We're not sure why yet, but I'm okay with that. I don't like to know too much too soon. What's important is that he's in a bad place between and seems to be handling it well. I like that in him. There's great potential in Tilly and the two friends as well.
I didn't check for grammar because this is your first draft, right? Maybe I should note places I find? You'll have to let me know on that. I did see "knows" for "nose," lol. I love when that happens; we write the sound instead of the meaning. And I think tense shifted somewhere. But I didn't keep track! I figured you'll be revising...
There's a lot of action in this chapter, something I find hard to handle, keeping us immediately involved in all the movement. I think you handle it well. There are times when I wanted to vary sentence structure a bit to keep the flow of the movement, but it seemed like those were tinkering things that would be done on later drafts. For now, I think you have good energy going and interesting characters to follow. I also didn't need to know any more about the time period or setting. I like when that unfolds with the action, as it seems to be doing.
Now to read more chapters if my battery doesn't die...
|Date:||January 3rd, 2013 07:56 am (UTC)|| |
I had a feeling you were going to get attached to the characters; I partially have you in mind when I'm working on character development.
Yeah, I'll be going over everything to fix obvious grammar issues and tense inconsistencies, and I'll be hiring an editor to help me beyond that before I submit it. And those freakin' homonyms, man! What's wild is, most of the time I'm looking at the screen as I type, so I'm not sure how those slip by, but I write them all the damn time. It's maddening.
Action is my thing, always will be. I forget that you aren't too keen on that. I know a few people who don't dig it, but it's part of the thing I love most about writing. Even here, I held a lot back, and you were still having issues. Still, I'm glad you were able to stick with it, that I didn't lose you completely.
Can't wait to see what you have to say about the next chapters. Seriously, I look forward to your comments, they are always helpful.
And I'm frustrated because a job came in and all my reading time has been on that. Maybe I can take some time off tomorrow and read the next chapter. I want to get to it before losing the feel of the first!
Ha, I'm very pleased to be in mind with your character development. I wish I could pinpoint what I like so much about them. One day, I'll do a study on it!
Do I dislike action? I don't know. I guess I don't read as much in those genres and probably don't have good comparisons to judge by. You held back though?! Wow. What DOES go on in your head? ;)
I'll let you know when I read again. Hope you're moving on and still having fun with it.
|Date:||August 1st, 2013 12:20 am (UTC)|| |
i read. i liked. as one of your prior comments states, there was a LOT of action going on. by the time i realized the prince's sister was being taught magic i was back in the yard with the prince so the only critique i can offer would be to flesh out the backgrounds more and allow a significant shift between brother and sister. overall a different style of writing then what i am used to reading...but still good. still good (in my stitch voice). xoxo good job, Oberon
|Date:||August 1st, 2013 12:38 am (UTC)|| |
Thank you for reading! Seriously. Every note is helpful.
I'll have to pick your brain as to fleshing out the characters, given that this is the first chapter and an introduction to, well, everything.