Storm of the Blood

[Tremour]

Hey there, folks

New to these forums, and I thought that a good way to introduce myself (Aside from a post in the, well, "Introductions" forum) would be to offer up a sample of my work for your loving criticisms. It's from a story I'm currently working on and hoping to develop into a novel. So, here you go!


His eyes glistened - black steel against the pale fury of the moon. Hair draping down, again black, flowed past heavy-set shoulders and onto the cold iron that clung listlessly to his scarred back. The scabs and dirt-ridden cuts that marred his hands stung as he gripped the leather pommel of the whip, breaking apart the knitting skin as blood flowed freely through his fingers, crimson rain that fell onto the cud-ridden black of the earth below. He almost wept from the crackling heat in the air.

Dagran Rhen rose his broken hands to the thundering, roiling madness of the skies above, before bringing the whip down upon the white haired slave crawling past his knees. Pain, like the powdered falseness of a ladies face, was painted across the man's features as the lash tore down his flesh. The slave's eyes and teeth ground together like a mill – nostrils flaring with the warm, dripping dew of blood. He fell then, perhaps further than it seemed to Dagran, down into the groggy, mud filled ruins of the ground below, immersing him in a deluge of filth and dirt. The skin on the man's back had parted below the venomous bite of the whip, coming slowly apart in a way that reminded Dagran of a knife weaving through the rich touch of silk. The wailing scream that had rent the confining cloak of the night air died, its sound turning to a gargling froth in the man's throat.

“Off your knees, slave. You'll be back in the hole soon enough.”

The guttural sharpness in Dagran's voice came from a day of harsh screams and shouts; cries that had to turned to bitter ash in his mouth. The blisters that adorned the back of his bandaged hand seared, the pain wrapping its way through his arm like a serpent intent on doom. His feet ached, too, as large pools of congealing blood swam around the toes, trickling crimson flowing from the gaping wound that his heavy, steel-forged boots had carved deep into the back of his ankle. Sweat permeated his every pore. At least, thought Dagran, I'll be home soon enough.

The white-haired, sand-skinned slave that had fallen to his knees began to rise steadily, his thin form coming through the air like smoke from a chimney, flesh simply hanging from the protruding ledges of his bones. Once up, Dagran pushed the man forward through the swollen mud of the ground below. The slave was wearing nothing save a linen shirt, once white, which now clung to the sweat and blood on his frail body. The back was torn, of course, and through the parted fabric the shape of scars both ancient and fresh leered out at Dagran as he walked behind the man, his hand steady on the black hardness of the whip's pommel.

“Halt! We're here, you filthy, inbred dogs!”

The hoarse cry came from far down the line of bodies. It was a thick, flowing shout that seemed to linger in the oppressive heat of the night air; sticky, crackling with thunder, and something else besides. Dagran halted as he heard it, watching the white haired slave to ensure that he – and the twenty or so others in front of him – obeyed the clambering orders of the slave driver that rode before them, his form a mountain against the shrunken fragility of the cargo he bore. Every last one of their eyes slunk towards the ground as he wheeled his tall brown-white mare around and trotted down the line. Madness flared across his face as spittle clung to his worm-like lips.

“Dagran, have any of these maggots caused you trouble?”

Although he spoke to Dagran, the slave-driver's eyes seemed to slide past him and across the men put into Dagran's care – madness replaced by the predatory, blood-fuelled gaze of a starving street dog. The white-haired slave that stood like the others, with his eyes cast down towards the mud-laden pathway below, shuddered a little. Perhaps the man saw, or had sensed, that intense gaze exerting the entirety of its will upon him. Maybe he even knew what its owner would do to him if Dagran answered with anything that even hinted towards dissent.

“Well, Dagran?”
“No, sir. Just had to whip the maggot to make sure he remembered the taste of it.”

The slave-driver gave a snarl that might have been taken for approval, or something closer perhaps to disappointment, before turning his great horse around and moving back up the line of chained men and women. Just beyond the first body loomed the town of Arka, its form a beacon against the stormy, midnight black of the sky. Unlike most towns that dotted the border, there was no walls or gates to be found here, only the wide open plains of grass and debris that stretched out far to the south and east. The rains sweeping over the country for the past few days ensured that the only thing left on the roads or pathways was mud, its body sticky and black as it frothed with the dying bubbles of air that permeated it. It was now almost impossible to distinguish between it and the plain.

“Remember, single file. Anyone tries my patience, they hang. Move it!”

The mass of bones and flesh once again began to move forward, the eyes of the slaves dead and rolling into the back of their skulls as they pushed themselves through the blistering touch of the mud-filled road. A few of them had some spirit left, Dagran saw, as on occasion flashes of long forgotten anger would flare up from the darkened vales of their memory; an intense fury that seemed to blaze like the sun across their ripped and torn faces. Yet even that did not last long. Those ones had been soldiers, Dagran supposed, or men who had seen the harsh realities of war and still could not bring themselves to succumb to their twisted fortunes. They would learn soon enough. Every one did.

[ctg]

Hello,

First of all, welcome to the forum. Secondly, about your piece, there is a very good thing and couple of bad things.

The good thing is that you have absolutely no problem with the language, and that is a BIG plus on the art of novel writing. So many of us struggle with it, so be proud that you can handle it.

Then the bad thing (please don't take this personally as others might find this comment obsolete and say otherwise). I read your cut four times, and I couldn't get grasp on it. There is too much of detail, and somewhere in behind, there is a story that desperately tries to crawl out.

You don't have to paint everything in detail, because so many things can be taken as granted. A person imagination can easily fill in the holes, therefore saying less, can achieve more then you using thousand words in the detail(s).

Another bad thing is the dialogue. Please for sake of us readers, try to identify the speaker, because we cannot be in your head and see who is speaking and when. It doesn't work that way.

Please don't feel bad about what I said, try again and this time with less of the detail. This is because, you as a writer, cannot get to the 140 000 words limit (I take this a fantasy novel) with painting everything in detail, and you would be mad on trying to achieve it.

[Barney]

[quote=Tremour;1079542]Hey there, folks
His eyes glistened - black steel against the pale fury of the moon. Hair draping down, again black, flowed past heavy-set shoulders and onto the cold iron that clung listlessly to his scarred back.

I think maybe you are over-describing here, perhaps trying to force too much colour into the scene when a simple description would be more effective. When I read the passage from start to finish it reminded me of the Nazi death marches. The simple reality of the weak being subjugated by the strong is powerful enough without over-egging the pudding. We don't need to be shown every detail to get a sense of what is happening.

Dagran Rhen rose his broken hands to the thundering, roiling madness of the skies above, before bringing the whip down upon the white haired slave crawling past his knees. Pain, like the powdered falseness of a ladies face, was painted across the man's features as the lash tore down his flesh.

I think this is a bit overcooked, and your similie is confusing.



The mass of bones and flesh once again began to move forward, the eyes of the slaves dead and rolling into the back of their skulls as they pushed themselves through the blistering touch of the mud-filled road. A few of them had some spirit left, Dagran saw, as on occasion flashes of long forgotten anger would flare up from the darkened vales of their memory; an intense fury that seemed to blaze like the sun across their ripped and torn faces. Yet even that did not last long. Those ones had been soldiers, Dagran supposed, or men who had seen the harsh realities of war and still could not bring themselves to succumb to their twisted fortunes. They would learn soon enough. Every one did.[/quote]

This is better because it is more suggestive of things that are hidden. Fancy description (I think) should be resereved for stuff below the surface, and should be used sparingly.

The eternal rule of writing is to show, not tell. This means that explicit description is verboten; you will be a much better writer if you can rewrite this through a more tightly focused viewpoint. Don't rely on the omniscient POV, even if it is modified by "Dagran thought" or "Dagran saw" etc. I still get the impression that I am seeing this scene through an omniscient narrator's viewpoint, not from a character who is deeply involved and living it.

My final point, you are probably bored of hearing it by now - cut down on the description. Pradoxically, it creates distance between what you want to say and what the reader feels. The setting is strong enough to do the work.

[Tremour]

Thank you both for your replies.

Of course I don't mind, or feel bad about criticisms, that's why I posted here. In fact, I'm very grateful to anyone that can offer even a little something - otherwise, I wouldn't improve.

It's funny, but I would never have seen it unless you pointed it out. Being TOO descriptive is something I never worried about , the opposite in fact, and I suppose that's where the problem might have stemmed from. And you're right, less can imply more, and in my next draft (I expect I'll go through quite a few) will certainly try to hit on that.

Thanks a bunch, guys