Hello there! I begun writing this novel about a year ago, but then abandoned it - the reason being laziness. I want to continue writing it, but I would like to have some people read the beginning and give their comments about it. You can say anything you want to say, don't worry I don't get offended easily ;)
Vincent Tuggleweed was an old fellow who lived in a small village by the Bluewood River. The village was named Beygate, and was loyal to the Lavternian king. Most of the villagers worked on farms and raised cattle.
It was quite close to the border of Trantlos, and every few suns raiders would come from Trantlos to steal crops and cattle, burn down houses and take hostages. But for the past five suns the Trantlosians had not attacked nor raided Beygate. Vincent did not know much about politics, but he knew enough to understand that a peace treaty has been signed between Lavternia and Trantlos. He hoped that would stop the raiders for a while.
Vincent wore a white mustache that connected with his long beard at the sides of his mouth (he was very proud of his beard, and would spend hours grooming it). He had a long, wrinkled face with a small nose and a tall forehead.
From the window above his bed, he could see the sun just beginning to rise. To him, that was a sign that it was time for his daily stroll down the riverside. He got his cane, slipped on his worn leather sandals, and opened the door to his humble wooden house. Vincent’s house stood at the very edge of the village, overlooking the river. He liked it that way, far from all of those noisy children, although at times, he would feel quite lonely. So, he was not surprised to find that there was nobody outside besides himself, and anyhow, it was considerably early.
The moment Vincent stepped outside something felt different. During his walk by the river, he liked to close his eyes and listen to the birds’ singing, the rustling leaves and the soft ripple of the river. But now it seemed as though the birds had lost their voice.
Strange, he thought to himself.
Nevertheless, Vincent wasn't about to let something as small as that get in the way of his sacred tradition. Plodding down to the river foot after foot proved more and more difficult with each passing week.
I’m getting older, he thought with a frown.
Once he reached the water, Vincent bent down onto his knees, dipped his hands into the water and washed his face. Grimacing, he then stood back up, and strode slowly down the riverbank path. The grass, usually a healthy green, was now a bit yellow in places. The flowers that used to be bright and colorful were now dull and withered and the bees and butterflies that flew around in their enchanting dance were all gone. He walked in silence, wondering what had happened to this once heavenly place.
At once, he came to a stop. He had reached his favorite place. A long time ago, Vincent’s father would take him here to watch the wildlife roam free, and the flowers glow magically. And when his father passed away, Vincent had buried him here. He liked to think that his father’s soul was living in this place, sitting and reading his precious books. It was for this place he would get up at this hour. This “place” was a small, circular clearing in the trees, with an ancient, gnarled oak tree in the center. But this oak was quite a bit different from all the other ancient oaks. This tree was azure blue. The trunk was blue. The branches were blue. The leaves were blue. No one really knew why it was colored in this fascinating color, but Vincent did not care. His philosophy was ‘What you don’t know can’t hurt you’. Vincent would sit under this oak with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of nature. It would calm his mind and soul, and he enjoyed these moments greatly.
But when he saw the blue oak laying on the ground, branches snapped apart, twigs and leaves strewn all over the place splintered and broken, he felt as if his heart was being torn to pieces. A small whimper came to his mouth, and he fell to his knees, sobbing silently. A few minutes later, he stood up, grief-stricken, his eyes still wet and his heart still aching.
All of a sudden, he heard a soft thud from behind him. He spun around and saw a man wearing a green hood, holding a drawn bow and arrow, standing a few yards away. “Ranged justice,” said the man coldly, and the man released the string. The arrow pierced Vincent’s throat.
He fell to the ground, dead.
...............................................
“Another mission accomplished,” sighed Daemon, putting his hickory bow over his shoulder. He walked over to the old man lying face down on the ground, and turned him over. A perfect shot, he thought to himself, seeing that the arrow drilled through the exact center of the old man’s neck. Daemon did not like wasting arrows, so he pictured the arrow hardening. His brow creased as he concentrated on the spell. The reinforcing spell was a basic enchantment that every Archer of Justice knew how to use. He wrapped his hands around the shaft of the arrow, and pulled. With a sickening crunch, the arrow pulled free, splattering blood on Daemon’s hands. He knew that if he would not have used the spell, the arrow might have been damaged.
After he finished cleaning the arrow and his hands in the grass, he stood up, and put the arrow back in his quiver. He grabbed his bow from over his shoulder, and took out his hunting knife. Using the knife he carved a straight horizontal line onto his bow. Carving lines into the bow was a means of keeping track of the number of missions that were successfully accomplished by each Archer of Justice. Daemon now had seven lines on his bow, and he was only in his twenty-fourth sun. Most of the archers at his age had around three lines on their bow.
Once he finished carving the line, he put his bow across his back once more, and headed out north, on his journey back to the Archers of Justice’s hideout. It was a long journey that would take a fortnight for an average man, but Daemon was no average man. He was an Archer of Justice, and one of the best at that. He could easily complete the journey in ten days if he wished to do so.
His first stop on his way back would be the city of Ampheath. Ampheath was a small city, with a population of no more than nine-thousand. It had a large number of passersby all the time, because it was the connection between the north and the south of Lavternia. It had a small river running through it, and people would throw coins into the river for luck. They believed the coin was a present to the gods, who would then grant them health and success. Since Ampheath had many visitors, it also had many inns and one could always find a room to stay for the night.
The path he was taking was a worn out dirt path, and every hour or so someone would pass him by. But most of the time he walked alone, humming to himself an old poem. Most knew the tune, but few knew the words to go with it. Daemon knew the words of the beginning verse, but no more than that. It went like this:
Night has come, embracing the earth with its black wings
It seems there is no hope, only sorrow and despair
Despair so great, it devours all creatures and beings
If the gods are existent, why do they not care?
Asked the young boy with the blond hair
It was early evening when Daemon arrived at the city gates.
The innkeeper was sitting on a small chair by the wooden desk, bent over a scroll, examining it carefully. Daemon slammed an open hand down on the desk.
“Get up off your beefy bottom and get me a room for the night!” bellowed Daemon. The innkeeper looked up from his scroll, an expression of anger stretched across his plump face. “First, you will lower your voice when you speak-“ he stopped, seeing for the first time who he was speaking with. His eyes lit up, and the anger turned to joy. “Daemon you scoundrel!” He laughed, standing up. Still smiling, he walked around the desk to Daemon and put his hands on Daemon’s shoulders, towering over him. “It’s been a long time, too long, since the last time I saw you,” The innkeeper said, looking Daemon up and down. “And yet you haven’t changed a bit!” exclaimed the innkeeper. Daemon knew that although he might not have changed on the outside, on the inside he was a completely different person. He couldn’t keep a straight face any longer. A smile slowly formed on Daemon’s lips. “Neither have you, Bel. You are still the fat bum I remember you for!”
Belvin was big and tall, his size having nothing to do with muscle. He had short black hair, just like Daemon, and small brown eyes. He was the only person who could bring a smile to Daemon face with such ease. His constant smile and his easygoing nature sucked the seriousness out of Daemon. Belvin was Daemon’s only friend as a child in Ampheath. They played together in the waters of the river, splashing at each other, and at passersby. They would go exploring the woods surrounding the city, often wandering all the way to the edge of the Scar Mountains.
Thank you so much for taking your time to read my work! I haven't finished yet the second chapter, but I plan to update it here as I write. I would love to hear your critique!
A potato:
The Blue Oak
CHAPTER 1
Vincent Tuggleweed was an old fellow who lived in a small village by the Bluewood River. The village was named Beygate, and was loyal to the Lavternian king. Most of the villagers worked on farms and raised cattle.
It was quite close to the border of Trantlos, and every few suns raiders would come from Trantlos to steal crops and cattle, burn down houses and take hostages. But for the past five suns the Trantlosians had not attacked nor raided Beygate. Vincent did not know much about politics, but he knew enough to understand that a peace treaty has been signed between Lavternia and Trantlos. He hoped that would stop the raiders for a while.
Vincent wore a white mustache that connected with his long beard at the sides of his mouth (he was very proud of his beard, and would spend hours grooming it). He had a long, wrinkled face with a small nose and a tall forehead.
From the window above his bed, he could see the sun just beginning to rise. To him, that was a sign that it was time for his daily stroll down the riverside. He got his cane, slipped on his worn leather sandals, and opened the door to his humble wooden house. Vincent’s house stood at the very edge of the village, overlooking the river. He liked it that way, far from all of those noisy children, although at times, he would feel quite lonely. So, he was not surprised to find that there was nobody outside besides himself, and anyhow, it was considerably early.
The moment Vincent stepped outside something felt different. During his walk by the river, he liked to close his eyes and listen to the birds’ singing, the rustling leaves and the soft ripple of the river. But now it seemed as though the birds had lost their voice.
Strange, he thought to himself.
Nevertheless, Vincent wasn't about to let something as small as that get in the way of his sacred tradition. Plodding down to the river foot after foot proved more and more difficult with each passing week.
I’m getting older, he thought with a frown.
Once he reached the water, Vincent bent down onto his knees, dipped his hands into the water and washed his face. Grimacing, he then stood back up, and strode slowly down the riverbank path. The grass, usually a healthy green, was now a bit yellow in places. The flowers that used to be bright and colorful were now dull and withered and the bees and butterflies that flew around in their enchanting dance were all gone. He walked in silence, wondering what had happened to this once heavenly place.
At once, he came to a stop. He had reached his favorite place. A long time ago, Vincent’s father would take him here to watch the wildlife roam free, and the flowers glow magically. And when his father passed away, Vincent had buried him here. He liked to think that his father’s soul was living in this place, sitting and reading his precious books. It was for this place he would get up at this hour. This “place” was a small, circular clearing in the trees, with an ancient, gnarled oak tree in the center. But this oak was quite a bit different from all the other ancient oaks. This tree was azure blue. The trunk was blue. The branches were blue. The leaves were blue. No one really knew why it was colored in this fascinating color, but Vincent did not care. His philosophy was ‘What you don’t know can’t hurt you’. Vincent would sit under this oak with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of nature. It would calm his mind and soul, and he enjoyed these moments greatly.
But when he saw the blue oak laying on the ground, branches snapped apart, twigs and leaves strewn all over the place splintered and broken, he felt as if his heart was being torn to pieces. A small whimper came to his mouth, and he fell to his knees, sobbing silently. A few minutes later, he stood up, grief-stricken, his eyes still wet and his heart still aching.
All of a sudden, he heard a soft thud from behind him. He spun around and saw a man wearing a green hood, holding a drawn bow and arrow, standing a few yards away. “Ranged justice,” said the man coldly, and the man released the string. The arrow pierced Vincent’s throat.
He fell to the ground, dead.
...............................................
“Another mission accomplished,” sighed Daemon, putting his hickory bow over his shoulder. He walked over to the old man lying face down on the ground, and turned him over. A perfect shot, he thought to himself, seeing that the arrow drilled through the exact center of the old man’s neck. Daemon did not like wasting arrows, so he pictured the arrow hardening. His brow creased as he concentrated on the spell. The reinforcing spell was a basic enchantment that every Archer of Justice knew how to use. He wrapped his hands around the shaft of the arrow, and pulled. With a sickening crunch, the arrow pulled free, splattering blood on Daemon’s hands. He knew that if he would not have used the spell, the arrow might have been damaged.
After he finished cleaning the arrow and his hands in the grass, he stood up, and put the arrow back in his quiver. He grabbed his bow from over his shoulder, and took out his hunting knife. Using the knife he carved a straight horizontal line onto his bow. Carving lines into the bow was a means of keeping track of the number of missions that were successfully accomplished by each Archer of Justice. Daemon now had seven lines on his bow, and he was only in his twenty-fourth sun. Most of the archers at his age had around three lines on their bow.
Once he finished carving the line, he put his bow across his back once more, and headed out north, on his journey back to the Archers of Justice’s hideout. It was a long journey that would take a fortnight for an average man, but Daemon was no average man. He was an Archer of Justice, and one of the best at that. He could easily complete the journey in ten days if he wished to do so.
His first stop on his way back would be the city of Ampheath. Ampheath was a small city, with a population of no more than nine-thousand. It had a large number of passersby all the time, because it was the connection between the north and the south of Lavternia. It had a small river running through it, and people would throw coins into the river for luck. They believed the coin was a present to the gods, who would then grant them health and success. Since Ampheath had many visitors, it also had many inns and one could always find a room to stay for the night.
The path he was taking was a worn out dirt path, and every hour or so someone would pass him by. But most of the time he walked alone, humming to himself an old poem. Most knew the tune, but few knew the words to go with it. Daemon knew the words of the beginning verse, but no more than that. It went like this:
Night has come, embracing the earth with its black wings
It seems there is no hope, only sorrow and despair
Despair so great, it devours all creatures and beings
If the gods are existent, why do they not care?
Asked the young boy with the blond hair
It was early evening when Daemon arrived at the city gates.
CHAPTER 2
The innkeeper was sitting on a small chair by the wooden desk, bent over a scroll, examining it carefully. Daemon slammed an open hand down on the desk.
“Get up off your beefy bottom and get me a room for the night!” bellowed Daemon. The innkeeper looked up from his scroll, an expression of anger stretched across his plump face. “First, you will lower your voice when you speak-“ he stopped, seeing for the first time who he was speaking with. His eyes lit up, and the anger turned to joy. “Daemon you scoundrel!” He laughed, standing up. Still smiling, he walked around the desk to Daemon and put his hands on Daemon’s shoulders, towering over him. “It’s been a long time, too long, since the last time I saw you,” The innkeeper said, looking Daemon up and down. “And yet you haven’t changed a bit!” exclaimed the innkeeper. Daemon knew that although he might not have changed on the outside, on the inside he was a completely different person. He couldn’t keep a straight face any longer. A smile slowly formed on Daemon’s lips. “Neither have you, Bel. You are still the fat bum I remember you for!”
Belvin was big and tall, his size having nothing to do with muscle. He had short black hair, just like Daemon, and small brown eyes. He was the only person who could bring a smile to Daemon face with such ease. His constant smile and his easygoing nature sucked the seriousness out of Daemon. Belvin was Daemon’s only friend as a child in Ampheath. They played together in the waters of the river, splashing at each other, and at passersby. They would go exploring the woods surrounding the city, often wandering all the way to the edge of the Scar Mountains.
Thank you so much for taking your time to read my work! I haven't finished yet the second chapter, but I plan to update it here as I write. I would love to hear your critique!
A potato: