Beginning with a Novel?

[Mr. Mask]

Hello everyone.

I have an intriguing idea which I would like to discuss--and I imagine some or many of you will have had these very thoughts before.


A regret I have had, is of abandoning my passion to work on RPGs, so as to pursue a career in writing fiction. Recently, I have begun to wonder if it would be possible for me to work both as a writer of novels, and as one of campaign settings, adventures, and the like.

Is this a ridiculous idea from the outset? If so, then I am bound to meet with the reality soon enough.

If it is not an unreasonable idea, then it is still one which ultimately lies on my own skill and understanding of both careers. If I can't make it as a writer, or I foolishly ruin my stories by to making them "tabletop-friendly", then it does not matter how valid the concept might be.


As for the kind of setting I am interested in writing (since this thread would be off-topic without that detail)... Here is the first page of my work, which is nearing completion. If anyone finds it interesting, then I will gladly show more for your critique, to discover how feasible either of my pursuits might be (if no one wants to see more, then that's a pretty good indicator).

Prologue

First, they took my sword--portraying the apogee of politeness as it was stolen away. The servant bowed as he backed down the golden-yellow carpet, turning on his seventh step.

Watching after him a moment, I envied his lack of trepidation in evading the purple runner which stretched to each end of the hall. Like all "visitors", I kept firmly to the yellow flooring, which sat on either side of the royal purple.

Two guards opened the large, ornate doors before me. Two more kept me in a steady gaze. Sharp, blue eyes, staring from a pale, elegant complexion. All of them had black hair which helped to emphasize their graceful appearance, reaching precisely twelve seventeenths of an inch past their shoulder blades (or at least, I like to think so). Distinguishing one from the other seemed near to the point of impossibility, their faces alike to a disorientating level. It was said that all elves looked similar... but this was ludicrous.

Given the sign to proceed, I advanced up the few steps to the next dais, then crossed the threshold gradually - "gently" even - though my anticipation urged me to gallop.

Leaving the towering hallway behind, I set foot in the antechamber, which looked much the same. Now, I wouldn't say the walls were decorated with tapestries... rather, it would be more accurate to say the walls were made of cloth coverings. You would be pressed to find an inch of naked stone, unadorned by rich, patterned fabric. Suddenly, the daylight disappeared--the lamplight doing astoundingly well to keep the room pleasant. Despite their great size and solid weight, the doors had been sealed behind me almost without noise.

I stopped, to the point of rigidity, as two servants ambled forward. The first looked me over and drew his hands across my garments, checking for concealed weapons. He was dressed much the same as the other servants, with a long sleeved tunic--but the green sash and collar identified him as quite senior. The second approached in turn, with an ornate sword in an equally splendid sheath. He began to fasten the weapon to my side, and did this quickly... yet still I was left with time to feel impatient.

To my left, the first servant stood almost in a corner, tilting his head down with a practised air of hospitality. I also noted the detailed iron portal I came through, taking in the silvery complexion, elaborate carvings depicting fascinating events, the bolts and iron bar used for locking the gateway, and the fact I very much wished to pass through it again--right now. Disregarding my wishes, I moved onward with the painful slowness required in this grand place. A new set of guards opened a new set of doors--the only difference in this occurrence being blond hair--and I reached my destination.

Pressing my thumb delicately to the guard of my replacement sword, I checked for a hint as to what my future held...

It was as grim as I imagined. The blade was sealed in the scabbard.




(Word: 514)


With trepidation, I humbly submit this concept to you. It is my hope that the collective experience of the community here will steer me to the right course.

Thank you for reading.

[Grinner]

A regret I have had, is of abandoning my passion to work on RPGs, so as to pursue a career in writing fiction. Recently, I have begun to wonder if it would be possible for me to work both as a writer of novels, and as one of campaign settings, adventures, and the like.

Is this a ridiculous idea from the outset? If so, then I am bound to meet with the reality soon enough.

Not really. The practice of world-building and writing have much in common. Each novel requires a setting, right? In fact, for certain projects, a good deal of preproduction is the worldbuilding phase.

Further (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/UniverseBible) details (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/UniverseCompendium).


As for the kind of setting I am interested in writing (since this thread would be off-topic without that detail)... Here is the first page of my work, which is nearing completion. If anyone finds it interesting, then I will gladly show more for your critique, to discover how feasible either of my pursuits might be (if no one wants to see more, then that's a pretty good indicator).

Prologue

First, they took my sword--portraying the apogee of politeness as it was stolen away. The servant bowed as he backed down the golden-yellow carpet, turning on his seventh step.

Watching after him a moment, I envied his lack of trepidation in evading the purple runner which stretched to each end of the hall. Like all "visitors", I kept firmly to the yellow flooring, which sat on either side of the royal purple.

Two guards opened the large, ornate doors before me. Two more kept me in a steady gaze. Sharp, blue eyes, staring from a pale, elegant complexion. All of them had black hair which helped to emphasize their graceful appearance, reaching precisely twelve seventeenths of an inch past their shoulder blades (or at least, I like to think so). Distinguishing one from the other seemed near to the point of impossibility, their faces alike to a disorientating level. It was said that all elves looked similar... but this was ludicrous.

Given the sign to proceed, I advanced up the few steps to the next dais, then crossed the threshold gradually - "gently" even - though my anticipation urged me to gallop.

Leaving the towering hallway behind, I set foot in the antechamber, which looked much the same. Now, I wouldn't say the walls were decorated with tapestries... rather, it would be more accurate to say the walls were made of cloth coverings. You would be pressed to find an inch of naked stone, unadorned by rich, patterned fabric. Suddenly, the daylight disappeared--the lamplight doing astoundingly well to keep the room pleasant. Despite their great size and solid weight, the doors had been sealed behind me almost without noise.

I stopped, to the point of rigidity, as two servants ambled forward. The first looked me over and drew his hands across my garments, checking for concealed weapons. He was dressed much the same as the other servants, with a long sleeved tunic--but the green sash and collar identified him as quite senior. The second approached in turn, with an ornate sword in an equally splendid sheath. He began to fasten the weapon to my side, and did this quickly... yet still I was left with time to feel impatient.

To my left, the first servant stood almost in a corner, tilting his head down with a practised air of hospitality. I also noted the detailed iron portal I came through, taking in the silvery complexion, elaborate carvings depicting fascinating events, the bolts and iron bar used for locking the gateway, and the fact I very much wished to pass through it again--right now. Disregarding my wishes, I moved onward with the painful slowness required in this grand place. A new set of guards opened a new set of doors--the only difference in this occurrence being blond hair--and I reached my destination.

Pressing my thumb delicately to the guard of my replacement sword, I checked for a hint as to what my future held...

It was as grim as I imagined. The blade was sealed in the scabbard.




(Word: 514)


With trepidation, I humbly submit this concept to you. It is my hope that the collective experience of the community here will steer me to the right course.

Thank you for reading.

May I offer just one small piece of advice?

In writing, it's best to not tarry on the details. Do set the scene for the reader, but then move on to the plot. "I stopped, to the point of rigidity, as two servants ambled forward." could easily be "I stopped as two servants ambled forward."

[Mr. Mask]

Ooh, writing a Universe Bible sounds like a lot of fun.


May I offer just one small piece of advice?

In writing, it's best to not tarry on the details. Do set the scene for the reader, but then move on to the plot. "I stopped, to the point of rigidity, as two servants ambled forward." could easily be "I stopped as two servants ambled forward." Thank you very much for your advice. I just finished a round of editing before I saw your post. Hopefully I will get my details to a sufficiently progressive level, in future drafts.


Just for conversation of the setting: I quite like the prologue, simply because I got to write about the Elf Palace :smallsmile:. Putting setting information in with the writing is hard but fun. Looking forward to the later chapters, when I'll get to write some more about it.


Here is chapter one, if you or anyone else is interested:
Chapter 1: Trust

Bracko watched as the arrow thrust squarely into Ricard's head. Then, he opened his eyes, and saw only the dense greenery before him.

Eyes open... forest. Eyes closed... Ricard, bleeding on the grass.

This made it annoying to blink, and hard to sleep.... But on the bright side, it was hard to sleep, and he didn't want to blink. It'd be a pity, after all--to have gone to all that trouble losing his pursuers, if he was going to keep a poor watch and get stuck with arrows. Still... he wasn't going to have a choice, at this rate: Everyone had to sleep, even in enemy territory.

"Chyaak. Chyaak chyeee!" a bird called out from the ground, beneath the boughs the watchman was nestled among. In reply, he took three leaves, and let them sail whimsically to the floor. He wasn't good with bird calls... leaves and signs were fine.

"Tch tch tch, tch tch," up went a different song, from a different "bird". Bracko fought off the relief which tried to spread over him. It could, after all, be bad news.

Already tired, climbing down felt like too much work... Given the choice, he'd just drop down (he wasn't so high that it'd be dangerous). That, however, would just be begging for attention. Flipping his cloak, he began the tortuously slow climb earthward. His now-grey back blended nicely with the bark of the tree. This, along with a careful descent, made him virtually invisible--that is, if it was dark, or you were looking through dense forest. It being midday, the latter seemed more hopeful...

Passing a grey, clambering form on its way up, Bracko set foot on tree roots. Slithering backwards till he was flat on his chest, he flipped his mantle back to its leafy, green colouration. Looking over his increasingly familiar surroundings, he failed to admire the grey barked and white barked trees, the fresh spring fauna, and all the animals who were wise enough to remain hidden. Had the animals been less wise, he could appreciate that--he was hungry.
"Ov'or here, boy'a," came a rather hoarse voice, from somewhere in the bushes.
The, "boy" heeded, crawling towards the call. A green, leaf-adorned dwarf sat among the high bushes in a small, grassy clearing. He looked rather lean, for his kind, but could still sit comfortably without his head peeking over the shrubbery. "How's y'eur weath'or, Bracko?"

"How's your weather" is a dwarf expression... this particular dwarf made a habit of asking people how they were. It made sense--he was in charge, and the state of his men was important for avoiding incident. Even a small mistake could be fatal. Yesterday was a harsh reminder of this truth.

Using the high shrubbery to his advantage, the orc rolled onto his back, finally relaxing. "I'm good," worn from twenty hours of running, hiding, watching and waiting... but a nap could fix that, "but I'll need to eat soon." What he really needed was water, having run empty about sixteen hours ago.

The dwarf nodded, producing bread and a gourd canteen. Prying the cork free, Bracko drank softly from his refilled gourd. After quenching his thirst a little, he brought his full attention to the bread. It was dry as he was, hard to swallow, and would've been much more pleasant if he had spare water to drink with it.
"Y'eur doing well," Gissilt said conservatively, "most 'erks would've given up by now." Erks... what he meant to say, was "orcs".
The meal felt like an achievement, when the last of it was chewed to paste and forced down the erk's orc's neck--one rewarded by a heavier drink of water.

"We checked 'round, to and fro--no sign or hint of 'em so far." The news sounded good... but a cool drink and lying down on the grass seemed much nicer. Closing his eyes - but still remaining conscious and (largely) attentive - Ricard's death gradually faded from view, replaced by a mental image of the grassy dwarf. Of course... a dwarf's face, painted various shades of striped green, is not a grand improvement.

"There hasn't been any smoke, n'er coloured arrows, n'er signals of oth'or kinds," continued the green mound. "As f'er why they're stayin' quiet..." He let his words trail off... there wasn't much way to know.
"Gissilt, do you think they took the bodies with them? Or that they'll be staying in the forest, fattening the wolves?"
Gissilt made a vague gesture... but remembered his comrade's eyes were shut. "I'm a ghost if I know," he commented with the same uncommitted apathy of his earlier movement.
Too much credit is given to ghosts, in Bracko's opinion. "Will we be heading back?" the orc asked, hesitant. The concept of having to walk for another ten hours was beyond disheartening.
"Lat'or, yes. F'er now, you get some rest... I and K'oralt will keep watch," since the orc continued to lie there, Gissilt went ahead.

The dwarf crouched towards the familiar tree. As easily as Keralt (not K'oralt) had managed, he scaled the tree. Questions came to mind...

Under the circumstances, the most sensible course would be for one person to keep watch as the others rest--Keralt and Gissilt changing shifts till they had the energy for the march home. Another matter, was that both of Bracko's companions were taking watch in the same tree... making them easier to spot, and limiting their area of vision.

Very carefully, the orc barely opened one eye, just a crack. Looking up, he saw evidence for what he suspected... Gissilt was watching Bracko--not looking out for enemies. Just as carefully, the orc closed his eye, confident his peeping had gone unnoticed.

The situation had already been terrible... Whatever they were up to, Bracko wasn't going to sleep through it. So, he bit into his tongue. Not severely, but enough that the pain would keep him awake.

....Ouch...


Finally, the tree's occupants began to whisper to each other. Being almost directly below them, the "sleeping" orc could just barely hear what they were saying.... understanding their conversation was a second issue.

Both Keralt and Gissilt were dwarves, so naturally they spoke to each other in Dwarfish speech. Until this point, they had all been speaking in a dialect called, "Common Elven," a simplified version of the elves' language, for convenience. The language was familiar to everyone in that region--even in the neighbouring countries, it was still remembered and taught.

Not much could be done now... except listen and watch regardless, hoping to learn something. He picked up "orckal" the word for orc. "Byatrin" meant something akin to... "traitor", or "treacherous".

"The orc is treacherous"...

"Tsubrel akin kassen, o'tair amont," was insisted by Keralt, his long, greened moustache making him easy to identify. Gissilt replied quietly - even by the standard of whispering yesterday had set - and turned away. This was unusual behaviour... Gissilt was a tough little leader. The only person Keralt was cautious to argue with. Right now, he seemed... embarrassed--staring off into a corner of the woods.

"Kassen" is water. "Tsubrel"... sounds familiar. ...Thinking back, Bracko recalled an orcish word from his clan's dialect, "subrelt". His clan used many dwarf words to supplement their communication - since there was no unified orc language - often simplifying or changing them to better suit their accent. Subrelt meant... "poison".

"You should have poisoned [his] water."

Bracko curled his toes, shutting his eyes more tightly to avoid them opening from the jolt of realization. He knew there was something up--yet completely forgot he had accepted food and water from a "friend". It is important to know the differences between friends and "friends"... and to not forget those characteristics when one changes to the other. Particularly in the case of an expert forester, who knows just how much of which plant will leave you groggy and helpless. Particularly so in this forest... where they grew all kinds of evil herbs. Mostly berries and other things which appeared good to eat. There were even rumours of trees cultivated to grow poisoned apples.

Luckily, Gissilt hesitated, and Bracko's mistake came to nought... he hated that. Mistakes... luck... the only worse thing was elves and their arrows... and their stupid poisons.

The conversation went on... but there was little which could be interpreted. It didn't matter particularly anyway. Right now, there were two details to focus on. First, Bracko had longer legs than the dwarves. If they looked like they came to a decision, he would spring up, and find as many trees as he could to put between himself and the rest of his "team". Secondly... as they argued, Gissilt was looking less at that corner of the woods, and more at Keralt. And boy, did he look mad.

"Sindri booruhn, orkal. Balatrine, orckal," the little leader was firm, and louder than any had dared be within the last nineteen hours. "Yavin vus atal dahk vomos."

"The orc hates elves. He is trustworthy. The good he can do us is greater than the bad," was the gist of it.

Keralt made several mumbled objections, but none of them were answered. Defeated, the dwarf nodded in acceptance of his commander's decision - his moustache bobbing weirdly with the motion - and returned his attention to keeping watch. Gissilt slid to the ground, a faster and smoother descent than Bracko had demonstrated. Crouched, he walked over to the clearing where the orc was briefed. The trustworthy elf-hater shut his eye, and tensed in preparation to defend himself. He was still quite sure his listening and watching had gone unnoticed. He was also quite sure that his long knife was at his left side, and he could draw it in a quarter of a second.

Gissilt walked near... an ominous figure. The boy'a could only guess the dwarf's position from what little sound was made. Measuring proximity was key, since that determined the time to strike. He knew Gissilt was skilled--most of what he knew of battle was from this time-worn guerilla. If the dwarves had noticed Bracko's spying, and that earlier speech was just to throw him off (he did feel it seemed a bit dramatic), then their plan had holes in it from the outset. Still... orcs were known to be stupid, easily tricked--maybe, they weren't expecting him to still be on the defence?

An ominous shape loomed.... an orc made ready. Then, after a few moments, looking at the boy he had trained for the last two years--Gissilt lay down. Bracko's tension lasted for some time after... but eventually, this too subsided. The situation defused, the orc removed his crooked teeth from that part that waggles when you speak. Appreciating the deceptively tranquil atmosphere - with the incessant birds, warm sun, and the soft grass swaying in the breeze - the tired and non-treacherous orc allowed himself to drift off to sleep. His safety was entrusted to his "friend", watching for patrols from the vantage of a tree. And... to his friend.





(Words: 1,852)