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Draft of Prologue

Nicholas Casale

New Member
Here's a draft of the prologue in book two of my "Tales of Erets" series. Book two, of course, is the sequel to the one on amazon.com. Please, if you offer a critique give suggestions, be helpful. Not just "I don't like X," or "write better," give me something to work with.

Prologue
Fire burns everything to ashes, but it can also cleanse the foulest wounds, and close them up. It's a hideous scar, but it's better than bleeding to death or turning green from infection.
Tyson was hardly a selfless man. As leader of the Dunn Banner Mercenary Company he'd showed time and again that he was willing to do nigh anything for the right amount of coin. And yet, on that night, as most of his comrades were drinking in the bar, he showed a soft and noble side that none of them had ever expected to see.
Witnesses reported seeing Uri's house catch fire, and then seeing the tall, red-haired Tyson, wearing studded leather armor and with a long sword at his hip, breaking through the front door, rushing into the blaze. The house was clearly lost, they knew that when the main support beam broke and the thatch roof caved in, but the villagers heaped buckets of water and dirt onto it, hoping to kill the flames before they lit the whole town up. The smoke loomed over the rooftops, and some even said they saw Uri's face in the smoke, her mouth pulled back in a painful grimace and her eyes screwed tightly shut. All reported hearing the screams from within the burning house, both Uri's screams and those of her four-year-old daughter, Mahla.
When they heard the screams stop, all of them were sure that Uri and Mahla were dead, and that Tyson would only find charred corpses in the house, assuming the smoke hadn't already choked out his lungs. Some were already saying prayers for the souls of the deceased, others finding themselves questioning how God could possibly let this happen to such a precious little girl as Mahla was. Still others hadn't given up hope yet, and waited, watching the front doors of the house.
Uri's house had been one of the biggest in the town. Stories and rumors abounded about how it was that Uri had fallen into so much wealth, especially since she had neither a job nor a rich husband. She had simply moved into town one day, four years prior, shortly thereafter giving birth to her golden-haired daughter, a daughter who was obviously a bastard. Some speculated that she'd been a prostitute, or perhaps a successful thief, and that she'd made enough money now to settle down and take care of her girl. All in town envied that big, beautiful house, and the fact that Uri never had to work, but now they watched as the house burned down, and Uri's life came to a sudden end, many of them feeling horrible that they'd ever spoken an unfriendly word about her.
Just as the walls of the house were starting to collapse, the last few support beams snapping and windows shattering, Tyson burst out the front doors again, carrying little Mahla in one arm and dragging Uri's limp body with his other. Both Tyson and Mahla coughed and gasped for clean air, letting the cool night wind sting their lungs as an ironically beautiful reminder that they were still alive. The wind was like ice hitting their skin, and it was welcome as it cooled their sweat. Mahla was still crying, the tears making lines in the soot and ashes on her face, but her throat was so sore from the smoke that she'd lost her voice, was no longer able to scream.
Other villagers were upon them in seconds, taking Mahla from the sell-sword's arms and carrying away Uri's limp body.
The other members of Tyson's company laughed and joked when they heard the story.
“You're a regular bloody hero!”
“Just rushed in there? Right into the flames?”
“Fearless, eh? Ah hah!”
“Any o' that pretty red hair catch fire?”
All the while Tyson suffered their jests and insults in silence, turning down their offers to buy him a beer or an ale to celebrate his selfless courage. In his head Uri caught fire, over and over, and flailed and screamed on the ground, cries that he'd thought only beasts could make. He could see her skin melting and smell the stench of her burning hair all over again. Her cries were likely to haunt him for years to come, and Mahla probably would never forget them either. As a warrior he'd seen plenty of death, killed more men than he could count, but it didn't compare to watching an innocent woman suffer like that. That night he drank not to celebrate his own heroism with the others, but to calm his nerves, to stop his hands from shaking, and he bought his own alcohol, for he felt he deserved no reward.
In the morning, before his company left the town, Tyson decided to check in on Mahla, and so he went to the temple, where he'd left her, to talk to the priestess there. Mahla was sitting in one of the pews as he walked in, staring off into the distance, as if she were asleep, but with her eyes wide open. “She's such a darling girl,” Tyson thought, seeing her with a clean face, the soot cleaned away, for the first time.
“Ah, you're the one who saved this little one,” said the priestess as Tyson approached the altar.
“Yes yes. What will happen to her?”
“She has no known next of kin. If no one takes her in then the church will raise her. She'll be trained as a priestess, a monk, or even a paladin.”
“If no one takes her in?” Tyson asked, “Why wouldn't anyone take such a girl in?”
“Not their responsibility. You'd be surprised how rare it is to find people who would truly love a child not their own.”
“And if she is adopted what are the odds of it being a good family that takes her in?”
The priestess sighed, “I won't lie, a lot of families adopt children just so they can have someone who's virtually a slave, someone who does constant, hard labor for them, and they're very good at hiding it. I've sometimes kept children hidden, made sure they weren't adopted, just to protect them from that.”
“Then I'll take her,” Tyson said.
“You will? You're a mercenary! You're constantly going to war! How could you possibly be a good father to this girl?”
“I went into a burning building to save her. I think I've already, at the very least, proven that I can love her even though she's not my own.”
“But still...what kind of life would this child have in your care, being constantly on the move, sleeping in camps full of crude killers for hire?”
“Watch your tongue, sister.”
“Mother,” the priestess corrected him. Nuns and inquisitors were called “sister,” priestesses were called “mother.” Clearly this man wasn't even a member of the Agalmite faith, the priestess feared what sort of heathen life the girl would lead if she were raised by such a man. “And I won't let you take her!”
In a flash Tyson had his sword drawn and the blade pressed against the priestess' throat. The priestess wanted to scream at first, but she immediately realized that he would likely slit her throat to silence her. The blade was kept sharp at the tip, sharp enough to shave, or to cut leather. Tyson's face was intense, focused, with the corners of his mouth pulled down in a scowl, his nostrils curled upward, and his eyes screaming his silent rage at her. “I'm taking the girl! I will not suffer her to become a slave, not yours or anyone else's!”
“Alright! Alright!” The priestess said, holding up her hands in surrender.
Tyson sheathed his sword, his face instantly changing to a much softer, friendlier expression, “I knew you'd be reasonable.”
“If you're going to go you should take this,” the priestess said. She reached behind the altar and produced a small, gold-plated box. “It was the only thing that survived the fire. It's locked, and we couldn't find a key, but perhaps you'll have a use for it.”
“Thank you, sister,” Tyson said, taking the box.
“MOTHER!” The priestess corrected him again.
“I'm not your mother,” Tyson said, chuckling to himself as the priestess rolled her eyes in exasperation.
Mahla said nothing when Tyson told her that he was her new father, merely nodded her head and followed him, holding his hand tightly, and not speaking a word to anyone. On the road from the town to where the Dunn Banner Mercenary Company would make camp Mahla didn't even make eye contact with any member of her “new family,” she merely stared off into space, her eyes wide and terrified.
Later that night, in the comfort of his tent, as Mahla slept on his bedroll, sucking her thumb for the first time in two years, Tyson took to picking the lock on the gold-plated box. The box itself could, obviously, be sold, but one had to wonder what was so valuable that you had to lock it in a box plated in gold. After working on the lock for over an hour he heard the right click and the box came open. Inside were letters with broken seals, and when Tyson read the letters he laughed so hard that he woke Mahla from her deep sleep.
“You really are the one I've been looking for, girl!”
 
Hi Nicholas,

I went ahead and marked everything I saw. Obviously feel free to dismiss any suggestions if you feel you prefer the original way you had it written.

I was impressed with this story line. When I got to the end of the prologue, I would have happily continued onto chapter one. In fact, the prologue was enough to make me consider going and purchasing your first book in the series. Excellent story line, good visuals, and you did a great job of making me care about all of the characters.

My main critique would be the length of your sentences. Some of them were so long that I found myself stumbling through them. I would almost suggest taking at least a third of them and finding a way to make them into two sentences instead. A couple of the sentences I suggested breaks for were long enough that, when I got to the end, I went back to the beginning again to make sure I got the full meaning.

Overall I think it's fantastic, especially for the draft! I look forward to reading more!

Melanie



Here's a draft of the prologue in book two of my "Tales of Erets" series. Book two, of course, is the sequel to the one on amazon.com. Please, if you offer a critique give suggestions, be helpful. Not just "I don't like X," or "write better," give me something to work with.

Prologue
Fire burns everything to ashes, but it can also cleanse the foulest wounds, and close them up. (I find this opening sentence just a little awkward. I'm having a hard time pinpointing why. I almost want that first bit to be a sentence on it's own. "Fire burns everything to ashes. But it can also cleanse the foulest wound and close them up again.") It's a hideous scar, but it's better than bleeding to death or turning green from infection.
Tyson was hardly a selfless man. As leader of the Dunn Banner Mercenary Company (add comma here) he'd showed time and again that he was willing to do nigh anything for the right amount of coin. And yet, on that night, as most of his comrades were drinking in the bar, he showed a soft and noble side that none of them had ever expected to see.
Witnesses reported seeing Uri's house catch fire, and then seeing the tall, red-haired Tyson, wearing studded leather armor and with a long sword at his hip, breaking through the front door, rushing into the blaze. (to help eliminate a comma I would say, "...the front door to rush into the blaze.") The house was clearly lost, they knew that when the main support beam broke and the thatch roof caved in, (I would stop here and start a new sentence) but the villagers heaped buckets of water and dirt onto it, hoping to kill the flames before they lit the whole town up. The smoke loomed over the rooftops, and some even said they saw Uri's face in the smoke, her mouth pulled back in a painful grimace and her eyes screwed tightly shut. All reported hearing the screams from within the burning house, both Uri's screams and those of her four-year-old daughter, Mahla.
When they heard the screams stop, all of them were sure that Uri and Mahla were dead, and that Tyson would only find charred corpses in the house, assuming the smoke hadn't already choked out his lungs. (This sentence is a little too long. I think you should split it up into two starting with the part where they thing Tyson will find the charred corpses) Some were already saying prayers for the souls of the deceased, others finding themselves questioning how God could possibly let this happen to such a precious little girl as Mahla was. Still others hadn't given up hope yet, and waited, watching the front doors of the house.
Uri's house had been one of the biggest in the (delete the) town. Stories and rumors abounded about how it was that Uri had fallen into so much wealth, especially since she had neither a job nor a rich husband. She had simply moved into town one day, four years prior, shortly thereafter giving birth to her golden-haired daughter, a daughter who was obviously a bastard. Some speculated that she'd been a prostitute, or perhaps a successful thief, and that she'd made enough money now to settle down and take care of her girl. All in town envied that big, beautiful house, and the fact that Uri never had to work, but now (work. Now) they watched as the house burned down, and Uri's life came to a sudden end, many of them feeling horrible that they'd ever spoken an unfriendly word about her.
Just as the walls of the house were starting to collapse, the last few support beams snapping and windows shattering, Tyson burst out the front doors again, carrying little Mahla in one arm and dragging Uri's limp body with his other. Both Tyson and Mahla coughed and gasped for clean air, letting the cool night wind sting their lungs as an ironically beautiful reminder that they were still alive. The wind was like ice hitting their skin, and it was welcome as it cooled their sweat. Mahla was still crying, the tears making lines in the soot and ashes on her face, but her (I would break this up there, too. "face. Her") throat was so sore from the smoke that she'd lost her voice, was no longer able to scream. (change to "she'd lost her voice and was no longer able to scream.")
Other villagers were upon them in seconds, taking Mahla from the sell-sword's arms and carrying away Uri's limp body.
The other members of Tyson's company laughed and joked when they heard the story.
“You're a regular bloody hero!”
“Just rushed in there? Right into the flames?”
“Fearless, eh? Ah hah!”
“Any o' that pretty red hair catch fire?”
All the while (comma) Tyson suffered their jests and insults in silence, turning down their offers to buy him a beer or an ale to celebrate his selfless courage. In his head (change to mind and add a comma) Uri caught fire, over and over, and flailed and screamed on the ground, cries that he'd thought only beasts could make. (This is a little awkward, I recommend something like, "In his mind, Uri caught fire over and over again. She flailed and screamed on the ground, cries that he'd thought only beasts could make." ) He could see her skin melting and smell the stench of her burning hair all over again. Her cries were likely to haunt him for years to come, and Mahla probably would never forget them either. As a warrior (comma) he'd seen plenty of death, killed more men than he could count, but it didn't compare to watching an innocent woman suffer like that. That night he drank (comma) not to celebrate his own heroism with the others, but to calm his nerves, to stop his hands from shaking, and he bought his own alcohol, for he felt he deserved no reward.
In the morning, before his company left the (delete the) town, Tyson decided to check in on Mahla, and so he (...check in on Mahla. He...) went to the temple, where he'd left her, to talk to the priestess there. Mahla was sitting in one of the pews as he walked in, staring off into the distance, as if she were asleep, but with her eyes wide open. “She's such a darling girl,” Tyson thought, seeing her with a clean face, the soot cleaned away, for the first time.
“Ah, you're the one who saved this little one,” said the priestess as Tyson approached the altar.
“Yes yes. What will happen to her?”
“She has no known next of kin. If no one takes her in then the church will raise her. She'll be trained as a priestess, a monk, or even a paladin.”
“If no one takes her in?” Tyson asked, “Why wouldn't anyone take such a girl in?”
“Not their responsibility. You'd be surprised how rare it is to find people who would truly love a child not their own.”
“And if she is adopted what are the odds of it being a good family that takes her in?”
The priestess sighed, (. instead of ,) “I won't lie, a lot of families adopt children just so they can have someone who's virtually a slave, someone who does constant, hard labor for them, and they're very good at hiding it. I've sometimes kept children hidden, made sure they weren't adopted, just to protect them from that.”
“Then I'll take her,” Tyson said.
“You will? You're a mercenary! You're constantly going to war! How could you possibly be a good father to this girl?”
“I went into a burning building to save her. I think I've already, at the very least, proven that I can love her even though she's not my own.”
“But still...what kind of life would this child have in your care, being constantly on the move, sleeping in camps full of crude killers for hire?”
“Watch your tongue, sister.”
“Mother,” the priestess corrected him. Nuns and inquisitors were called “sister,” priestesses were called “mother.” Clearly this man wasn't even a member of the Agalmite faith, the priestess feared what sort of heathen life the girl would lead if she were raised by such a man. “And I won't let you take her!”
In a flash (comma) Tyson had his sword drawn and the blade pressed against the priestess' throat. The priestess wanted to scream at first, but she immediately realized that he would likely slit her throat to silence her. The blade was kept sharp at the tip, sharp enough to shave, or to cut leather. Tyson's face was intense, focused, with the corners of his mouth pulled down in a scowl, his nostrils curled upward, and his eyes screaming his silent rage at her. “I'm taking the girl! I will not suffer her to become a slave, not yours or anyone else's!”
“Alright! Alright!” The priestess said, holding up her hands in surrender.
Tyson sheathed his sword, his face instantly changing to a much softer, friendlier expression, (. instead of ,) “I knew you'd be reasonable.”
“If you're going to go you should take this,” the priestess said. She reached behind the altar and produced a small, gold-plated box. “It was the only thing that survived the fire. It's locked, and we couldn't find a key, but perhaps you'll have a use for it.”
“Thank you, sister,” Tyson said, taking the box.
“MOTHER!” The priestess corrected him again. (The all caps implies she screamed or yelled that and I can't imagine she would. I think a subtle correction would be more characteristic.)
“I'm not your mother,” Tyson said, chuckling to himself as the priestess rolled her eyes (Again, I think she would more likely huff in exasperation instead of roll her eyes) in exasperation. (I got a kick out of this part, by the way)
Mahla said nothing when Tyson told her that he was her new father, merely nodded her head and followed him, holding his hand tightly, and not speaking a word to anyone. On the road from the (delete the) town to where the Dunn Banner Mercenary Company would make camp (comma) Mahla didn't even make eye contact with any member of her “new family,” she (... "new family." She ...) merely stared off into space, her eyes wide and terrified.
Later that night, in the comfort of his tent, as Mahla slept on his bedroll, sucking her thumb for the first time in two years, Tyson took to picking the lock on the gold-plated box. (Break this sentence up) The box itself could, obviously, be sold, but one had to wonder what was so valuable that you had to lock it in a box plated in gold. After working on the lock for over an hour (comma) he heard the right click and the box came open. Inside were letters with broken seals, and when Tyson read the letters he laughed so hard that he woke Mahla from her deep sleep.
“You really are the one I've been looking for, girl!”
 
You are purely made of awesome, Melanie! I always felt that I had a flair for inventing settings and creating great stories but fell short on my word/sentence craft, and you, plus another guy on another site, have helped me pinpoint the major problem: the long sentences (as evidenced by this one). Also, he pointed out my over use of "-ing" verbs, which weakens the sentences. Now, I personally disagree with you on exactly one thing, the priestess getting angry as easily as she did. I kind of want her to be a subtle example of something brought up again later, but other than that I love your suggestions! Thank you for not either giving vague advice or telling me, "you suck, euthanize yourself."
 
I'm so glad that my comments and suggestions helped. You're welcome! I've always been frustrated in the past when comments were either vague or just all around negative. There is a LOT of good in the work that you posted, much more so than what needed to be "fixed." I've always felt that it's as important for writer's to know what they're doing "right" as it is to be told what they are doing "wrong."

By the way, now you've got me really curious what comes up later in the book that subtly references back to the priestess! :-D

You are purely made of awesome, Melanie! I always felt that I had a flair for inventing settings and creating great stories but fell short on my word/sentence craft, and you, plus another guy on another site, have helped me pinpoint the major problem: the long sentences (as evidenced by this one). Also, he pointed out my over use of "-ing" verbs, which weakens the sentences. Now, I personally disagree with you on exactly one thing, the priestess getting angry as easily as she did. I kind of want her to be a subtle example of something brought up again later, but other than that I love your suggestions! Thank you for not either giving vague advice or telling me, "you suck, euthanize yourself."
 
Got your interest, eh? Not sure how much I should give away if I've got a hook. Oh well, the answer to a question only leads to more questions anyway. There is another priestess later who talks of wanting to reform the Agalmite Church and expresses a general disgust with the way outsiders are often treated. The priestess in this passage, therefore, is unfriendly with Tyson because he is a non-believer. That's the example.
 
That makes sense why the first priestess was acting like that, then. Very interesting! Yes, your book series sounds very interesting. I suggested them to my husband and may have to take a look at them myself! I know I'm definitely looking forward to hearing the rest of the story after reading the prologue.
 
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