So, my wife and I's hobby of building our fantasy dystopian world for the last 8 years has now become our REAL JOB (publishing deal)!

WOOO!

But... that also means we need new hobbies.

• We don't drink
• We don't party
• We're super nerdy
• Have two kids (both named after characters from our book)

We have added these new hobbies:

• Re-did our back porch
• KBBQ grilling on Sundays (even got the KBBQ grill)
• Backyard gardening
• League of Legends a little bit on Sundays (don't ask why we enjoy the torture)

Comment your favorite hobbies so we can try them (or hide if they're too wild).

Welcome back everyone, it's time for another Fifty Word Fantasy!

**Fifty Word Fantasy is a regular thread on Fridays!** It is a micro-fiction writing challenge originally devised by u/Aethereal_Muses

Write a maximum 50-word snippet that takes place in a fantasy world and contains the word **Victory**. It can be a scene, flash-fiction story, setting description, or anything else that could conceivably be part of a fantasy story or is a fantasy story on its own.

The prompt word must be written in full (e.g. no acrostics or acronyms).

Please try and keep things PG-13. Minors do participate in these from time to time and I would like things to not be too overtly sexual.

Thank you to everyone who participated whether it's contributing a snippet of your own, or fostering discussions in the comments. I hope to see you back next week!

Please remember to keep it at a limit of 50 words max.

Could I get a critique of my opening for a progression fantasy WN? Mostly want to know if the tone lands and if you think WN fans on Royal Road would stick it out without an immediate system hook. Tis a bit oddish but written with the familiar tropes I love.

The Monster:

It wears her sister as a disguise. It has since the womb. So when it hands her a knife and instructs her how to cut, she doesn’t feel the same surprise as the audience when the knife does find purchase in the empty air. 

She’s not mana attuned. She can’t see any phenomenon with her eyes, but she can feel the blade stab into something behind what is known. When she obeys the monks and draws the knife downward, a fundamental part of herself understands that she’s cutting through a fabric that always should remain knit.

Three bodies spill out of the invisible rift. They’re breathing. 

The hero’s summoning is a success.

***********Six Hours Prior************

The Girl:

Try, try, fail. My nature is immutable. No mortal instrument can challenge me! Quite simply, what is blessed cannot be blemished. Neither rags nor blush. Not even really really bad foundation, like the cake powder stuff that’s itchy and makes a huge mess.  There is only one truth in this world. I’m too old not to turn and face it: 

I appear di-vine! 

Do the little twirl, hee. I await all thy proposals of marriage and invitations to tea parties with the yellow thumb cakes and nuts.

Not right away of course. Sister deserves to get married first, and the parties can wait until after my incredible blessings save this world from whatever’s wrong with it. But it’s good to have options.

Sometimes Miss Torey (my family’s housemaid, the nice one who doesn’t put rocks in my soup) tells me to mind my ego. I mean, but look at me? A kettle-pot honey cup or rather, a teacup honey pot. I can’t remember which, but if both are the current me then both be good.

Loose-braided hair as white as…that one really white rock we saw on the way here to Hallowyn, city of our King. Big gray eyes to match. Short in height, as discerning men prefer, plus all the curves that grab their attentions. Set to the contrast of a lightly dusky complexion smartly paired with a simple yellow straight-dress to accentuate my natural charms. Di-vine! 

As the centerpiece (other than me, of course) what a lovely festoon! Which is a word for a really fancy necklace: glass-onyx beads pinched so lightly between big fat silver clasps that the beads all clitter-clack around their cage in this really satisfying way. Clitter-clack, clitter-clack, clitter-clittler, clack-clack. 

Fun.

Strange how a single fine accessory can transform a whole outfit.

“Of no surprise—” I jump hearing that voice “—not even petty thievery is beneath you.” That voice is my elder sister’s. Eight years my senior, so twenty-seven as of this spring and often somewhat testy due to being still unwed. Makes my heart ache thinking about it.

Um, drat. Technically speaking, this necklace does belong to her. But only in like the strictest sense that it’s her property. And technically technically, I am in her room right now standing before her vanity, admiring her hardware.

“I was looking for the powder and it just…” my voice trails off at the end. What to even say?

“Speak up, Blight,” she calls me, obviously not by my name which is much prettier, as a matter of fact.

“Well, see, my face tanned too much in the sun yesterday during the fancy after-bell market downtown with all the tents, so Mother told me—”

“Mother?” She spits. Crisd, one who stands a whole head plus even a spare nose taller than me, shifts from her current perch against the threshold, arms crossed, and takes a step inside her room. Her shoulders begin to square up as she speaks. Every word, her tone rises. “My mother, Lady Huldred to you, asked you to steal my necklace while I bathed?”

Oh my. Seems all the recent travel to reach this place and maybe also her no-husband have made her extra grumpy. Typically, she just ignores me. I’ll have to be careful with my reply. “Sorry, um, Lady Huldred asked me to grab the foundation powder from your room so she could fix my sun blemish, then I saw your necklace, er, uh, festoon actually if you know, and I thought it was pretty so I—”

Crisd reaches out, I wince back, and she yanks the festoon, I suppose trying to rip it off my neck, but she lacks the strength. Plus, despite our sizing disparity, she also lacks the gravity to pull me toward her because I’m, well, I’m me, so instead she herself stumbles forward.

 Oh wow. That really turns her face a bright color, and she tries at the necklace again! Much more forcefully, even, but against me, her attempts are like a seabreeze trying to topple an (exceptionally short) granite pillion.

She knows this, too, at least she should. But she’s too grumpy to realize. Actually, she’s kinda mad now. Ahp, oh dear.

She pulls so hard that she stumbles her own self into me! I did not do it! See, I catch her very very gently, open palm even to be sure that I do not accidentally squeeze her delicate bones, and I hold her steady right at her bare shoulders.

Perfectly acceptable.

Yet…

I feel her whole body stiffen at my touch, and my poor sister yelps. I didn’t hurt her. Swear I didn’t! But “those disgusting dead hands,” she rasps, “get them off me.”

Yes, my body is quite cold. Of this I am very aware and ever conscious. “My mistake,” I say and push her back stable, “poor circulation, er, well, you know that.” 

I remove my hands from her, hold them palm forward as a show of non-intent, then begin to unclasp her now abused festoon from around my neck. 

It’s kinked and hangs crooked.  

One positive of being so short, I do not need to look someone in the face if I do not wish it; in fact, it’s much easier not to. Crisd sharply rubs warmth back into her arms as if I sucked out her lifeblood, and I’m sure her face is even sharper, so I feign concentration on the festoon’s clasp and stare straight ahead.

I do straighten it at the kink. The soft silver bends under my thumbs like wax. Unfortunately…

Clitter-clitter-clack-SPLAT!

I’m no jeweler. I’m not even averagely good with my hands. The clasp breaks at the bend line, and those lovely glass-onyx beads splatter across the floor.

“Oh no!” I gasp. “I’ll help you pick them—”

“Get out of my room!”

I stand there for a moment weighing my options between my desire to save the pretty beads and appeasing a mad sister. “Um, okay.” I shuffle away, head down.

Ahp, drat! I’m still holding the necklace.

I spin around, shuffle back, and set the necklace down on her vanity table. What a poor broken accessory. “Sister, if you want I can—”

“Leave!”

Yes, yes, of course.

I shuffle away staring at the floorboards. But when I reach the threshold—Smack!—I run right into a hard pillar standing in the doorway. Look up, oh that’s Father. He’d been standing there silently with his arms crossed just like his eldest daughter was, I suppose making sure I don’t harm Crisd.

“Oop! Sorry, sir.” I rub my head.

He doesn’t look down. Doesn’t move to let me by. It’s like I’m not even there. 

“Pardon me, excuse me.” I suck in my chest and squeeze through the little crack in the threshold he left me. “Thank you, sir, goodbye.” And scamper away.

Father enters the room. I hear his muffled, measured voice resonate through the walls. My sister’s wails. His reassurances. Her less shrill wails. His voice. Hers at a volume more reasonable. Probably some head pats.

Oops.

When I return to my room which truthfully was right next door, I notice Mother sits before my own vanity fixing an earring as if she somehow hadn’t heard a peep of the ruckus. “Did you get the foundation, love?”

“No.”

“Oh there, there. Sit dear.” And she offers me her seat at the vanity. “I should have gotten it myself.” She brushes her nails through my hair and kisses the top of my head. 

She leaves. A few moments later, I hear my sister scream, “Take it!” And Mother returns.

She powders away my tan, licks her finger, wipes a fleck from under my eye, powders that spot once more, then leaves.

Thus, after all that, I stand before the vanity so much paler, which appears deeply uncanny over my darkened sun-drunk base tone. I appear as a fried pastry puff sprinkled in ground sugar, like a child who’d dumped a sackful over their head. Except I’m not a child. I’m nearly an adult, ready to come of age this fall on my nineteenth.

Pastry puff powder does not suit me, but seems it suits everyone else for me.

Loose-braided hair, denatured white. Big gray eyes to match. Could pass for an albino were it not for the dusky tropical complexion that I’d inherited from my true mother, albeit diluted by my father’s own. Such a fickle complexion that it could pass for as pale as any bunsack in this central kingdom or as dark as any merchant from Rassomali after soaking up what felt like even a splash of sun.

The yellow straight-dress hangs loose in all the wrong places, stretches in worse for it was a hand-me-down from a much younger Crisd’s wardrobe, and I have considerably more shape than she did at twelve (or twenty-seven, for that matter).

My figure is such that men will stare in open lust, and my station is such that they don’t care to disguise it. Always exotic added to any compliments, never just pretty.

Miss Torey had more than enough skill to fold up the skirt’s hem six or eight times as I lack even the height of a young Crisd, but no amount of skill could let out fabric where none existed, so instead, we’d wrapped my body tightly in wrappings underneath, hips and bust, so I could squeeze into the once pretty yellow dress. Even so, I have to shuffle step everywhere.

Mother called it “perfect.” I haven’t the foggiest as to why.

I touch my bare neck. Funny how all it takes to feel pretty is a single clattery necklace. Shame about the festoon, Crisd*.*

All these incredible blessings granted to me under that great yonder ghost that Mother loves so much.

gee, thanks

***************************

So anyway, they plan to summon the hero in the lower ball hall/carving chamber just off the breezeway to the Rassomalian ambassador’s quarters.

Unfortunately the Remembrance Troupe of Dex Mervin's Grave had previously rented the king’s main auditorium for an anniversary rendition of the Soliloquations(?) of the Parochial Talker. Like, they’d had it booked since last year to celebrate the anniversary of that performance the following year, and we’re not here to step on any big noble toes, least of all a troupe’s.

Honestly it’s nobody’s fault. Just poor circumstance. We make do.

And I can see the opulent vision in how they’d decorated this tertiary room. I’m sure Mother directed the crew to spare no expense. I’m also sure Father directed them to spare his expenses. As always, their compromise resolves as a pile of muted ambition: A symbolic archway/gate-thing front and center, clearly custom constructed, half carved with intricate symbology (the cheap half, I’m sure), surrounded by a smattering of mismatched pews likely borrowed from storage. Or maybe people brought their own pews, I don’t know. 

About a quarter of those are full, mostly the middle seats.

Father, Mother and Sister (with my dagger at her hip!) huddle in front of the freshly carpentered arch along with two robe clad monks. I suppose those two are the overseers sent, a young man with a single bushy unibrow on top and an equally bushy chinstrap below, albeit cleanshaven everywhere else. Kinda creates the illusion that his facial hair is pinning up his face itself.

The way his hands wave around, he seems to be in charge; whereas next to him, an oddly cute bald lady clings onto his every word just the same as she clutches onto his robe. 

Both wear the famous silver lined burgundy robes of Mont Suutrious—the ones who’d agreed to sponsor this “exhibition” as they called it. I kinda think that only Mother herself is the one who insists it’s a formal hero summoning.

Well, and me, too. I support her…albeit from the gallery above.

Seemed like a prestigious spot: up above on the balcony looking down upon the groomed crowns of the noble class below, all scurrying around for my own amusement, as imagined with a pair of theater glasses on a stick and a long stemmed sippy-cocktail.

Turns out, it’s the kid zone.

They’re noble children, so they’re all well behaved as they do represent their houses, but still, I’ve been relegated to sitting among the children…

My marked seat is even claimed by one. 

Fortunately a woman sitting next to him, the only apparent adult up here, pays the tiny usurper two silver coins and a few whispers to forfeit his claim, so I get my chair back! No fuss. 

Unfortunately, the chairs are shorter than they’d appeared. Carefully, I straighten my legs and use the armrests to lower myself down, down, down, oh my, down even farther, paying sharp mind to my tight yellow dress and its already limited-stretched fabric.

I do it, too! 

I sit all the way down. My dress survives. And once situated, the woman next to me offers her hand, palm face up in a lady’s greeting. I shift forward just a wee tiny bit to grab it and—RIP!

The fabric tears. Right on my bum. Loudly, as well. 

For a long tense moment, I’m stuck between admitting to a hole in my bum or feigning flatulence. Both of which I know for certain that a true noble would die before admitting the existence of.

But then! The lovely lady brushes right past my faux-pas and grabs my half outstretched hand herself, effectively offering me an out without any disgrace.

“Oh, hello,” I tell her, shaken, “I am, um, Sedda V Merveil, the daughter of Baron Aldus Merveil of Sodden, you know, just north of the bog.”

“Darling, I know,” she replies, and that’s all she speaks. She lets go of my hand and turns to watch all the pre-assembly meaderings going on down below.

That’s it.

She’s clearly not a child, unlike myself who’s technically not had a coming of age yet, so I likely have to sit up here due to this kingdom’s laws regarding age of majority and adulthood. Probably a legal requirement, nothing Mother could do about it. Yet, despite my seatmate also sitting in this children’s area, she’s sitting totally different.

Her long legs are crossed with her fingers intertwined in this triangle shape that she rests midthigh, statuesque. I’m able to copy the way her fingers intertwine to form that power triangle, but when I try to cross my legs like hers, my bum (quietly) rips out more.

So I shift my body toward her so maybe people will think we’re together, maybe try to leech up some of her poise-cachet. 

It’s comforting.

“Thank you for chasing away the child,” I say not to her face but to my knees.

“Is that something worthy of praise?” She replies without looking.

“...to me it is.”

That comment turns her head, and—geez, oh wow.

I’d noticed her bright crimson-red hair earlier, impossible to miss. She wore it slung wholly over one shoulder in what appeared to be a fashionable statement. Yet it left a fully opaque veil between us. A bright, colorful, pretty one, for sure, but that veil made it hard to see her features. As she turns to me, an impossibly blue eye peeks around her red veil and locks on.

This woman, my word.

Even sitting in these ridiculous children’s chairs, she towers over me in height. On such a slender frame, her sharp features coexist in a way that feels more like punctuation than assets tacked on. Harshly feminine. 

I don’t know many people. But compared to Crisd’s blunt honest movements, this woman wields her frame with a measured surety. I imagine that’s what they call grace. 

She, too, wears a straight-dress similar in style to my own, but the fabric is a thick velvet in a rich ruddy-brown color, and its fit is exactly the reverse of mine. Hers drapes where modesty is paramount and clings to the features beauty should accentuate. What her dress does not do is over-stretch until it bursts immodestly. I’m a crass fragment all limit burst in excess, and she is a perfectly wrought paragraph.

When she speaks, her lips hardly move in a way that feels too unnatural to not be practiced, like she’s intentionally avoiding opening her mouth any farther than necessary. I watch somewhat captivated, and do notice a hint of two unnaturally sharp points where her canines would be.

“Lady Merveil,” she says, “I paid that child to keep these seats, mine and yours. Think nothing of it.”

That stutters my heart, and her eyes flick down to my chest as if she heard the staccato, which is a ridiculous thought, of course. 

She went through an effort to meet me? “Why?”

The woman frowns. Her tongue bulges her gums. I see its form lick around her sharp canines—studying me, thinking. Her fingernails remind me of talons. Immaculately filed to a point but that appearance is softened by their blue polish (to match her eyes). Humanizes it enough to dull their edge. 

She taps one against her lip right where her long tooth would be then points that pretty nail right at my nose. “Are you gauging my house’s knowledge or genuinely unaware?”

She leaves that question hanging but keeps staring at me in a way that makes me really nervous.

“I don’t—are you asking me?” I have to keep looking between her and the floor.

“That depends. Is it that you don’t know or can’t answer?”

“I, el, emp, erm, can’t really…”

Her lip curls over one of her long canines in a not-smile. “Darling, relax. These are only words.” 

“Sorry. Mother warned me against idle talk with the nobles here.”

“Oh goodness, sweet lamb. Don’t apologize. It sounds weak, and appearance is a lady’s strength. Your mother is an intelligent woman, but I—” She shifts in her seat to point her body toward me. “—am no noble. You can still honor her request for I am only a ward of House Sangalia,” she says, strong emphasis on the “I” while still downplaying her station.

I feel so out of my depth. My station is more, my wits are less, and if appearance is a lady’s strength, my word, she’ll crush me under a single stiletto. 

“Thank you for the advice, Lady.”

“Address me as Ward. Lady would not be the proper title for my rank. And besides,” her eyes soften, “I’m rather fond of it. It’s a title hard earned, Lady Merveil.”

“Apolog—er, ump, I won’t forget. Thank you for the advice. Also thank you for saving my seat. And, well, for being kind about the other thing.” I swallow, hold my chin up, and look her right in her sharp blue eyes, keen to exit this conversation as soon as possible. 

Yet, before I can draw the next breath, she interrupts with a shake of her head and a roll of her eyes. “Careful, Lady, or one might think you owe me a favor.”

Oh no. I do not want to owe this woman a favor. No beating around the bush. “With respect, Ward, I don’t think my mother would approve over a technicality if I kept talking with you.”

I catch a twitch of what I think is an approving smile. “Be at ease. I’m only here to observe this year’s exhibition.”

She says that, but she’s facing away from the organizers down below. And hey! I can hear the uni-bush monk beginning to address the crowd. 

The summoning is beginning.

But wait. “What do you mean ‘this year’?”

She waves me off. “Oh, let’s see. How to put it? Every few years, the more, hmm, let’s call them ornery monks, they enjoy attempting to play hero summoner.”

Oh my goodness! “They summon a hero every few years?”  

“Dear Lady, of course not. It’s all in good fun. Remind the people their Mont exists, why they exist. Nobody believes those monks will actually summon one. Most don’t believe they ever summoned one at all, not even, oh what’s-his-name.”

“...Oenus. He, he was our founding savior.” This is important! How does she not know of the hero’s role?

“Yes, of course, sweet lamb. Oenus, our founding savior.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“I am, yes. I’ll cash in that favor offered and pray you’ll forgive me.”

“...oh. I, erm, okay.” Of course she wouldn’t see me as a peer.

Over the woman’s shoulder, down below by the carptentered archway, I see the pair of monks chanting their spell. Which come to find out, isn’t anything special. It’s just something Unibush and his robe clutcher do every few years to be ornery?

Most of all, in front of this whole crowd of nobility who are far far beyond our meager barony’s station, my brave sister draws her dagger, my dagger, and moves under the archway, I suppose waiting for her cue. 

She’s acting on faith alone. Is she really going to fail in front of everyone? My heart aches thinking about how clueless and confused she’ll be which everyone in the know secretly laughs. I understand that she dislikes me somewhat, but I really don’t want anything bad to happen to her.

The woman follows my gaze down to my sister. “I will admit the cutlery is a new addition to this exhibition. Typically, it’s only the chants. Where did you find the knife? It appears somewhat—” She squints then her eyes flash in surprise. “—special.”

I don’t answer her.

“Oh, don’t be like that. You make me feel as if I just bled out a child.” She purses her lips and tentatively raises a hand to my face.

Instinctually, I lurch away, but she only wanted to brush my hair back. Her nails may be a pretty blue, but they’re very long and immaculately filed to sharp points. She seems to understand this and is gentle with her touch. It’s a soft tickle-scratch through my ill-maintained nest of dead white hair. Something about a soft touch with sharp nails feels nicer than were the nails blunt to begin with.

She drops her thumb and wipes under my eye. Her talon sweeps right past my cornea, so close it brushes my eyelashes. “What horrible powder to mask such a delicate face. Her pointer finger tickles my cheek, but it’s very methodical.

“What are you—”

“Shh, shh. Don’t move. Remain steady.” She speaks as if she’s going to eat me, but somehow her tone is a comfort. 

Her long dark nails draw a quick, practiced pattern across my cheek. It does no harm, but it leaves a wake of tinges. Those soak into my skin and disperse underneath. “Up here. Right at my eyes, sweet lamb.” 

Her blue eyes flash and flecks of haze swirl inside her iris. 

The tingles she’d traced into my cheek scurry up my nose and create something like an invisible thumb which presses into my forehead, right above my brow. It’s soft. It feels, it feels nice. I try to hold the sensation there, but I sense it’s relatively fragile. The moment I focus my attention on it, the tingles burst and scatter across my brow. 

“Aw, no. Come back.” My voice feels soft and airy. “Do that again. It felt nice.”

All the invisible tension leaves the woman’s face, like she’s allowed a moment of reprieve. The angles soften, more human than harsh sculpture, now. And she gives me an easy smile, no hiding her long canines.

I’ve never seen anything like them. I’ve also hardly left my room in all my nineteen years of life, so I believe the issue is mine. Very well may be a common feature elsewhere.

“Sweet delicious lamb, I want to know where your family got that knife.”

“The knife? I feel it’s more of a dagger.”

“Yes, the dagger. What is it that gave such a, a trivial baron the confidence to interject himself into the Mont’s affairs.”

“I’m sorr—er, ermp, I don’t want to talk about my family with you.”

The woman appears genuinely taken aback. “What do you mean you don’t want to talk with me?”

“You know, it’s, um, it’s like I said before. Mother said not to.”

“Oh my,” the woman says. She brushes past my refusal and seems to ask about something else entirely. “What resources did your family put into you? How were you trained?”

I swallow. “I’m just me. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Are you lying?” Her nail pokes into my skin and a warm wet trickle rolls down my cheek.”

“No, no, I’m not. I don’t understand.” Why is she being violent? Is she going to hurt me now? 

Her eyes widen, but she regains control and shakes her head. “No, you don’t, do you?”

She lets go of my face. I see a red line of my own blood drawn over her hand. She brings it up absentmindedly like she’s going to lick it off, but stops partway, pulls a dark handkerchief from her bosom and wipes it off instead.

A similar warm trickle rolls down to my chin, and I watch a blood red droplet fall onto the lap of my yellow dress. I touch my face. Is this just how people are in the capital? “Why?”

She looks down upon me for a long thought, then one again reaches out toward my face, this time holding a handkerchief. I lurch away from her touch just the same as before, but also, I grab her wrist—not with all my strength, but with plenty to stop her without debate.

She raises an eyebrow at that, tips her head, and opens her hand in a show of surrender, which also has the effect of dropping her handkerchief in my lap.

“Can you leave?” I let go of her wrist. “Please?” I add.

I touch the line of blood leaking from the puncture in my cheek, and try really hard to keep my face stern. 

She closes her eyes and dips her head in the gesture of bow. “Lady Merveil.” And stands to leave.

“Wait” I tell her.

“Hmm?”

I hold up her handkerchief. She looks but doesn’t grab it. Instead, she pats my hand and pushes it out of her path.

Just as such, the first person I’d ever met on my own leaves me with a wound and a discarded handkerchief to treat it.

I dab my eye, press her handkerchief to my cheek, and turn to watch my sister from my designated seat far away. I hope it goes well. I don’t want anything bad to happen to her.

I have been wanting and working on ideas in my head and as notes for the first book I am planning on trying to write for my fantasy world.

But man I am so terrified I guess, I just keep putting off writing it, literally weeks, I work about 40 to 45 hour weeks, and have 2 days off, 3 am usually so tired and that with the fear of actually starting to write, has made me into a procrastination monster.

I am not someone who went to college for writing and honestly the last time I wrote anything of substance was for my college writing class, and those where mostly just essays or short stories, which I might add, we're pretty aweful.

I am just so scared I'm going to start and have zero idea what I'm doing, I may have an idea and have thought of lines and scenes in my head, but just the idea of me having to figure out how to actually turn those into sentences that follow the rules of writing and actually make sense, seems so daunting.

I just, I don't know, I am scared, and I don't know what I should do, if maybe looking up information on writing or videos for beginner writers would help. I did try some and can't say they did much besides confuse and annoy me with some of their egotistical ideas they had about their own writing and how everyone should follow their style.

Please. I really just need someone to tell me what to do, I know I have horrible anxiety about failing, thats why I always procrastinated on things I want to try, I am so scared that I'll end up having zero talent or just end up wasting a bunch of time on a project that will never go anywhere, but this book and the world I have been creating is something I just don't want to give up on that easy.

If you have any words or things you did to help you please tell me, or if you have good videos on these topics or websites with helpful info, anything will help me out.

Soery for the long post. thank you if you decide to help me.

When talking about villains there are several types you could choose from such as;

1. Resentment- where after years of swallowing pain [like being shackled, being manipulated etc...]

2. loss of morality- there are several ways to achieve this- after a lot of time spent with "bad" or people that abuse power- good person turned bad.

3. [This one is my fav] ambitious- this can go two way- personal ambition and expectations of society- where a person believes so narrowly that what they think is right and pursues it despite protests and loss and damage of others.

if you have any other ideas or questions leave a comment below.

I’m sure this is a common problem for many — how the hell do you write 2, 3 or more perspectives without ruining it all? I am writing a story with 2 perspectives. Though there’s a catch — it also includes Romance and the two characters aren’t the objects of each other’s love. While for one character I see an obvious development line and ending the other character is under question. His story has outlines, but it seems that for the most part he follows the other main character’s goals. His ending would either be going back to the way it was before meeting the other MC, or something that wouldn’t necessarily make him happy. I can’t help my empathize with him so I don’t want to end his story badly, considering that he was already stripped of his own goals. Do I drop the 2 perspectives?

I have tried to pin down the genre of my fantasy novel, and I also feel like it might be grimdark-adjacent. Here are the parts that make me think my novel is grimdark:

 -  the POV character kills a man in the first chapter, no hesitation, no remorse; but then he saves someone's life right after that
 - all of the characters are morally grey
 - raw depictions of violence
 - urban setting, bleak
 - civil war 
 - the characters suffer, a lot
 - an objectively bad antagonist (a demon)
 - dark humor

But here's where I have my hang ups:

 - happy ending
 - light-hearted moments to ease the tension
 - romance arc (multiple) that ends well
 - the war eventually ends 

What do you all think? Is my fantasy novel grimdark?

We know that to write well you have to read a lot. I I have read many of the mainstream fantasy’s, so I’m looking for some more obscure recommendations. Particularly books and stories you have found are told with beautiful prose. My style is very lyrical and descriptive with fun turns-of-phrases.

I’m currently reading Earthsea by Ursula K. Le Guin (it reads like it may have influenced Patrick Rothfuss? Anyone else agree?) and have The Broken Earth series next by N.K. Jemisin. Her books have been recommended as must read for world building.

Or, even if the writing didn’t stand out to you; I’d love to know recommendations based on stories as well.

Thanks!

Fantasy has some specific wrinkles in this conversation that generic publishing advice doesn't account for. The genre has a strong and active indie community. Readers are genuinely accustomed to and supportive of independently published work in a way that some other genres are not. The credibility argument for trad or hybrid publishing is weaker here than in, say, literary fiction. What matters more in fantasy is production quality and genre signal. Does the cover look like it belongs on the shelf next to the books your readers already love. Does the interior hold up in print. Are you distributed anywhere fantasy readers actually shop. None of those questions require a hybrid publisher to answer well.

This character I've been thinking of is a very powerful and well-known assassin. He is a summoner, and almost all of his magic and summons are based on crows.

I just need help with ideas for spells and mainly summons this character could use (I'd also like the summons to be kind of absurd and weird) . So far, my ideas for spells and summons are:

1. He can give himself wings that he can fly with (obviously), they are created with magic so they can regenerate if he puts more "magic juice" into them, and some of his feathers are sharp and metalic so he can launch them from his wings.
2. he can turn his body and clothes into crows

for summons i have:

1. just a giant crow he could ride
2. a humanoid crow with a smoking pipe and pole hammer. (i don't even know, leave me alone)

I posted this to r/fantasy, and before it got taken down, some guy wrote, "If the writer can't think of anything with it, it's probably not a good idea." If you are planning on typing this, shut up. This is MY STORY, with MY CHARACTER, and i like the concept of my character, so i will keep my character.

(Sorry for bad grammar. English is not my first language)

How to write a story within a story

I’ve tried to hack at this issue, asked a couple writing buddies, looked through online examples and I’m stumped!

The question I had was, how do you write a story within a story? Or for more context, a fable.

There’s a scene in my novel where the MC is walking through town and overhears a circus troupe retelling an old fable of how magic was created as well as a that is prominent within the religion.

The story is about 1,000 words long and takes up half a chapter with an asterisk break after it’s finished. But the current style I had involves the narrator(circus troupe leader) telling the story at the beginning of the chapter, and having an asterisk break to come back to reality with the crowd and showcasing their reactions/disagreements on how magic and religion was actually created.

Short example excerpt to paint a better picture:

Aetheol, the god of magic, decided he’d give a young boy the keys to magic under one condition.

That the boy sacrificed his soul.

The boy still decided to accept the offer. Believing that the world would be a better place with such rich a power. But the boy had been wrong! The magic corrupted humanity and bloodshed became rampant. After a millennia of carnage and war, Aetheol decided to question the boy about his choice. So he found his soul within the depths of the Underworld and brought it forth for questioning.

“So? How do you feel about giving up your soul for a power that corrupted mankind?” Aetheol taunted.

The boy simply smiled. “There is still good amongst evil. There are those who use magic to better mankind. Who use it for good.”

Aetheol became frustrated with the boys spirit. So he decided to make a gamble with the boy. That all humans would eventually become evil and tainted with magic. The boy disagreed and thus, the war between Aetheol and the boy known as Bayst was born. Both hoping to see how humanity would utilize magic.

And that, is how the faith of Bayst and magic came to be.

*****

[The plot resumes, clown troupe argue that the fable isn’t true with each one saying they have the real fable]

The fixes I’ve thought about:

1. Removing all the dialogue. I think it makes the grammar difficult but also it’s an old fable. I don’t think it’s necessary for an additional detail like the speech used and the story could be shortened as a result. But if anyone does have solutions or strategies in which I could still execute dialogue, I’d be happy to hear them!
2. I have tried using a single quote (“) at the start of each paragraph to signify that the narrator/clown troupe leader is still telling the story. But not sure if I should simply just not use quotes at all.

And that basically sums up my question! I hope the formatting made my struggle clear and I’d love to hear any solutions/fixes anyone might have!

My first book was my debut, and I published it on kdp. I didn't know much about ARCs and promotion. I'm 16, you see. I had to manage school and boards while publishing. I'm on break right now so I'm trying to promote my book. I thought of starting the second book now, but it won't make sense if the first book is not that popular and well-known.

The first book has deadly trials, and the characters are thieves. The FMC learns some stuff about their world, and there is a rising conflict and plot twists. My point is that the first book is sort of important, so the readers need to read two books, but most won't choose to do that, seeing as I'm an indie author and only a teen.

Should I maybe put a recap in the 2nd book? With the key points in a short story? Or should I focus on getting a proper fandom for the first? Please DM if you have more advice or would like to know more about my story!

I’m testing the opening of a story and I genuinely don’t know if it hooks or not.

I’d mainly like to know if you’d keep reading or stop here.

CHAPTER 1 — The Empire’s Roar

They said the world was simple. That light and darkness did not share the same ground. That good was obvious—and the Empire embodied it.

But the air smelled of wet metal. Of rust. Of thick steam. Of heat trapped inside iron. Something didn’t quite fit.

The streets were full.

People pressed against walls and facades, leaning forward as if they could touch what was coming. Banners raised. Symbols shaking. Voices rising.

Not all of them were excited. But none of them showed it.

Many simply watched in silence, expectant. As if this moment—unusual, rare—somehow still belonged to them.

Above everything, one voice.

The loudspeakers spread across the city spoke in unison.

—The goblins rise at our borders.

The king’s voice fell from above, carried across Aeciris, impossible to ignore.

—Those wretched, deformed creatures… forge weapons. They prepare for war.

The sound resonated in the chest more than in the ears.

—But they do not know the Empire’s flame.

A roar of approval moved through the crowd.

—They do not know our Paladins.

And then they appeared.

Metal over stone.

Heavy. Rhythmic. Inevitable.

The armor advanced as if each step dragged something more than steel. Tubes, valves, small bursts of steam escaping in irregular pulses. Contained energy.

Too contained.

On their backs, the mechanism.

A structure anchored by cables and pipes that ran through the metal like roots. The core vibrated with restrained energy, making the air tremble around it.

The people shouted their names. Pointed at them. Lifted them up.

Heroes.

Saviors.

(continues…)