Critique please.

[Moist Happenings]

My interest in writing began with Gemstone, mostly because there are so many talented thinkers and writers here. With that said, I have a short part of a piece that I'd like looked over with a critical eye by anyone interested. It isn't sitting right with me. This version is now the first draft of a third rewrite. Any suggestions on grammar, word usage, imagery or flat out changes would be appreciated.

Revision 3 - First Draft

A warm Spring breeze swept lazily through the Western Andril mountains, blissfully unaware of what lay in the land beyond its own. The last of Winter’s chill still clung desperately to the thawing peaks in a vain attempt to stave off the inevitable. The cold, cleansing water had already for the most part melted its way down into the lake at the summit, which in turn had begun feeding the stream that would trickle down the mountainside and breathe life back into the eagerly awaiting grasslands of Evendil Valley.

In but a few weeks time the mountain itself would come to life again. The dullness of the cold season would be replaced by a vibrant array of colors, sounds, and smells as both the animal and plant life both would tentatively make their way out from their winter havens.

Down the mountain the stream trickled, creeping ever closer to the devastation that had been wrought below. The mountain had paid little mind to it of course, as mountains often do. It had its own goings on to worry about.

At the base lay the still smoldering ruins of the city-state of Kel’Tirim. Three days had passed since the walls had been breached. Three days since the fires had been lit. On the first day there had been panic. There had been fighting, and screaming. There had been burning, and death. On the second day, there had been silence. Silence so dead that even the mountain had taken notice.

On the third day the silence ended. The crows had come to feed. In the fading twilight of the day, the dying embers amidst the rubble would be the last light seen in the once glorious city, perhaps forever.

In the westernmost part of the city, the temple still stood. It had been one of the few stone structures the city housed, and was far too large to have been pulled down by an army on the move. Its outward beauty had been marred and gouged by trebuchet fire, but its foundation remained firm. It was there on the steps of the battered temple where sat a man. The last man.

He sat sullenly, staring out over the city he had failed to defend, a hand pressed to his side to hold the bandage against his wound. Grimacing in pain, he struggled to his feet. There was nothing for him here now. He had already lingered too long, hoping they would return to finish him off. Eventually, he had come to the realization that they wouldn’t be coming back. Not for him, or anything else.

The stench of the bodies permeated every inch of him, but he didn’t seem to notice. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them littered the ground here. There had been nowhere else to retreat to. This was the site of the last stand. His piercing emerald eyes held a glazed quality now as he began his slow trudge eastward towards the gates. There was a slight limp in his step as he moved, but he noticed that pain even less than he did the corpses of his brethren laid out about him.

The market square had been badly hit early on. It had been set aflame even before the walls had been breached. Shops and stalls had been reduced to ash and timber. The few carts that had survived the blaze had been overturned or abandoned altogether. There were fewer bodies here, and most of those were of soldiers. Some wore the black and tan of his bitter enemy; more wore the green and silver of Kel’Tirim.

Just before he was to labor his way down the cobblestone road that would lead to the east gate, he stopped. Something tugged at the back of his mind, even in its fevered state. The wound in his side throbbed heavily. He lifted the bandage off of it momentarily to make sure the bleeding hadn’t started up again. Thankfully it hadn’t. Or unthankfully. He wasn’t quite sure which he would have preferred.

His right hand went to rest on the pommel of his sword in its scabbard, but found only air where the thing should have been. Staring dazedly down at the scabbard, he realized what he had left behind. When he had awoken on the temple floor, it had been lying there on the ground next to him. Briefly, he considered going back for it, but there was no reason. The fight was lost. He didn’t deserve to wield it anymore. Maybe he never did. It had been a symbol for all that he lived, and tried to die for. It was fitting that it be laid to rest with the other broken lives and dreams in this burning eden.

[Moist Happenings]

Can't edit my post for some reason, but I wanted to add:

I'm not afraid of insulting critique, as long as it has something constructive included.

[Sean of the Thread]

I'm not afraid of insulting critique, as long as it has something constructive included.

Your illiterate paddy ass sucks at writing but don't worry you can improve.

I think I met I the criteria.

[Moist Happenings]

Your illiterate paddy ass sucks at writing but don't worry you can improve.

I think I met I the criteria.

Haha, not exactly what I was aiming for, but I'll take it. :P

But yeah, like I said, this particular bit isn't sitting right with me, so it's no surprise to me that you or others would consider it sub par at best. I'm just having trouble making it better.

[ElanthianSiren]

Your opening sentence isn't attention grabbing enough.

Consider this: Editors/Publishers see a fuckton of manuscripts every quarter. If you don't grab them at the first few words, they are gone.

[Moist Happenings]

Your opening sentence isn't attention grabbing enough.

Consider this: Editors/Publishers see a fuckton of manuscripts every quarter. If you don't grab them at the first few words, they are gone.

I agree about the opening sentence. I'll look into it. I've already got an agent and a publisher. This is just a rewrite of part of the prologue since we decided to take the previous prologue in another direction. Being a prologue, it has to stay vague, which is where I struggle the most I think. I'm a lot more adept at setting up a scene when I don't have to be sneaky about it, and when I have to, I usually end up filling pages with fluff about the thoughts of mountains, for example.

The problem we found with my last prologue was that it gave too much away, so by page 200 or so you could pretty much guess what was what and there was very little surprise or suspense involved, so it got changed to a series of dreams/flashbacks throughout the book. Now I'm struggling to come up with this very unrevealing prologue that still catches the reader. It's probably easier than I'm making it out, but it's difficult as hell for me.

Thanks much for your input.

[Moist Happenings]

Your opening sentence isn't attention grabbing enough.

Consider this: Editors/Publishers see a fuckton of manuscripts every quarter. If you don't grab them at the first few words, they are gone.

Oh and just a note for anyone out there who might be interested in trying to get a book published at some point. It's a huge, huge mistake to go direct to publishers with either a finished or unfinished product (in my opinion). Most publishers tend to have an ear only for certified literary agents, preferably with whom they've worked before. Sending your work direct to publishers usually will only cost you money, in the end probably more than you pay your agent.

Agents don't want to read the whole thing either right off the bat. They want a cover letter, a resume basically, and no more than 15 or 20 pages of sample work. This is nice in my opinion, because you can show them 15 or 20 pages of your strongest writing. They then push it to publishers, and if you're weak somewhere, you'll get some limited assistance once you've got a foot in the door.

Just my two cents.

[Moist Happenings]

Your opening sentence isn't attention grabbing enough.


I should also note that this prologue is for the second book in a series, so some amount of knowledge from the previous book is implied in it. I still agree that it needs to be more catching though.

[AestheticDeath]

Don't capitalize your seasons, and directions.

Second paragraph uses 'would' too much.

Fourth paragraph you use 'There had been' too much. And 'On the', try With the too.

Repetition kills things...

I feel there is too much he, it, there, this etc.. Maybe he should actually talk to himself some to get beyond all the descriptive thoughts, and events.

[Moist Happenings]

Don't capitalize your seasons, and directions.

Second paragraph uses 'would' too much.

Fourth paragraph you use 'There had been' too much. And 'On the', try With the too.

Repetition kills things...

I feel there is too much he, it, there, this etc.. Maybe he should actually talk to himself some to get beyond all the descriptive thoughts, and events.

Excellent points. I usually nip these things in later edits but I have a nasty habit of repetition early on. I like the idea of talking to himself. I'm going to break some of it down into thoughts instead of just description of events I think. That'll go a long way to getting it where I need to get it.

Thanks very much. That's a great help.

[ElanthianSiren]

I don't use had at all when I write. I like tighter/dynamic lines, but that's a style/genre preference. I don't have time for writing anymore, but I was more inclined toward horror, and that genre lends itself well to choppy lines.

I'm assuming that you're probably high fantasy, by the fact that you have kingdoms running around etc.

[Moist Happenings]

I don't use had at all when I write. I like tighter/dynamic lines, but that's a style/genre preference. I don't have time for writing anymore, but I was more inclined toward horror, and that genre lends itself well to choppy lines.

I'm assuming that you're probably high fantasy, by the fact that you have kingdoms running around etc.

Yeah, it's mostly high fantasy but with a contemporary Michael Creighton-like feel almost to the books themselves. When I get out of the first person like in the prologue it really sort of falls apart.

[Stanley Burrell]

I like "more wore" with an autistic passion.

Also:

A warm Spring breeze swept lazily through da Western Andril mountains, blissfully unaware o' what lay in da land beyond its own. The last o' Winter’s chill still clung desperately ta da thawing peaks in uh vain attempt ta stave off da inevitable. The cold, cleansing water had already fo' da most part melted its way down into da lake at da summit, which in turn had begun feeding da stream dat would trickle down da mountainside an' breathe life back into da eagerly awaiting grasslands o' Evendil Valley.

In but uh few weeks tyme da mountain itself would come ta life ag'in. The dullness o' da cold season would be replaced by uh vibrant array o' colors, sounds, an' smells as both da animal an' plant life both would tentatively make they way out from they winter havens.

Down da mountain da stream trickled, creeping ever closer ta da devastation dat had been wrought below. The mountain had paid little mind ta it o' course, as mountains often do. It had its own goings on ta trip about.

At da base lay da still smoldering ruins o' da city-state o' Kel’Tirim. Three days had passed since da walls had been breached. Three days since da fires had been lit. On da first day dere had been panic. There had been fighting, an' screaming. There had been burning, an' death. On da second day, dere had been silence. Silence so dead dat even da mountain had taken notice.

On da third day da silence ended. The crows had come ta feed. In da fading twilight o' da day, da dying embers amidst da rubble would be da last light seen in da once glorious city, perhaps forever.

In da westernmost part o' da city, da temple still stood. It had been one o' da few stone structures da city housed, an' wuz far too large ta gots been pulled down by an army on da move. Its outward beauty had been marred an' gouged by trebuchet fire, but its foundation remained firm. It wuz dere on da steps o' da battered temple where sat uh nig. The last nig.

He sat sullenly, staring out over da city he had failed ta defend, uh hand pressed ta his side ta hold da bandage against his wound. Grimacing in pain, he struggled ta his feet. There wuz nuttin' fo' him here now. He had already lingered too long, hoping dey would return ta finish him off. Eventually, he had come ta da realization dat dey wouldn’t be coming back. Not fo' him, or anyfin' else.

The stench o' da bodies permeated every inch o' him, but he didn’t seem ta notice. Hundreds, maybe thousands o' dem littered da ground here. There had been nowhere else ta retreat ta. This wuz da site o' da last stand. His piercing emerald peeps held uh glazed quality now as he began his slow trudge eastward towards da gates. There wuz uh slight limp in his step as he moved, but he noticed dat pain even less than he did da corpses o' his brethren laid out about him.

The market square had been badly hit early on. It had been set aflame even 'bfoe da walls had been breached. Shops an' stalls had been reduced ta ash an' timber. The few carts dat had survived da blaze had been overturned or abandoned altogether. There wuz fewer bodies here, an' most o' those wuz o' soldiers. Some wore da black an' tan o' his bitter enemy; mo' wore da green an' silver o' Kel’Tirim.

Just 'bfoe he wuz ta labor his way down da cobblestone road dat would lead ta da east gate, he stopped. Something tugged at da back o' his mind, even in its fevered state. The wound in his side throbbed heavily. He lifted da bandage off o' it momentarily ta make sure da bleeding hadn’t started up ag'in. Thankfully it hadn’t. Or unthankfully. He wasn’t quite sure which he would gots preferred.

His right hand jet ta rest on da pommel o' his sword in its scabbard, but found only air where da thin' should gots been. Staring dazedly down at da scabbard, he realized what he had left behind. When he had awoken on da temple floor, it had been lying dere on da ground next ta him. Briefly, he considered going back fo' it, but dere wuz nahh reason. The fight wuz lost. He didn’t deserve ta wield it anymo'. Maybe he never did. It had been uh symbol fo' all dat he lived, an' tried ta die fo'. It wuz fitting dat it be laid ta rest wiff da other broken lives an' dreams in dis here burning eden. w0rd!

[Moist Happenings]

I like "more wore" with an autistic passion.

Also:

A warm Spring breeze swept lazily through da Western Andril mountains, blissfully unaware o' what lay in da land beyond its own. The last o' Winter’s chill still clung desperately ta da thawing peaks in uh vain attempt ta stave off da inevitable. The cold, cleansing water had already fo' da most part melted its way down into da lake at da summit, which in turn had begun feeding da stream dat would trickle down da mountainside an' breathe life back into da eagerly awaiting grasslands o' Evendil Valley.

In but uh few weeks tyme da mountain itself would come ta life ag'in. The dullness o' da cold season would be replaced by uh vibrant array o' colors, sounds, an' smells as both da animal an' plant life both would tentatively make they way out from they winter havens.

Down da mountain da stream trickled, creeping ever closer ta da devastation dat had been wrought below. The mountain had paid little mind ta it o' course, as mountains often do. It had its own goings on ta trip about.

At da base lay da still smoldering ruins o' da city-state o' Kel’Tirim. Three days had passed since da walls had been breached. Three days since da fires had been lit. On da first day dere had been panic. There had been fighting, an' screaming. There had been burning, an' death. On da second day, dere had been silence. Silence so dead dat even da mountain had taken notice.

On da third day da silence ended. The crows had come ta feed. In da fading twilight o' da day, da dying embers amidst da rubble would be da last light seen in da once glorious city, perhaps forever.

In da westernmost part o' da city, da temple still stood. It had been one o' da few stone structures da city housed, an' wuz far too large ta gots been pulled down by an army on da move. Its outward beauty had been marred an' gouged by trebuchet fire, but its foundation remained firm. It wuz dere on da steps o' da battered temple where sat uh nig. The last nig.

He sat sullenly, staring out over da city he had failed ta defend, uh hand pressed ta his side ta hold da bandage against his wound. Grimacing in pain, he struggled ta his feet. There wuz nuttin' fo' him here now. He had already lingered too long, hoping dey would return ta finish him off. Eventually, he had come ta da realization dat dey wouldn’t be coming back. Not fo' him, or anyfin' else.

The stench o' da bodies permeated every inch o' him, but he didn’t seem ta notice. Hundreds, maybe thousands o' dem littered da ground here. There had been nowhere else ta retreat ta. This wuz da site o' da last stand. His piercing emerald peeps held uh glazed quality now as he began his slow trudge eastward towards da gates. There wuz uh slight limp in his step as he moved, but he noticed dat pain even less than he did da corpses o' his brethren laid out about him.

The market square had been badly hit early on. It had been set aflame even 'bfoe da walls had been breached. Shops an' stalls had been reduced ta ash an' timber. The few carts dat had survived da blaze had been overturned or abandoned altogether. There wuz fewer bodies here, an' most o' those wuz o' soldiers. Some wore da black an' tan o' his bitter enemy; mo' wore da green an' silver o' Kel’Tirim.

Just 'bfoe he wuz ta labor his way down da cobblestone road dat would lead ta da east gate, he stopped. Something tugged at da back o' his mind, even in its fevered state. The wound in his side throbbed heavily. He lifted da bandage off o' it momentarily ta make sure da bleeding hadn’t started up ag'in. Thankfully it hadn’t. Or unthankfully. He wasn’t quite sure which he would gots preferred.

His right hand jet ta rest on da pommel o' his sword in its scabbard, but found only air where da thin' should gots been. Staring dazedly down at da scabbard, he realized what he had left behind. When he had awoken on da temple floor, it had been lying dere on da ground next ta him. Briefly, he considered going back fo' it, but dere wuz nahh reason. The fight wuz lost. He didn’t deserve ta wield it anymo'. Maybe he never did. It had been uh symbol fo' all dat he lived, an' tried ta die fo'. It wuz fitting dat it be laid ta rest wiff da other broken lives an' dreams in dis here burning eden. w0rd!

Believe it or not I might write in something resembling that fashion if I had a character whose inner monologue would reflect it, and of course only for that character's first person segments. My biggest goal is to have each character be distinct enough in personality and thought process that without even mentioning a name, the reader knows who's telling the story. That's initially what piqued the interest of my agent actually, and what I featured in my writing samples in order to get picked up.

[Tisket]

My interest in writing began with Gemstone, mostly because there are so many talented thinkers and writers here. With that said, I have a short part of a piece that I'd like looked over with a critical eye by anyone interested. It isn't sitting right with me. This version is now the first draft of a third rewrite. Any suggestions on grammar, word usage, imagery or flat out changes would be appreciated.

Revision 3 - First Draft

A warm Spring breeze swept lazily through the Western Andril mountains, blissfully unaware of what lay in the land beyond its own. The last of Winter’s chill still clung desperately to the thawing peaks in a vain attempt to stave off the inevitable. The cold, cleansing water had already for the most part melted its way down into the lake at the summit, which in turn had begun feeding the stream that would trickle down the mountainside and breathe life back into the eagerly awaiting grasslands of Evendil Valley.

In but a few weeks time the mountain itself would come to life again. The dullness of the cold season would be replaced by a vibrant array of colors, sounds, and smells as both the animal and plant life both would tentatively make their way out from their winter havens.

Down the mountain the stream trickled, creeping ever closer to the devastation that had been wrought below. The mountain had paid little mind to it of course, as mountains often do. It had its own goings on to worry about.

At the base lay the still smoldering ruins of the city-state of Kel’Tirim. Three days had passed since the walls had been breached. Three days since the fires had been lit. On the first day there had been panic. There had been fighting, and screaming. There had been burning, and death. On the second day, there had been silence. Silence so dead that even the mountain had taken notice.

On the third day the silence ended. The crows had come to feed. In the fading twilight of the day, the dying embers amidst the rubble would be the last light seen in the once glorious city, perhaps forever.

In the westernmost part of the city, the temple still stood. It had been one of the few stone structures the city housed, and was far too large to have been pulled down by an army on the move. Its outward beauty had been marred and gouged by trebuchet fire, but its foundation remained firm. It was there on the steps of the battered temple where sat a man. The last man.

He sat sullenly, staring out over the city he had failed to defend, a hand pressed to his side to hold the bandage against his wound. Grimacing in pain, he struggled to his feet. There was nothing for him here now. He had already lingered too long, hoping they would return to finish him off. Eventually, he had come to the realization that they wouldn’t be coming back. Not for him, or anything else.

The stench of the bodies permeated every inch of him, but he didn’t seem to notice. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them littered the ground here. There had been nowhere else to retreat to. This was the site of the last stand. His piercing emerald eyes held a glazed quality now as he began his slow trudge eastward towards the gates. There was a slight limp in his step as he moved, but he noticed that pain even less than he did the corpses of his brethren laid out about him.

The market square had been badly hit early on. It had been set aflame even before the walls had been breached. Shops and stalls had been reduced to ash and timber. The few carts that had survived the blaze had been overturned or abandoned altogether. There were fewer bodies here, and most of those were of soldiers. Some wore the black and tan of his bitter enemy; more wore the green and silver of Kel’Tirim.

Just before he was to labor his way down the cobblestone road that would lead to the east gate, he stopped. Something tugged at the back of his mind, even in its fevered state. The wound in his side throbbed heavily. He lifted the bandage off of it momentarily to make sure the bleeding hadn’t started up again. Thankfully it hadn’t. Or unthankfully. He wasn’t quite sure which he would have preferred.

His right hand went to rest on the pommel of his sword in its scabbard, but found only air where the thing should have been. Staring dazedly down at the scabbard, he realized what he had left behind. When he had awoken on the temple floor, it had been lying there on the ground next to him. Briefly, he considered going back for it, but there was no reason. The fight was lost. He didn’t deserve to wield it anymore. Maybe he never did. It had been a symbol for all that he lived, and tried to die for. It was fitting that it be laid to rest with the other broken lives and dreams in this burning eden.

This is too long...do you have an animated gif that can summarize it? Thanks.

[Jorddyn]

A warm Spring breeze swept lazily through the Western Andril mountains, blissfully unaware of what lay in the land beyond its own. The last of Winter’s chill still clung desperately to the thawing peaks in a vain attempt to stave off the inevitable. The cold, cleansing water had already for the most part melted its way down into the lake at the summit, which in turn had begun feeding the stream that would trickle down the mountainside and breathe life back into the eagerly awaiting grasslands of Evendil Valley.

1. You should have a conflict between spring and winter - your first two sentences are begging for it, but it doesn't deliver.
2. Water doesn't melt. I understand where you're going with that, but it doesn't work.
3. Can it really work its way down to the summit?
4. "Had begun feeding" is awkward - "fed" would suffice.


In but a few weeks time the mountain itself would come to life again. The dullness of the cold season would be replaced by a vibrant array of colors, sounds, and smells as both the animal and plant life both would tentatively make their way out from their winter havens.

Down the mountain the stream trickled, creeping ever closer to the devastation that had been wrought below. The mountain had paid little mind to it of course, as mountains often do. It had its own goings on to worry about.

This should all be worked into the first paragraph, and shortened/cleaned up as it seems overly wordy.


Silence so dead that even the mountain had taken notice.

You really can't say that a mountain is taking notice without explaining how.


The wound in his side throbbed heavily. He lifted the bandage off of it momentarily to make sure the bleeding hadn’t started up again. Thankfully it hadn’t. Or unthankfully. He wasn’t quite sure which he would have preferred.

This is very awkward - need to neaten it up.

"The wound in his side throbbed heavily, and he pulled back the bandage to see if the bleeding had started again. It hadn't, but that fact brought more a feeling of indifference than relief."

But why did he bother to bandage his wound if he was hoping they'd come back and kill him?

Those are the big ones. I may re-read later and see if I come up with anything else. Good luck.

[Moist Happenings]

Thanks very much Jorddyn. That's a huge help to me. There are a few small points that for lack of a better word I disagree with, but on the whole those are very astute observations, and will help me a lot in the revisions.

[ElanthianSiren]

Believe it or not I might write in something resembling that fashion if I had a character whose inner monologue would reflect it, and of course only for that character's first person segments.

I actually did this for one of my novels for the speech between the characters. I didn't like how it turned out on read through (yeah I talk to myself and yeah literal read through); with CERTAIN accents, it can be really really overdone. French is a good example. Scottish went fine. Irish went fine. British went fine, but something about putting so much French sound on paper agitated me, and I ended up rewriting to scale it back a bit.

Reading out loud to myself is one of my favorite approaches to catch stuff like the above.

[Stanley Burrell]

Believe it or not I might write in something resembling that fashion if I had a character whose inner monologue would reflect it, and of course only for that character's first person segments. My biggest goal is to have each character be distinct enough in personality and thought process that without even mentioning a name, the reader knows who's telling the story. That's initially what piqued the interest of my agent actually, and what I featured in my writing samples in order to get picked up.

That sounds good, mang. As long as you have confidence in what you're doing, I think you can not only have a career; in some category of writing, but enjoy what you're doing. Not too many people are able to do that.

Also, http://www.joel.net/EBONICS/translator.asp if you want to bastardize further works.

[Mighty Nikkisaurus]

A warm Spring breeze swept lazily through the Western Andril mountains, blissfully unaware of what lay in the land beyond its own. The last of Winter’s chill still clung desperately to the thawing peaks in a vain attempt to stave off the inevitable. The cold, cleansing water had already for the most part melted its way down into the lake at the summit, which in turn had begun feeding the stream that would trickle down the mountainside and breathe life back into the eagerly awaiting grasslands of Evendil Valley.

Not horrible but two things jumped out at me: too many adjectives make it seem flowery and rambling rather than very descriptive.. and, all of the personification makes it seem very juvenile.

In but a few weeks time the mountain itself would come to life again. The dullness of the cold season would be replaced by a vibrant array of colors, sounds, and smells as both the animal and plant life both would tentatively make their way out from their winter havens.

How I would have worded this (purely a style thing):

In only a few weeks time the mountain would come to life again, the dullness of the cold season replaced by a vibrant array of animal and plant life tentatively making their way out from their winter havens.

I feel like the issue with your version was that it sort of rambled.

Down the mountain the stream trickled, creeping ever closer to the devastation that had been wrought below. The mountain had paid little mind to it of course, as mountains often do. It had its own goings on to worry about.

Paired with the personifications of paragraph 1, this one seems a bit overkill. I really don't like the "as mountains often do" part, personally.

Get rid of "the stream" and make it "a stream". Also make it less wordy (i.e. no need for "ever" in "ever closer".

At the base lay the still smoldering ruins of the city-state of Kel’Tirim. Three days had passed since the walls had been breached. Three days since the fires had been lit. On the first day there had been panic. There had been fighting, and screaming. There had been burning, and death. On the second day, there had been silence. Silence so dead that even the mountain had taken notice.

This feels worded awkwardly and again, I don't like the "mountain taken notice" bit. Here's just how I may have done it:

The smoldering ruins of the city-state of Kel’Tirim lay at the base of the mountain. Three days had passed since the walls had been breached and the fires had been lit. On the first day there had been panic, and then fighting and screaming, burning, and death. By the second day, there was only silence.


On the third day the silence ended. The crows had come to feed. In the fading twilight of the day, the dying embers amidst the rubble would be the last light seen in the once glorious city, perhaps forever.

This seems too over the top and cliche for me (the writing, not your premise). Also, the first two sentences could probably somehow be joined in together or else you need to do something to better describe the crows feeding. Again, this seems a bit juvenile as far as writing style goes.

In the westernmost part of the city, the temple still stood. It had been one of the few stone structures the city housed, and was far too large to have been pulled down by an army on the move. Its outward beauty had been marred and gouged by trebuchet fire, but its foundation remained firm. It was there on the steps of the battered temple where sat a man. The last man.

This is a good paragraph with just a couple things. The last two sentences are awkward and I'd get rid of the last one all together and find a way to incorporate it into the "on the steps" sentence.

He sat sullenly, staring out over the city he had failed to defend, a hand pressed to his side to hold the bandage against his wound. Grimacing in pain, he struggled to his feet. There was nothing for him here now. He had already lingered too long, hoping they would return to finish him off. Eventually, he had come to the realization that they wouldn’t be coming back. Not for him, or anything else.

This is a paragraph I like.

The stench of the bodies permeated every inch of him, but he didn’t seem to notice. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them littered the ground here. There had been nowhere else to retreat to. This was the site of the last stand. His piercing emerald eyes held a glazed quality now as he began his slow trudge eastward towards the gates. There was a slight limp in his step as he moved, but he noticed that pain even less than he did the corpses of his brethren laid out about him.

The market square had been badly hit early on. It had been set aflame even before the walls had been breached. Shops and stalls had been reduced to ash and timber. The few carts that had survived the blaze had been overturned or abandoned altogether. There were fewer bodies here, and most of those were of soldiers. Some wore the black and tan of his bitter enemy; more wore the green and silver of Kel’Tirim.

My biggest issue with these last two paragraphs is that your sentences all seem to have the same rhythm and length which makes for a boring/awkward read. Maybe try putting more together and cutting out anything extraneous to be a little less wordy and a lot more poignant.

Just before he was to labor his way down the cobblestone road that would lead to the east gate, he stopped. Something tugged at the back of his mind, even in its fevered state. The wound in his side throbbed heavily. He lifted the bandage off of it momentarily to make sure the bleeding hadn’t started up again. Thankfully it hadn’t. Or unthankfully. He wasn’t quite sure which he would have preferred.

This is an awkward paragraph and needs some rewording and restructuring.

His right hand went to rest on the pommel of his sword in its scabbard, but found only air where the thing should have been. Staring dazedly down at the scabbard, he realized what he had left behind. When he had awoken on the temple floor, it had been lying there on the ground next to him. Briefly, he considered going back for it, but there was no reason. The fight was lost. He didn’t deserve to wield it anymore. Maybe he never did. It had been a symbol for all that he lived, and tried to die for. It was fitting that it be laid to rest with the other broken lives and dreams in this burning eden.

Decent, but again with the monotonous issues of sentence length and structure. Also the last couple of sentences could use some serious cleaning up, "broken lives and dreams" is overly cliche to me, kind of elementary too. Also I don't know if "burning" makes sense as an adjective for the eden, since it's more smoldering than actually burning.

Just my immediate thoughts upon reading it through.

[Moist Happenings]

Also very good input, Narcissiia. What I'm going to do is go through a few more edits of my own using my own process and all the great input I got here, then send a copy to my agent, see what she thinks could change, then when I've worked it over a few more times I'll post it up again here, perhaps with the following segment to show how it flows.

Thanks again for all your help guys. I really appreciate it.

[thefarmer]

It's too long for a prologue. Especially one that's for the second book.

Shorten that shit up. Make it more eye-catching and dramatic.


He sat sullenly, staring out over the city he had failed to defend, a hand pressed to his side to hold the bandage against his wound. Grimacing in pain, he struggled to his feet. There was nothing for him here now. He had already lingered too long, hoping they would return to finish him off. Eventually, he had come to the realization that they wouldn’t be coming back. Not for him, or anything else.

The stench of the bodies permeated every inch of him, but he didn’t seem to notice. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them littered the ground here. There had been nowhere else to retreat to. This was the site of the last stand. His piercing emerald eyes held a glazed quality now as he began his slow trudge eastward towards the gates. There was a slight limp in his step as he moved, but he noticed that pain even less than he did the corpses of his brethren laid out about him.

Just use that.


EDIT: Then you can start the first real chapter with the boring seasonal change if you really want it in there.

[Moist Happenings]

It's too long for a prologue. Especially one that's for the second book.

Shorten that shit up. Make it more eye-catching and dramatic.



Just use that.


EDIT: Then you can start the first real chapter with the boring seasonal change if you really want it in there.

Haha, while I don't necessarily disagree (I've never been much for long prologues), the publisher thought my original prologue (which was initially the first three chapters, at 55 pages) was just very slightly too long. Basically the idea is that it needs to set up the question that won't be answered until the last fifty pages or so of the book. That bit I posted up isn't the entire prologue. It's just the first two and a half pages of it. The whole thing is currently about 13 pages. It'll probably be edited down a bit before the final cut though.