> Write a Passage from something you're working on. I'll start it off.
> Make sure to say something about someone else's work before posting you're own.
“You idiot, boy! Stop reading those fairy tales for a moment and help with the fanning!” the smith roared.
“C-coming!” the apprentice dropped the leather-bound cover and scampered to the bellows. A push on the handle to fill up the bags, then a pull of the handles to release it.
The nozzle huffed and puffed a good mighty blow, then filled the forge belly with a sweep of hot air.
The sword seared in a trial of fire; then sank into the sea of black coals. Grit’s brace shook it rough, before tongs grip swayed it to a bed of hard metal.
Hammer struck anvil and the metal made a cry; singing notes to chorus blow. Flames crept from the forge shore then ebbed back to the coal sea.
Gloved hands held sword by a grip, blade still blushing with glow. Runes spelt words with alphabets of fire; scribing words long ancient on a fuller’s smooth surface.
“That outta do it” smiled the blacksmith, content with his make. And baptised the weapon in the cools of water. Smoke rose from the wet and ascended like a spirit to heaven.
From the depths of the trough and into flame’s light, it gleamed rough diamond from its guard to its tip. A moment’s glance mistook it for a jewel. So rarely a sword crafted – when neither was wrong nor true.
“You mighty blade, shall be called Dark Seeker, evils of the deep will tremble your sight.” The smith held it up like it was the world’s last hope. Because for all his heart knew – it may very well be.
“Uncle Luwin, Uncle Luwin!” the apprentice jumped to his feet. “The guards!” he tore his face from the door’s slit. “The guards are coming!”
Luwin rushed to cover the sword with a blanket. “By the orb, Glarthir, keep your voice down or you’ll give us away!”
The door flung with a crash and a bang. Three guards busted with swords to their waists.
“Time’s up blacksmith” said the soberest of the gang. “King expects his sword in full condition, any less and it’s off to the block with’ya”
“Why of course” the smith humbled and reached for the spare he kept in a chest. A rather plain blade, oiled to look new. “Just as order. May the king slay many traitors with it.”
God I just realized this looks like a fucking mess. Here's a more organized form.
“You idiot, boy! Stop reading those fairy tales for a moment and help with the fanning!” the smith roared.
“C-coming!” the apprentice dropped the leather-bound cover and scampered to the bellows. A push on the handle to fill up the bags, then a pull of the handles to release it.
The nozzle huffed and puffed a good mighty blow, then filled the forge belly with a sweep of hot air.
The sword seared in a trial of fire; then sank into the sea of black coals. Grit’s brace shook it rough, before tongs grip swayed it to a bed of hard metal.
Hammer struck anvil and the metal made a cry; singing notes to chorus blow. Flames crept from the forge shore then ebbed back to the coal sea.
Gloved hands held sword by a grip, blade still blushing with glow. Runes spelt words with alphabets of fire; scribing words long ancient on a fuller’s smooth surface.
“That outta do it” smiled the blacksmith, content with his make. And baptised the weapon in the cools of water. Smoke rose from the wet and ascended like a spirit to heaven.
From the depths of the trough and into flame’s light, it gleamed rough diamond from its guard to its tip. A moment’s glance mistook it for a jewel. So rarely a sword crafted – when neither was wrong nor true.
“You mighty blade, shall be called Dark Seeker, evils of the deep will tremble your sight.” The smith held it up like it was the world’s last hope. Because for all his heart knew – it may very well be.
“Uncle Luwin, Uncle Luwin!” the apprentice jumped to his feet. “The guards!” he tore his face from the door’s slit. “The guards are coming!”
Luwin rushed to cover the sword with a blanket. “By the orb, Glarthir, keep your voice down or you’ll give us away!”
The door flung with a crash and a bang. Three guards busted with swords to their waists.
“Time’s up blacksmith” said the soberest of the gang. “King expects his sword in full condition, any less and it’s off to the block with’ya”
“Why of course” the smith humbled and reached for the spare he kept in a chest. A rather plain blade, oiled to look new. “Just as order. May the king slay many traitors with it.”
>>8241515
Lol still fucked it up with the last paragraph
>>8241479
Is this a literal joke?
>>8241648
You tell me hotshot
>>8241479
>>8242061
OP here
Yeah I know it probably screwed up somewhere. Can you point to me where it dropped the ball senpai?
>>8242137
You need to read some Nabokov and learn about prose. This sounds like it was written as a fill in the blank story to a generic adventure novel.
>Smoke rose from the wet and ascended like a spirit to heaven
I don't know my son. You're imagery is bland, uninspired, tired, used, and delivered in a forced manner. Why don't you try to be inventive and make your imagery a little more "full" if you get my meaning.
Next, the dialogue is written like an anime.
There is nothing that is captivating about these characters.
Does any of this information we gathered in your dialogue scene hold any value or meaning symbolically or to the fantasy world in which I'm assuming you are creating around them in your writing...
This was written like you are in high school, and I literally couldn't tell if this was bait or not.
>>8242315
I got bored one day and decided on a whim, to tell a fantasy story about dwarves or whatever.
People often tell me my prose doesn't "flow". I'm not quite sure what that means?
Does it mean to sound lyrically? Or dumbed down (so it's easier to follow)?
Can you give me other examples of authors with good prose so I understand better?
>>8242315
Also my work in 1st person, if it makes any differences...
“You idiot, boy!”
The voice gave me a jolt. The book I was reading jumped on its own and fell flat face on the floor.
“Stop reading those fairy tales for a moment and help with the fanning, we don’t have much time!” Uncle roared mad from the forge, his hand still clutching half sword. The other half already inside.
“C-coming!” I yelled out to him and scampered to the bellows. My mind was in a mush today, a lot of things were tweaking and twerking. Moving too fast to make sense. It’s not every day you wake up to do the kind of work that could get you hanged for a traitor.
Oh did I mention before? Perhaps I should remind myself yet again for the hundredth time today: I – am – a – rebel. A rogue, a renegade, a criminal, a scoundrel, a villain. But villain only to the one my cause deemed villainous to begin with: King Sven, the Rubite. A tyrant, a warlord, a despot, a dictator, and most of all: a traitor.
A traitor to his people, a traitor to his kind, a traitor to his promises of peace and prosper. You’d think he’d learn a kinder nature after slaying a creature so vile in contrast? But perhaps those that slay monsters will become monsters themselves one day? Again, I’m probably thinking too much as it is.
I spread out the handles of the bellows, the bags suck up a good bit of air before I push it back to release. It puffed a mighty blow, filling the forge belly with a sweep of hot air.
The sword seared in a storm of fire; then sank into the sea of coals. Grit’s brace shook it rough and sanded, before uncle tonged it out of the black ocean.
Hammer struck anvil and the metal made a cry; singing notes to chorus blow. Flames routinely crept from the forge like flickering tongues then ebbed back to the cracks of black teeth.
Uncle held it by the grip, the blade still blushing with fire’s glow. Runes scribed words on a fuller’s smooth surface.
“That outta do it” uncle smiled. Then baptised the weapon in the cools of the water trough. Smoke rose from the wet and ascended like a spirit to heaven.
My eyes hungered for a chance. “Can I see?”
Uncle brought it into the flame’s light, water dripping off its diamond gleam, funnelling down the fuller and out through its tip. A moment’s glance could mistake it for a jewel. So rarely a sword crafted, when neither was necessarily wrong nor necessarily true.
Some voices trailed the hallway outside so I went for a look, though the sword refused to release my uncle’s gaze. Old fool should marry it, before it bloodens!
“You, mighty blade, shall be called Dark Seeker” he whispered to it like a trance. “Evils of the deep will tremble to your sight.” He held it up like it was the only thing that ever mattered. Because for all we knew – it may very well be.
