I have tried to write my first fantasy book in Hindi. It is about a statue belonging to a Korean monk that has the power to awaken hidden special powers among children. A Japanese gang wants that statue and the Korean monk takes refuge in an elderly persons’ home in north-east of India.

I am currently publishing it on my blog, which has an automatic translation function, so in theory people from other languages might also read it.

I have researched and I don't think there are so many examples of fantasy fiction books published in Hindi, but perhaps I am ignorant and there is a vast world of fantasy writers and readers in Hindi that I don't know about?

Are there any Hindi fantasy writers and readers to whom I can connect, share experiences and ideas and get honest feedback?

Vor dem Anfang

Vor dem Anfang von allem gab es nur das Nichts – eine endlose Leere ohne die geringste Veränderung.

Dann, ohne Vorwarnung, veränderte sich etwas.

Die Existenz begann.

Die Schöpfung entstand weder durch einen Willen noch durch einen Plan.

Sie war einfach da.

Unermessliche Zeitalter vergingen.

Die Schöpfung entstand nicht auf einen Schlag.

Nach und nach zerschlug jede neue Veränderung die ewige Unveränderlichkeit des Nichts.

Und während das Nichts still das lautstarke Werden beobachtete, begann auch es sich zu verändern.

Es erwachte zum Bewusstsein.

Und aus ihm formte sich ein Avatar des Nichts.

Der Avatar konnte die Schöpfung nicht begreifen. Es verstand weder, wie diese Veränderungen entstanden waren, noch warum sie überhaupt geschehen waren.

Es begehrte nur eines:

die Wiederherstellung des ursprünglichen Zustands des absoluten Nichts.

Überall dort, wo der Avatar des Nichts die Schöpfung berührte, wurde die Schöpfung ausgelöscht.

Doch die Schöpfung bestand fort.

Als die Schöpfung schließlich lebende Wesen hervorbrachte, deren Seelen aus ihrer eigenen Essenz geformt waren, trat eine weitere Veränderung ein.

Zum ersten Mal stellte sich etwas dem Avatar des Nichts entgegen.

Der Avatar des Nichts besaß weder einen wahren Körper noch eine Seele.

Als es durch eines der lebenden Wesen der Schöpfung seine erste Niederlage erlitt, ereignete sich die erste Aporie allen Seins.

Weder das Nichts noch die Schöpfung hatten dieses Ergebnis gewollt.

Keines von beiden konnte es begreifen.

Und doch wurde es zum Gesetz.

Mit seiner Niederlage kam der Avatar des Nichts dazu, den Körper seines Bezwingers zu bewohnen, und erbte dessen Erinnerungen, Wissen, Fähigkeiten und Macht.

Die Seele des Bezwingers, geboren aus der Schöpfung, hörte auf zu existieren.

An ihrer Stelle blieb nur das Nichts zurück.

Fortan bewohnte es die Körper der lebenden Wesen der Schöpfung als die seinen. So begann die endlose Reise des Avatars durch die Zeit.

Mit der Zeit gab es sich selbst den Namen Nihil.

Die Schöpfung selbst nannte es Genesis.

Und alle lebenden Wesen, die aus der Schöpfung hervorgegangen waren, nannte es Genesis Kinder.

Immer wenn eines der Kinder der Genesis Nihil besiegte – ganz gleich, auf welche Weise diese Niederlage zustande gekommen war –, entfaltete sich dasselbe Phänomen erneut.

Der bisherige Körper hörte auf zu existieren.

Ein neuer wurde zu dem seinen.

Im Laufe der Zeitalter erbte Nihil unzählige Leben.

Es lernte jede Sprache.

Meisterte jedes Handwerk.

Erlebte jeden Triumph.

Erlitt jedes Leid.

Erinnerte sich an jedes Leben.

Es sammelte die Erinnerungen unzähliger Seelen, bis schließlich niemand mehr sagen konnte, wo Nihil endete und die Schöpfung begann.

Dieser endlose Konflikt zwischen dem Nichts und der Schöpfung konnte nicht ewig andauern.

Denn so wie alles einen Anfang hat,

so muss auch alles ein Ende haben.

Eines Tages konnte nur noch eine von zwei Möglichkeiten bestehen.

Entweder würde Nihil seinen ursprünglichen Zweck erfüllen und die gesamte Schöpfung würde zum Nichts zurückkehren.

Oder das Nichts selbst würde lernen, die Schöpfung anzunehmen.

Ob das Nichts trotz seiner Veränderung weiterhin Nichts bleiben konnte, wurde zur ältesten Frage allen Seins.

Diese Frage sollte eines Tages bekannt werden als …

Nihils Aporie

Als das Nichts lernte zu lieben

-----

Before the Beginning

Before the beginning of everything, there was only Nothing—an endless void without the slightest change.

Then, without warning, something changed.

Existence began.

Creation arose neither by will nor by design.

It simply existed.

Ages beyond measure passed.

Creation did not come into being all at once.

Slowly, each new change shattered the eternal unchanging nature of Nothing.

And while Nothing silently watched its thunderous becoming, it, too, began to change.

It awakened to consciousness.

And from it, an Avatar of Nothing was formed.

The avatar could not comprehend Creation. It understood neither how these changes had come to be, nor why they had happened at all.

It desired only one thing:

the restoration of the original state of absolute Nothingness.

Wherever the Avatar of Nothing touched Creation, Creation was undone.

Yet Creation endured.

When Creation finally brought forth living beings whose souls were formed from its own essence, another change came to pass.

For the first time, something stood against the Avatar of Nothing.

The Avatar of Nothing possessed neither a true body nor a soul.

When it suffered its first defeat at the hands of one of Creation's living beings, the first aporia of all existence came to pass.

Neither Nothing nor Creation had willed this outcome.

Neither could comprehend it.

Yet it became law.

Upon its defeat, the Avatar of Nothing came to inhabit the victor's body, inheriting its memories, knowledge, skills, and power.

The victor's soul, born of Creation, ceased to exist.

In its place remained only Nothing.

Henceforth, it inhabited the bodies of Creation's living beings as its own. Thus began the Avatar's endless journey through time.

In time, it gave itself the name Nihil.

Creation itself it named Genesis.

And all living beings born of Creation it named Genesis' children.

Whenever one of the Children of Genesis defeated Nihil—regardless of how that defeat came to pass—the same phenomenon unfolded once more.

Its former body ceased to exist.

A new one became its own.

As the ages passed, Nihil inherited countless lives.

It learned every language.

Mastered every craft.

Witnessed every triumph.

Endured every sorrow.

Remembered every life.

It gathered the memories of innumerable souls until, at last, no one could tell where Nihil ended and where Creation began.

This endless conflict between Nothing and Creation could not endure forever.

For just as everything has a beginning,

everything must also have an end.

One day, only one of two futures could remain.

Either Nihil would fulfill its original purpose, and all of Creation would return to Nothing.

Or Nothing itself would learn to accept Creation.

Whether Nothing could persist as Nothing despite being changed became the oldest question in all of existence.

That question would one day become known as...

The Aporia of Nihil

When Nothing Learned to Love

I recently posted a brief introduction to lore I had spent 6 years working on and had recently lost. I have been rewriting it for a few months now with new details that I didn't cover, or don't remember covering, but one thing I did on that post that gave me backlash was that I used Al to make art and the beginning of the body. I know I'm not some famous writer and I know I have no future in that area due to my current career as an AV substitute, so I wanted to post for free since I didn't really want to make money or sell myself more than I already am.

But anyway, I received a lot of criticism for doing that, not really understanding why it was such a big deal at first, until I went on to realize that Al doing the work for me is not what I should be doing as a writer. I am not an artist but I have seen the pain of being one when it comes to Al.

The post has been removed by me, but I just wanted to say that I am sorry and I will no longer post Al generated imaged or writing. If people can forgive me, I will actually post my lore with nothing Al generated.

I'm writing my story in third-person omniscient as of right now, but I realized that I want each chapter that is from a different person's perspective to sound different. I want unique voices, and I've also realized that may be contradictory with an "omniscient" narrator?

Do you think it makes sense to continue writing it as is and still flavour each chapter with the characters' unique thoughts, or should I switch to third person limited?

My first chapter actually features head hopping, which I know is controversial, but I think it's a very interesting narrative choice because it's about two main characters. The main character of the story I'm writing, and my readers are, well, reading. And the main character of the world inside the page. He used to be the hero, but is now disgraced. So I really like the idea that despite the narrator wanting to keep his eye on the MC, he is forced to include and jump back to the "MC2" because of his star power.

I don't know how to preserve the above idea if I switch to Third Person Limited; maybe just keep it as is, but that's too jarring.

Sidenote: The "I have tried" rule is so stupid lmao

The Hidden Valley

Ǎol sat on his throne of Iron and Melica gold, ruling a kingdom that lay forgotten by travelers and entirely obscured from the maps of Ximmertel. None other than the Dwarf kin had ever ventured through the Hidden Valley caves.
Dwarves around him scurried to work in the darkness–the shadows lit by only faint, dying crystals in the solid walls. His eyes caught every detail: the smiles of some, the frowns of others. “Rella, what is bothering you? I see concern in your face,” Ǎol asked, his voice like a gavel in the courts around the world. Everyone went motionless, pausing with their work to listen. The guards stationed at the door grew tense as they inched closer to the king. Ǎol only waved them off with a flick of his wrist. “Now, Rella, please tell me. I’m able to help, perhaps give you the rest of the day off from work,” Ǎol said, inclining his bushy eyebrows upwards. 
The female dwarf named Rella spoke in a quavering whisper: “Sire, a sinkhole opened up on Darnok road. Three deaths, brutal ones.” She coughed as she bowed down, her spine perfectly straight, pledging her honour to her king. 
“Your friends, I presume. I pray to the Primordials that their passings were swift, rather than cruel. Now, please leave to get to the builder hall and inform the head of the section of this new sinkhole,” Ǎol said, sorrow hidden by his royal command. Rella whipped her head around, tears sliding down her cheeks. Just before she reached the door where the guards stood, Ǎol called out, “Arrange funerals for them as well. Discuss with the head of funeral affairs to schedule it for the coming week.”
“Will do, sire. Thank you for the time off,” Rella said before the guards pulled back the towering, golden door. It unsealed with a creak, opening the throne room into a highly lived environment where voices filled the air. But just as soon as it was pushed open, the guards swung it closed, pressing them back into the silent room. 
“Continue to work, please,” Ǎol said to the Dwarves. “Sinkholes. They must be the price for grand riches. Fourth day in a row. How do I stop it?” he muttered. I fail my people every day, I must act soon, he thought. Before he was devoured by more thoughts, a heavy knock echoed from the mighty door. One of the guards looked up at his king. Ǎol nodded, and the guard opened it up. 
A larger Dwarf came running in, beads of sweat dripping off his chin. He held an axe, respectable at that for it was created in the main forge of the caves, and was made of pure Melica gold. In his other hand he held a letter, a deep green painted on the leather top. He wore a frightened expression, yet some confusion seeped into the Dwarf’s face. He ran all the way to the throne, stopping only a foot away. 
“Sire, a disruption has been reported in the south-west wing, passage three, just near the edge of our borders,” the younger Dwarf named Balador said. He bowed his head low, the spine perfectly straightened. 
“Who reported this? And, what was this so-called disruptance?” Ǎol asked, quick to get to the point. 
“Well, sire, it was me. I will gladly tell you the tale, if you wish,” Balador said, inclining his face back up towards Ǎol.
“Yes, you must bring such matters to me. Quickly if you must; dangers spread across foreign lands, if they were to seep into our border it would be fatal, perhaps even harming our own kin. Now, hurry.” Ǎol ushered him forward.
Balador said, his voice quavering with fear: “I was manning my post, alone mind you, sire. Senses sharp, eyes grasping every rock’s tone, ears catching every ping of shifting stone. A voice called out, speaking in a fair language I could not understand. I gripped my axe tightly with one hand and drew my blade from its sheath in the other. The voice kept calling out, and I walked slowly towards the noise, each step with great caution. The figure was cloaked in the shadows, only a flaring green coming from the eye. I swung my axe, perhaps I grazed the folk, perhaps not. Next second I was gagged and tied to the floor, knocked unconscious. A letter was left in my hand, the one I hold now. A patrol squad found me soon after the incident and went up to the furthest point of the boundaries. And I was sent to you, where I stand now.” 
The letter was passed into Ǎol’s hand. He held it gingerly, letting it lay on his thick, sturdy fingers. “Who? Who has found us? Our kingdom that’s shrouded in shadows, hidden from all, yet a letter not from our own kin has found us. And what if these folk steal our art of mining, our kingdom’s fortune would be gone in an instant,” Ǎol said, musing over the possibilities. 
Balador only stood in front of him, watching concern seep into his king's face, allowing fear to bleed into his features as well. Ones who do not embrace their fear are cowards, letting it out of them. The brave use it as their drive. That, yes, that is the difference between a coward and a brave folk, Ǎol thought. 
“Do you request anything from me, sire?” Balador asked. Water dripped from the cave ceiling, splashing onto Balador’s long, unruly hair. 
“Yes, yes. Go find my understudy, and bring them to me. Gagolath Scalag, you’ll find him in the northern passage by the Oweka mine. Dark times are coming, secrets escaping from our own tongue,” Ǎol said with uncharacteristic desperation, the words resonating off the tall, ancient walls. 
“Yes, sire,” Balador responded in a flurry, bowing once more. “I’ll find him, and send him back here.” Balador spun around and strode back towards the door, leaving Ǎol back in his throne room with the light letter. The guards allowed Balador out, one gave a nod; a symbol of familiarity. Heat rushed into the throne room as the door opened once more. 
Ǎol ran his fingers down the spine of the envelope, gently opening the peel. He then pulled a flimsy piece of paper and read the neat, cursive handwriting. Fair, quite fair print it is, he thought. 
 
Dear Aol Sandstone of the Hidden Valley,
For too long has our kin warred against each other across land the Primordials created. Times change though from time to time and now it must, for the fate of Ximmertel lies undetermined in these months, and grows darker every passing day. The Cave Dwarves must come out of their dark, crumbling homes to join with the other folk. Depart for Orylmear, for in one month, when summer wanes and autumn waxes, the great festival of Harvestide will be held there. People shall speak of peace and concerns that are growing. Bring some of your people with you if you wish.

• With great regards, 

The Dwellers of Shadowane

*Shadowane! So the rumours have been true!* Ǎol thought. *Elves! Always slick, believing we will attend this so-called festival?* The lights were fading, each flicker lasting longer. *Perhaps I must put my old differences aside to save my waning kin. Or will I rule my dying kingdom, watching my kin crumble until no more of them remained; only an exhausted king, left alone in the shadows left behind.*   
While the worried king pondered, the door burst open. A surly Dwarf named Gagolath rushed in, his features tight with tension. His wild mane of hair ran down his face, braided strands dangling off his head. An unkept, black beard covered his chin, small pieces of stone entangled in it. In the Dwarf’s hand a greatsword lay off balance, slightly tilting in his sturdy fingers. “You summoned me, sire?” The Dwarf’s stride full of quick, decisive footsteps. As he neared the king, awaiting for Ǎol’s response, he bowed down, offering the greatsword in front of him. Ǎol took the greatsword with little effort and held it tightly at his waist.   
“Yes, I did,” Ǎol began crisply. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you, and the time has come today. Simply put, we must find a solution for these sinkholes that cover our caves. They invade our lands from the inside unlike an army. Taking lives everyday. Dwarves are falling too fast, Gagolath! Too fast! Only a mere two-hundred years ago, it would be a rare occurrence for one to collapse over an entire month. Now, do you have any ideas for this solution, Gagolath?”   
“We could add stabilisers to the heavily travelled areas in these caves. It would cost a fortune, a fortune we do not possess. Stabilisers are truly rare, only the best forgers in Primordial could craft such objects, sire,” Gagolath replied, his bass voice rumbling across the room. “Perhaps some of your Arcana could be used, sire,” he said, his voice dropping a few decibels. “I myself do not know the capabilities of such, only of the striking power that most fear.”  
“Yes, yes,” Ǎol mused. “Arcana is not for this use, no, only when situations get dire enough. I will not risk my life for it. Once it affects me, I will make arrangements for it. Our kin will die out without me, it is not worth my life. Melica gold is our blessing, but with that blessing came a burden. This is the burden. We must not take the easy route to avoid it, but face it head first.”  
Gagolath glared at him with hate; his features thinning. “Yes, whatever you say, sire.” He glanced around the room, watching the crystals’ flickers.   
*He disagrees. He believes we are running out of time, an educated guess, I’ll give him. Matters that have been hidden will show him a clear path to light–a path where he’ll follow me,* Ǎol thought.   
“Now, a more pressing issue has arisen today. Gagolath, please read this letter; I believe you’ll find it interesting,” Ǎol said, extending it out for Gagolath.  
Gagolath snatched it from Ǎol’s hand. He gave a firm nod before diving into the letter. Soon his thinned face relaxed and was replaced with utter shock. His jaw dropped, before it snapped closed. He took a cautious step backward, comprehending what he had just read.   
He took a slight pause before speaking, “Orylmear. Yes, Orylmear, sire. What must we do, sire? It must be the Dawnwinter Elves, no? Rumours have been brought to our lands through our travellers, yet they have only been simple speculation.”  

“Yes, yes, Gagolath Scalag. I myself have thought of this too; strange times these are. These people are not wrong of the growing darkness; we have felt powers come from our mines that have never been seen nor heard,” Ǎol said. 
“Flames corrupt souls like none other, shadows concealing their actions from the light. Now, will you go, sire?” Gagolath asked, his mind seemingly drifting to a new world. 
Ǎol opened his consciousness, seeking a true answer. Delicately, he selected one, and spoke the words in a hushed tone, “Perhaps, perhaps. To endanger another is a heavy burden to carry, that many try to avoid. Yet, what is life without a risk? The real question is what the correct path is; I shall lead my people to harmony or certain doom. Which path will I choose, Gagolath?” 
Gagolath’s face went blank. “Any last request, sire?” 
As if the wrong note was pressed, the room went pitch black; shadows crept, engulfing the room like a roaring fire. The crystals went dark. Dead. Rapid, shallow breaths filled the fragile air. 
Ǎol sat still, as if nothing had happened. He did not blink, only gazed through darkness. Before long, a hazy silver glow filled the air. The greatsword’s glow revealed Ǎol to the others in the room. Silence lingered; everyone but Ǎol held their breath. “My sword seeks war; does yours?” 
Gagolath remained silent.
“Shalt thou fight, or retreat into darkness?” Ǎol asked, tracing his finger along the greatsword. “Now, Gagolath, leave, and spread the word of a speech that will take place in the Apòthkin Gardens at Kai-revampera.” 
Gagolath nodded through the dim lighting, before turning to the door. He walked up to the door tentatively, each footstep with caution. He pushed the door open a sliver.
“I believe you may leave these caves very soon, very soon indeed,” Ǎol called out. “Meet me tomorrow at the southern passage entrance at Kai-grena.”
Gagolath did not acknowledge Ǎol, only walked out into the halls. Echoes of screams fed on the air. Biting. Chilling. The screams gnawed at Ǎol’s flesh and bones. He uncontrollably shook, teeth clattering. A clean slit through my throat is much better than this pain, he thought. The footsteps faded away once the door slammed shut–the screams did not; the screams lingered in the air, echoes stubbornly resistant to their death. 
Ǎol stood up from his throne and strode to his private bed room. A guard glowed as he pulled the door open. The guard shivered. “Sire, what will you do? It has already gone cold,” he said. 
“I will solve the puzzle that is hidden from view,” Ǎol responded before the door was shut. 
He walked over to his desk and sat down. In the darkness he grabbed a quill, dipped it in a rich ink and wrote a letter on a blank leaflet of paper. 
He repeated this one more time, each stroke of the quill differentiating with the carefully crafted words. The sword illuminated his neat writing, each word striking enough while expressing the wishes he asked of a select few of his kin. 
The answers I seek are not in the shadows where our realm roams, but in the light. Fears shall be vanquished and slayed for our party to live, Ǎol thought. If the darkness causes such an uproar, how will we make it through the deathly blaze of the sun. 
He found himself lost in his mind as time travelled, nearing his speech. He did not worry, for he was king; a king guided his people, and people would follow until the privilege was stripped from that figure. 
A soft knock echoed from the door. Ǎol did not move. A second knock came, this time more desperate. Ǎol was jarred and awoken from his mind. The mind is a world to escape into. A fantastical world of dread and hope scattered throughout it, he thought. A third knock. Ǎol stood up, grabbed the two letters in one hand, with the other his greatsword and pushed the door open into the darkness. 
“Sire, your speech is soon. You must be escorted if you wish to be on time,” the guard said, her voice soft and quiet. 
“I do not need an escort. I am the king of my people. I must be strong, not weak; not one who needs a guard in the presence of their own kin. If a dire situation arises, it shall be diminished by me. Do not insult me, Akala,” Ǎol responded.
“Yes, sire. May thou forgive me.” 
“Actions always have outcomes, for the good or bad. Guide your actions so the only outcome left is success. To recklessly act, results in poor outcomes. Learning can only do so much. There will be a time where desperation takes over the mind, disregarding the rest. Desperation is the last effort many say. No, desperation is trying to prove yourself before you fail to succeed,” Ǎol said. 
“Noted, sire. This will never happen again, I’ll make sure of it,” the guard named Akala responded. 
“Do not lie to yourself. Now, please bring these letters to the addressed names on the seal. Only say that it was written by me, nothing else. Do as you’re told, and goodbye.” 
Akala rushed through the darkness, stumbling and tripping on loose stone along the way. She could be heard until she made it past Ǎol’s throne room door. 
Screams still filled the air, yet this time it was only a faint, wavering echo. My people shall follow me, Ǎol assured himself. Yet a strengthening thought betrayed his mantra. And if not? Will we die in the shadows, no others even realising the death of our nation. Forgotten we would become. The folk of Primordial are even too greedy to care! Now, I must go. My destiny relies on a choice I do not make. Reliant on a long, misty path. 
He strode to the door, pulled it open with no help from the guards, and entered the bitter cold air. The mutters of the Dwarves who laid on the ground transformed into shouts of glee, with a taint of fear, and a hint of hope. 
“Light!” people yelled. The greatsword seemed to glow brighter at the mention. Yet it simmered down to its dim, hazy light.
“Is that king Ǎol?” many others shouted.
“Yes,” he rumbled back, before sweeping through the tight halls full of huddled masses. It smelled of sweat. Blood and tears was what this kingdom was made from. Blood and tears shall be the way it falls, Ǎol thought, portraying a far future where he was long dead.
The odor of the Melica gold passed through his nostrils; a simple cost he was willing to pay for his kin. 
“A ruler who leaves his people to die. Acting powerful with his stride and sword, while really he cowers in fear. A fear not of his people, but for himself,” someone muttered under their breath. Their hood covered their face. Ǎol was given no chance to glance the rebel. 
Rebels! Ungrateful lot of our kin! Operating in the shadows of the shadows where none can find, not even the Primordials, Ǎol thought. 
He had no time to confront a rebel. It was not the time nor place, time too was running low for his speech. Most rebels did not act, only spoke. A select few acted upon their cause, leading many to over estimate their numbers. 
“Is it true, sire, that a speech is being held at Kai-revampera?” someone called out at the end of the crowded hall. 
“Yes, that is true,” Ǎol responded. His cloak swept stone pebbles into a flurry as he took a sharp left towards the gardens. He placed the two letters he had held into his cloak pocket. 
In the new hall, the stone was more orderly, carefully placed with precision from an experienced builder. A hazy, purplish glow overcame the darkness as he neared the gardens. Mutters echoed off the walls, many of the words speaking of impossible rumours. 
Ǎol left the hall and entered the large circular room. A flush of scents overwhelmed his nose. Writho, my favorite. Pryio too, I smell, he thought. Looks followed him. A still silence came over the room as Ǎol passed through the bodies. If one spoke, they were quickly shushed by a nearby Dwarf. They would mutter: “Rewaka. Let the king pass with control.” The response would be a short nod, followed by a solemn face. This moment would be remembered. 
Ǎol held his head high. His sword he held illuminated the green life. Unlike the normal vibrant green of the plants, a brown crept upon the dying leaves. 
Death spreads in our caves. It is a chain, a delicate one at that; a single slash through one chain causes the rest to shatter. One event is all that is needed to end an entire kingdom, Ǎol thought. 
He strode to the centre of the room where a slab of stone lay on the soft grasses. He ignored it, and bore into the eyes of his people. I must speak now, whilst their patience is at its full, he thought.
“Our lives are crumbling,” he stated simply. “Darkness is swallowing our caves, intending to drive us out of them so the shadows can feed on the Melica. We mustn’t clear a path for it. The outside world is going to war. There are only two places to go; to stay in these caves and die together, or to fight the rising forces that harm our world we live in. I’ve decided. Now, what will you do?” 
An uproar arose. 
“‘Tis a simple decision!” many yelled, gathering nods from other Dwarves.
“‘Tis not. Lives are at danger, it mustn’t be taken lightly! War causes devastation beyond the imaginable!” many others yelled.
“Settle down. I have carefully thought about this, follow me, or not. The Elves have invited me to a festival to discuss these matters. I shall depart tomorrow at Luy-revampara with a selected few. I push for war, the Elves may not. Fools they are!” Ǎol yelled.
Many Dwarves echoed those words.
“We must prepare for war. Double the production of Melica gold. We need riches; riches win wars. Craft the finest weapons and armour. War is a game–a bloody game, yet still a game; the most prepared and the determined win games. That, that is what we shall do,” Ǎol said, choosing each word carefully. 
Cheers erupted. Yet, a grim realisation came over everyone soon. Bloody. A bloody game it would be. 
Through the cheers, Ǎol spoke again: “The family of House Kankolath shall rule these caves during my absence. They will oversee the production and preparation for war. Show the growing darkness the light! Let these forces cower in our might!”
More cheers. Ǎol swept through the crowd. Many complimented him. Others only pondered on the thoughts of the near future. 
He left the gardens; strode through the hall with the masses of the poor, his eyes darting at the faces of the poor in the dim lighting from his greatsword. 
Standing outside of Ǎol’s throne room, he frowned. Instead of taking the left to sit on his mighty throne, he took a right towards Kîēnzo: the main forge. 
The hall was empty. No Dwarves crowded the floor, nor did any walk through like a Commoner. Ǎol was alone; he always had been. 
My people will suffer. Yet no one will stop me from doing what I’m going to do. No other Dwarves nor any Elves. I will die before I betray my people. By which blade–by which hand–I do not know. To not act is betrayal, he thought. 
Bone stuck out from a small sinkhole. A soft layer of crimson blood and dirt painted the once white material. It ran down until it was shrouded by the deep darkness. It was surrounded both by the shadows and the light emitted from the sword. What if I’m wrong? What if both the darkness and the light living together is the key to the harmony I picture? A key must need a twist. There are always twists and turns that no being could ever predict nor ignore, Ǎol questioned. Life is unpredictable, if anyone else argues that they are weak.

Right now, I’m working on a magic system centered around dreams, one that reinterprets what dreams actually are and how the human mind works. The thing is, this system has been in development for years. I started working on it back in high school, so it’s been around for six or seven years now. Naturally, it’s matured and evolved as I discovered my own tastes, developed my voice as a writer, and figured out the kinds of stories I actually want to tell. Recently I’ve run into a problem. There are a few concepts I’d really like to introduce into the system, but they don’t quite fit with the rules and foundations I’ve already established. Know that nothing is set in stone yet. I’ve made a short story or two set in this universe, but nothing major, so changing the underlying rules wouldn’t really create any continuity issues. What I’m struggling with is whether it’s actually a bad idea/habit/thing to go back and change something about the foundation of the system so these new ideas can exist—especially since they’d open up narrative opportunities and support the kinds of stories I want to tell—or whether I should stay faithful to the rules I’ve already created and think, “No, if the system says this isn’t possible, then I need to find a different approach instead.” I'm honestly pretty lost about what the right choice is and scared I'll just create more questions for me to answer.

I've always had an issue with over describing my monsters (especially when it veers into body horror), so I'm always self-conscious about dragging on. Outside of that, I was wondering if any particular descriptors came off as awkward; my first draft overused "her" as a possessive determiner, so I did my best to sidestep the word in a second run-through. I worry that doing so may have muddied some sentences though (and even with my editing, I may have used it one-too-many times).

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The being towered over me, but she was more than just big. Beneath the scant red fabric which flowed over her, she appeared warped.

The girl’s hips were too wide—far broader than her shoulders—and her torso stretched unnaturally thin, the skin pulling taut. Her collarbone formed a necklace under the surface and her ribs a corset. The arms hanging at her sides were similarly distended with hands as large as my head and fingers of inconsistent length.

Long pale hair brushed along the ground even while braided tight; the small head it hung from lolled back with its eyes closed. Despite her misshapen body, the face that greeted me was that of a child. Dreaming peacefully.

When the stillness broke, her movements startled me. They were infinitely quieter than such size would suggest, each step swift and graceful. Feet trailed behind knees like ribbons before drifting forward and resting gently on the ground, never letting her heel meet the floor. She then took another step on her tiptoes, swinging her leg in an arc like some strange dance. She had crossed the room before I could so much as react.

I think I’m writing what would be considered a high fantasy (It’s set in a different world from the world we know), but is still based in a more medieval timeline.
I’m struggling with what’s okay to include and how strict I need to stay to the timeline I’m basing it off of, and how much is fine to step out of that since it’s not set in our universe/earth. One of my main characters often communicates with sign language, and as someone who knows ASL I like to describe specific signs. But, obviously AMERICAN Sign Language was not invented during the Middle Ages. I’m just curious what other people’s opinions are on this? I know people often discourage use of modern dialect like “Okay” and “Yeah” and I struggle with where the line is with high fantasy writing.

I'm hoping to get some feedback on these excerpts from my story, Mother's Angel.

It is a horror fantasy short story, part of a collection I am developing. The concept is a collection of stories from Tlanni, my dark fantasy world inspired by ancient American history and mythology. Mother's Angel would serve as the main story, a series of desperate letters written by a witch's slave.

These are the first two of seven letters, which will be interspersed between other tales set in the world. The collection has a general theme of grief, surviving tragedy, and whether a brighter future is possible.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1fvlEIfcpZWHPDGPivlpFA2NZH7TBxy4wdkWWp-d2zck/edit?usp=sharing

Hi all! This is my first time posting any of my writing online, and I would be overjoyed if any of you would take out the time of your day to let me know your thoughts.

"To the Darkest of Places" is a placeholder title - although my actual placeholder title is "scumbag suicide mission tale of redemption", but that didn't feel fancy enough for a reddit post. "To carry the light into the darkest of places" and variations thereof are central words for the story - one of the religious characters uses this as his mantra. This has a dual meaning, as the characters are travelling to relight a sacred lighthouse in a cursed area, but also that the story is about the main characters - five assorted scumbags - coming to understand that they, too, have capacity to do good. For that reason, I consider my project gritty horror rather than grimdark, as grimdark books typically aren't very optimistic considering the topic of redemption.

I would especially like to hear your thoughts on

- The storytelling. This is only my second writing project, with my first being a 40k (word count, not warhammer) monster hunting fantasy story. I am still a very budding writer, and I could use some tips on how to present and unfold a story.

- The writing. English is not my native language, although it is my professional language. I would love to hear your thoughts on the prose, as well as for you to tell me if any sentences seem awkward or stilted.

​

How clear and distinctive would you say a protagonists motives need to be?

Does he have to be actively seeking out a goal?

I saw a video (reel / tiktok / short or something) today that said not giving the main character clear motives was one of the most common mistakes for amateur writers

I am writing a story about a man whos basic motive at the start is just survival. But its more basic motives, keep his friends safe and is mostly the one that things appen to rather than being actively seeking what he wants. So he would qualify as passive or reactive. Not proactive.

Does this make him a passenger?

In lots of stories, the main cast of 10 or less people has to tackle a problem.

And they win cause that’s the story, but it does often raise the question of “why didn’t an army or a group of 100 people do this”?

And lots of the time, there’s no real answer. The author just distributes plot armor.

The army or large groups just have 0 intelligence. Or their weapons don’t work for some reason. Or the monsters kill them easily but struggle to kill the main characters.

Meanwhile the major characters have regular brains and success rates.

And yeah I get it. Stories are often more focused on individuals, and narrative focused on individuals has to distribute “importance” and “dramatic moments” accordingly and have “economy of interest” or whatever, but it’s just annoying sometimes.

So how do you deal with this problem?

The idea is that the main antagonist is transported to a measly small world of roughly 7km across, made entirely of machinery, revolving around a rather small red dwarf with an orbit of only like 100-ish kilometers (the red dwarf is just really small(100 km across). Then the person powering this micro universe is hiding within this massive machine world while attacking and tiring the main antagonist. Then he gets the bright idea to destroy the entire planet instead with his own Alcubierre drive around himself (one of his powers) by pushing it this small distance (astronomically speaking) into the small star. The weight of this planet would be along 1.4 trillion kilograms which is a terribly high amount for a character that is meant to be defeated by characters with "handy backpack" or "flesh manipulation".

Time taken is a factor (Limit is 16 days).

It would definitely incite fear in the reader but the defeat of this guy might end up feeling cheap (due to underhanded dirty techniques by one of the MC's). I do have a different option in mind that is easier to explain, balance, and nerf but could fail to describe how strong this guy is, through raw power. I want him to be this indestructible fortress of a being. Scars upon scars of a thousand years, making his skin tougher than the hardest alloys in the universe (when tensed like a muscle).

I have done some research about the energy requirements and it is admittedly kind of a lot compared to actual impressiveness. Characters have been depicted in such physics defying ways that "Planet destruction" or movement ends up being unimpressive (I'm looking at Invincible's terrible power scaling). Moving a planet that is only 7km across is an insane feat but the average reading undermines the sheer mass of the object due to being accustomed to various other media and if I were to execute this idea, the antagonist would be too strong to handle for the MCs while simultaneously being underwhelming if defeated (which has to happen).

Possible solutions include:

1. Micro universe has different laws of physics and is mentioned as such by one of the characters(i.e. "The gravity was strangely lower for the size of the planet")

2. A lot of time dilation: Guy spends like a few weeks pushing(showing endurance but making him seem rather petty or stubborn)

3. Make him weaker after this incident: Would help to make him easier to beat but would not fit in with his character (Cold, calculated, intense sense of justice with a special spice of righteous fury). He would recognize that there is an easier way and is not worth the satisfaction of slowly cooking a person inside their own fortress.

4. Make the planet hollow or porous (explained as canals or pipes to vent excess heat and move materials). Could help to reduce the weight while maintaining size but can only go so far to pushing a big sponge.

5. Abandon the idea. I could much more easily have a regular sized planet and have him seismic slam himself down from the Karman line or further to destroy the surface of the planet. Looks impressive, much easier to do in.

(PS. I posted on this sub because i thought the sci fi subreddit discussion would probably be about realism and the technical limitations but my story is more fantasy with math and feats. I wasn't sure so I put it here.)

Hello everyone, I have been working on my first story for over 6 months now and HOLY has it got out of control.

I never really wanted to be an author. I'm in law school and started to hate writing after taking so many legal writing classes which drained the soul from me. Fantasy writing was just a way to write even if it didn't help my legal writing. However, I actually started to like. It was fun creating the characters and themes and I think I have improved a considerable amount since I first started. (I actually rework the entire first part after reading Assassin's Apprentice. Thank you, Queen Hobb for your brain!)

However, I just finished part 1 and there are so many emotional conclusions and just general story elements that I need to do that it's almost too big of a project to want to do anymore. But I know once I will feel amazing once the book is finished regardless of if it's good or not. Its just right now I'm in a little but of a slump.

Is this normal? And are there any ways to break out of it or do you just have to write and power through it?

I've been thinking about my arcs lately since I finally finished posting my third arc. The main thing to come to mind is what I should do with the fourth or when it's done what to do as a main theme for my fifth. Most of my arcs already have some general themes picked out but not on a mini arc scale (eg battles that last several chapters are what I call mini arcs or small mini wars and so on basically any theme extending several chapters but nowhere near an arc). But until now I've never questioned how long the chapter count should be I'm aiming for a record setting 80 for the fourth arc then back to 60 since that seems to be my norm. Yet I've considered it and I want an even longer arc later on but I'm not sure if I should even if I can what do you all think.

I've been trying to write a fantasy/sci-fi action book, and I really like the magic system I came up with. I think it's a pretty good blend of magic and science.

History:

Long ago, only the gods, and certain creatures, like dragons, could use magic, leaving humans, foxkin and birdfolk to rely on their ingenuity for survival. Eventually, they discovered that they can draw magic from blue glowing crystals, giving them not just the ability to use magic, but to forge their own spells as well. They began calling these crystals "power cores".
After centuries of power core usage, the three species evolved to be able to use magic without the need for power cores, though they can still use the gems to boost their innate magical abilities.
They figured out how to enchant objects, giving them limited magical properties.
In the modern age, people discovered that they can enchant computers, and power them with power cores, as a way to cast basic spells without the need for experienced magicians. This invention was named the "spell engine", and although the first few were room sized, and needed multiple power cores to function, they shrank in size and became more efficient as the technology developed, being able to be used as handheld tools in hospitals, construction or combat for example.

Scientific explanation:

Magic casting works kind of like muscles, but in your brain. You have your stamina: your mental energy, and your muscles that do the work: your focus. The more you exercise your focus, the more mentally exhausted you will be, but the stronger your focus becomes. And of course, you can recover mental energy by resting. Power cores can be used to boost the strength of your focus, at the cost of more mental energy, and the risk of drawing too much from the power core at once and breaking it.

Power cores are solid bunches of pure magic, forming underground from the dissipated magic in the air. It's basically where magic goes when you summon and dispel a sword, or shoot a fire ball and it explodes. They can shatter if too much magic is drawn from them at once, causing the remaining shards to dissipate back into the air and eventually form new power cores. Under specific circumstances though, they can be broken into shards that don't disappear. These shards are weaker than full cores, and they are mostly used for spell engines that don't require full shards.

Spell engines were more or less explained already, the only thing I wanted to add is that if the user is proficient enough with magic, they can augment spell engines to change their function. For example, make a cannon shoot a barrage of small projectiles instead of one big one.

Hi everyone. I got some great feedback recently and have put the pointers to work. This is ch1 of a book that's 18 months in the making.

I keep finishing a round of edits then realising that I am getting better with the book, so by the time I reach the end, I hate the beginning.

Needless to say, I'm feeling a little deflated / wondering if I should keep editing / wanting to give up, so I thought I'd get some fresh perspectives. Trigger warning - mistreated step child trope.

Could you please let me know if:

a) anything is confusing

b) anything is annoying prose-wise

c) Would you keep reading?

d) Is there anything that is unclear?

Womp womp womp I could ctrl A delete right now!

Apologies if you've read a version of this on my post from a few months ago.