FROM PATRICK
There he lay in a pool of blood, cold and lifeless as the day he came into this world so many years ago. The last rays of the long day fading from the glimmering pools of death. They don’t see him. Nobody sees him laying there as he fades into the darkness. And then into the night he went, and he was no more. He was Dagda of the Saoirs Family, and legend to the Lochlars; the last purebred descendant line of the first man. He lived many generations of his life captive to the Fachta family of the Foairse Clans. They were the demented, corrupt, and deformed lineage of man that dwelled in the forests. Generations of selfishness and greed have malformed them into tall, slender, manlike fiends who wage war with their wealth and others blood.
That was the fate that befell Dagda that day. As his last gasp of life left his body, there were no tears. Not a drop from a single person. After all this was a battlefield, littered with the fresh corpses of a small Lochlar clan slaughtered, and scattered with the bodies of other beasts. There were Ageauchs from the wetlands whom lived in the oceans, Moachs from the far hill lands whose size was three times that of a man. Then there were the Uiamachs with skin as pale as the sky, and sunken eyes recessed into their sickly skulls. The bodies were tossed across the land, and sometimes just pieces of them here and there. Among them all was not a living thing, and the drums of the fleeting clans could be heard traveling off in the distance.
It was then in the darkness that all the scavenger creatures came to take their pick of the dead. They came and feast on the carcasses, and then there was a movement out among the scape. Then came a moan that sounded of a dying man’s last gasp for air. And then another, and another, and more to come. The soft shadow of a man slowly began to glow a pale green in the darkness of the night. As he worked his way to his feet, he searched to his left and then to his right to take it all in. This was the moment that began the new life of Dagda of Saoirs. He clamored and shook with his cold lifeless body beginning to radiate with warm in the desolate chill air. And as he saw all his fallen kinsman laying strewn across the field, he let out this barreling roar of a yell. The light grew stronger from his body illuminating the area around him and sending all the scavengers into the distance woods for shelter.
He looked down at his hands covered in blood but still glowing. He then peered in the distance towards the fading drums as to tell himself to quiet down. As he stood there looking at his hands and his shirt blood soaked from a gaping hole in his chest. Then suddenly the images came flashing back to his mind like he was reliving them again. In the distance a Moarch charging at him as he fought of another to his right. Out of nowhere the large spear thrust into his chest. With a small yell and a flinch, he snapped out of it holding his chest where the wound was. Where the wound was he thought to himself as he ran his hand across his chest. “What is this?” he said. “I remember it…. So real… So….. real”. Then he glimpsed back towards the now quite drums where he saw a few shadows shimmering in the night, lit by the torches they carried as they headed over the hills in his direction.
Dagda noticed that the glow from his body had begun to dim away until being caught off guard by the closing strangers. At that moment he began to grow brighter giving away his location, and so he did the only thing he figured he could do. He took off sprinting into the distance being as quite and careful as he could be in a dead sprint. It still hadn’t sunk in yet that just moments ago he was skewered and left to die. But had he? Did he die? Tree, he thought as he careened of the bark from not paying attention as he ran. How could he? He was being chased by someone. Wasn’t he? By this time, he looked back to the shadows lit in the night and it seemed as if they were retreating towards from whence they came. He was relieved, but did not who were they, and why had they turned back.
He began to realize that it was harder for him to see everything in the distance now. The bodies, the rolling hills, or the fires that burned off in the far distance. He wasn’t glowing anymore. Thinking to himself, he tried to make sense of what had just happened. How did he get to this point? One moment in midst of battle he laid impaled fading in the night, and the next he’s alone in the darkness glowing. Again, feeling through his shirt for his wound, he found nothing was there. Just a hole in his hide armor and drying blood-soaked shirt. Clearly it had happened, and he had not imagined it, yet he was alive and warm with vigor. He wasn’t a stranger to death, as he had graced it presence once before.
He had spent many lifetimes living with the Fachta, keeping them alive. That is what this whole rebellious war was about. As a Lochlar, his lineage was crucial to the survival of the highest of families. Only those with the most prominent means were able to secure and own the people. All the families and clan of this world could kill to get their hands on his people, and they did.
Dagda stood silent, thinking back to events of his past and the first time that he had died. Something familiar about it, and yet still so different. He thought about the first time over two millennia ago when he was captured in the woods. An eerie smile crept onto his face and washed away as he remembered his family. That was short lived though. Memories come, and you can think of them fondly, but they are just that; memories. A remnant of something that happen long ago. He was only a little over a hundred years old at the time when it happened; when he first died, lying bleeding next to his father. They had been hiding in the woods along with his mother for years in that part of the land. Always so careful to stay clear of the villages, and never so greedy that they would notice things missing. But somehow, the Foairse knew. They knew that someone had been sneaking around in the village at night and into the camps taking the smallest things. They were like that though. They were greedy and kept close quarter to their belongings.
Somehow, they had followed one of the few Lochlars to their home in hiding. He still blames himself for that. Dagda was that young man, the was followed back to his home that led to the butchering of his father and kinsman. That day only his mother was spared from the blades, and not even he could stop it. He began to feel himself present again and notice himself staring off into the past. What to do now he thought. “I’ve got to get out of here, and make my way to the elderlands”, he said to himself. He knew that answers could be found there amongst the Droictars. After all, it was the Droictars that possessed the Lyte and brought him from the darkness the first time. They were the only ones that could have done this to him yet again, but why? These were questions that he needed to find answers to.
The Droictars were the first descendants of man in this world to have the power of the lyte. Found by the twentieth-generation son of Chaed, the first man. His name was Fiache of Chaed, and he would live countless eons learning to harness and control the lyte. It was said that the lyte was spilled into the world when Lochlar created his children and left them to the world. Since Fiache found the light, only his bloodline has ever wielded it. Eventually, the lyte had engulfed them and became so much of who they were that they transformed from a physical body. It was the Droictar that brought Dagda back from death after the capture of his mother and murder of everyone else.
Dagda had to make his way to Droica, the land of the Droictar. He knew where he needed to. The question was how exactly was he going to get there? Knowing that he would not be able to travel looking as he did, he began to salvage clothes from the bodies closest to him. He didn’t dare venture to far into the bloody field for fear of the memories. The thoughts of his people fighting shoulder to shoulder and back to back with him, being cut down one after another. The women being taken as prisoners to be checked for pure blood. He grabbed up a shirt from a man that appeared to look unharmed from the front, but as he removed it he could see a stab wound in the back. That’s ok, he would find a jacket to wear and conceal the bloodied mark. He thought to himself that someone was going to have to pay for all of this. Pay for this blood with more blood. He didn’t know how, but he knew that he must. For his mother, his father, and all the Lochlars that he ran into battle with.
CRITIQUE
Okay, first off, you sent me 4300 words, which is considerably more than a thousand. I'm publishing only the first 1650 words to give everyone a good taste of your writing.
The main thing wrong is that this chapter is riddled with backstory, which is a common enough problem with beginning writers. You write with a "But First" mentality. You'll tell the action of the scene, "but first" you need to tell about the Foairse Clans and Dagda's history with them. You'll tell the story, "but first" you need to tell who else is dead in the battlefield, what they look like, and where they live. Yes, yes, you'll tell about Dagda and this weird resurrection, "but first" you need to explain about the Droictars. You couldn't annoy the crap out of a reader any more if you tried.
Below is your 4300 words pared to just under 1500. Introduce all this history, people groups, animals, and geography gradually through action and dialogue as you tell Dagda's story. Just think how you tell a story about yourself. You're anxious to get to the point of what happened, aren't you? You want to tell the interesting part, the good part, the really amazing part because you know it's going to induce a reaction from your listener. Your opening scene is a freaking RESURRECTION! Do you think I want to read about anything else but this Dagda dude and how he can raise himself from the dead? Nope. So tell the story, dang it. You got a whole book to unfold all these background details.
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There he lay in a pool of blood, cold and lifeless, as the last rays of the long day faded. He was Dagda of the Saoirs Family, and legend to the Lochlars, the last purebred descendants of the first man.
This was his fate that day – death on a battlefield littered with the fresh corpses of a small Lochlar clan mixed with dead beasts. It was a scene curtained by the horror of death and accentuated by the drums of fleeing clans in the distance.
In the darkness, scavengers began to feast on carcasses, but then there was movement where none should be. Several guttural moans echoed in the night, and a pale green glow began to cast a ghastly hue on the scene. The soft shadow of a man slowly stood to his feet. It was Dagda of Saoirs. He shook as his glowing body began to radiate warmth in the desolate chill. When he saw all his fallen kinsman laying strewn across the field, he roared in dismay. The light from his body intensified and sent the scavengers scurrying into the woods.
He looked at his hands; though covered in blood, they still glowed. He stared into the distance toward the fading drums trying to calm himself. His shirt was blood soaked. Then the memories returned to him as if he were reliving them. A Moach charged at him as he fought another to his right. The large spear thrust into his chest. With a yelp and a flinch, he snapped out of it, holding his chest where the wound was. Where the wound was. He ran his hand across his chest.
“What is this?” he said. “I remember it…so real… so….. real.” He focused again in the direction of the now quiet drums where he saw shadows shimmering in the night, their way lit by torches they carried as they headed over the hills toward him.
The glow from his body began to dim until he saw the closing strangers. At that moment, the glow brightened, giving away his location. He sprinted away from them. He needed time to gather his senses. Did he die? How could he? Was he being chased? He looked back, and the shadows lit in the night seemed to retreat to his relief.
He wasn’t glowing anymore. What happened? Again, he felt for his wound and found nothing but a hole in his hide armor and blood-soaked shirt. He had not imagined it. It really happened, yet he lived. Though strange, it was a situation not unfamiliar to him.
It happened over two millennia ago, when he was a young man of about a hundred. The Foairse killed him and his father for stealing food from them. He lay bleeding next to his father and died, but the Droictars wielded the Lyte and resurrected him. Why, he knew not, but this time, he would find out. He would go to Droica in the Elderlands and ask them. They would most likely kill him, but he would know their interest in him, and he would know it now.
He quickly discarded his bloody clothes and took clean clothes from a headless corpse. He also scavenged a warm fur cape from an officer, a few daggers, and a sword, before he left. He traveled through the woods, staying a safe distance from any traveled paths. He felt safer with the darkness concealing his identity. Dealing with a rogue beast was far better than being identified by the Foairse. He hoped there were no Moachs still in the area. He saw quite a few in the battle, but didn’t notice many among the dead.
As he traveled, he wondered about the glow. What did it mean? The warmth he once felt was now gone, and the cold of night pricked his skin.
He decided to camp for the night. He heard a few night predators tracking him through the night. He made good time that night. He started to search the pockets in his clothing to see what assets he might find. I can’t be the only person who travels without fire sticks, he thought. He found some broken sticks in one of the pockets. As he struck them against each other to ignite them, he noticed something in his periphery.
He never moved quickly or took his eyes away from his task; nothing to let whatever it was know he was aware of its presence. When the sticks ignited, he saw it. Hollow, murderous eyes, glaring at him from the brush. By the time he saw it, the rest of the pack were lunging at him from behind. He dropped the burning sticks, rolled with his attackers, and broke free of them. He escaped with a few small scratches and a gash across his arm. He never saw one of these before, let alone a small pack. They were mactyr.
An adult standing nearly as tall as himself but double his bulk, snarled with sharp teeth gleaming and ears laid back. Its short snout ending in a snub nose exhaled the chilly night air. He heard about these creatures from travelers, but only in the last few hundred years. There were three of them, and two of them seemed to be the young.
“Easy, easy,” he said as he slowly moved his right hand towards his blade. The larger mactyr lunged at him upright and instinctively, Dagda grabbed his short blade. As he fought the beast, he noticed the other two staying away from the fight, as if awaiting their meal. He feinted the adult away from the younger creatures and advanced on them. The beast let out a horrific roar, and pounce upon Dagda, but landed squarely on his short blade. The beast fastened his teeth on Dagda’s arm as it clawed and bit and flailed violently, but soon the beast calmed, until it bled to death.
Dagda pushed the animal off of him and turned his attention to the smaller creatures. They lowered their heads and cowered away into the night, whimpering. As they slinked away, he held his forearm that was mauled by the beast.
His arm warmed as a blue glow shone from beneath his hand. He quickly pulled his hand away and examined it.
“What in Lothar’s name is going on?” He gripped his arm again, but there was no glow this time. He checked his hand and gripped his arm repeatedly, but to no avail. No glow. Maybe it was a hallucination. He gave up on the mystery and slid back his sleeve to tend to his mangled arm.
“I don’t understand it. I don’t know what’s happening, but...Ahhhh!” Dagda stared at his arm in wide-eyed wonder. There was not a mark on it. His sleeve was shredded and bloody, but there was not even the hint of a wound on his arm and no pain.
Twice he was healed with a glow coming from body. In the back of his mind, he knew what this meant, but couldn’t bring himself to believe it.
“Is this what I think it is?” he said under his breath. He put his hand on top of some smaller cuts on his other forearm. He clasped it tight, but nothing happened. But then he cleared his mind and loosened his grip on his arm. His hand began to glow and he felt the warmth again. He removed his hand. Gone! The cuts were gone! He healed himself! But how did he gain this ability? And what does it mean?
Though stunned by this new revelation, his current circumstances soon crowded it out of his mind. He saw the faint flickering of the fire sticks, all but extinguished, and put some wood and leaves in the fire to build it.
At least I have something to eat now, he thought.
It didn’t take him long to turn dying flame into a small fire. A bigger fire would keep away most night animals, but could also draw unwanted attention. He decided to build a bigger fire to keep the creatures away, cook some mactyr meat, and warm himself.
He pulled his blade out of the animal and used his dagger to slice an opening in the fur. It was long ago when he last skinned an animal, when he was among the free Lochlars, before he was taken. It was the last evening he spent with his father.
He cut several small pieces of meat off the animal so they would cook faster. He skewered them, put them over the fire, and as it cooked, he saw two sets of eyes glaring at him from the darkness. He dragged the dead animal to the edge of the fire and tossed it into the dark forest. While he backed towards the fire again, the two young mactyr growled and tussled with one another as they ripped into their mother’s corpse.
Daylight could not come soon enough for him.