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Zanussi

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I suppose like any of us I am curious to know if I can actually write, I know I can fill hundreds of pages with characters and plots that intrigue me, but are they a total bore to anyone else? I have submitted a couple of completed novels and got the standard rejections which give me not a clue. This is a clip from my latest effort which has not been submitted, I aimed more for a Conan the wimp rather than Conan the Barbarian as I think super heroes have it far too easy. My anti hero spends most of the book tripping over his sword and blundering into the wrong places. But what I am asking here is not a judgement of plot, but just: is it readable?

********************************************************
Coras reflected that in the sagas no mention was made that guard duty was uncomfortable, cold, exhausting, and boring. As he shifted for the hundredth time to try and avoid the tree roots that sought to bore up into him he peered miserably out into the rustling darkness and fought the losing battle with sleep.

Practical matters were missing too in the tales, he had put his back to their damped camp fire so that his eyes would not be dazzled, but what if the camp were attacked from the other side of the fire? So he kept looking back over his shoulder to blink at the red embers, and when he looked back again into the dark he blinked the shape of the fire for a long time.

At first he had paced around the perimeter, hand on the hilts of the ancient sword, proud in the armour the Troll had gifted him, but then the irascible Moorlander Woman had snarled at him from her huddled blanket that he made more noise than an Elephant Pig trotting over hot coals. Mortified he had set his back to a tree and sat down to peer moodily into the dark, picked out only by the stars peering through the trees and the red play of shadows as the fire flickered and set the trees to dancing with each other.

Being a hero was not all it was cracked up to be.

His eyelids were unbearably heavy, despite his efforts they kept creeping down, once he started, certain he had actually fallen asleep, and stared about wildly, imagining the comrades who had trusted him were now dead in their blankets, but soft snores and a mumbling voice complaining about something reassured him. He set to playing games with the shadows, putting shapes to them, the gleam of dull fire on frost dusted stone became a wood nymph, dancing slowly with a long veil of red silk, beckoning enticingly.

A noise disturbed and his eyes flew open. Coras blinked, confused, why had his eyes been closed? He was awake, had been awake, watching the shadows form their strange shapes. The boulder was still there, red fire light and tree shadow forming still the strange and haunting vision of a young woman, only now she was holding a finger to her lips as if to shush him, then she turned and skipped into the forest as light as a moth, a soft giggle seemed to breath at him on the ice tinted wind. It was the only sound, the fire no longer popped and crackled, the sleepers were deep in dreams, even the horses had stopped their grunts and stamping.

Fear slammed through his chest, terror that he had been derelict, that he would have to face the scorn of them all. Coras leapt to his feet, staring about, they were gone, the precious horses. The ropes they had been tethered with hung loose like dead snakes from the branches, feeble as it had fallen the fire still showed the scuffed ground where they had fidgeted, and a trail of scuffed leaves heading toward where the vision of the nymph had gone.

Shouting in fury Coras drew the sword and chased into the trees after them. He heard Martin shout his name but ignored it, how could he face the Knight? Branches slapped at him and the ground sought to trip him, he sheathed the sword after it collided with a trunk and sprung back, numbing his wrist and almost decapitating himself. He panted, jerking in freezing air as he ran, and ahead he saw soft lit shapes, no more than swamp fire ghosts, figures of young women walking beside dark horse shadows. He shouted again and charged at them.

He fell. With terrible shocking suddenness he plunged as the ground vanished from beneath him, then water as cold as death closed over him, freezing his heart, stopping his muscles with bonds of steel, deep and deeper he plunged and the pressure pounded at his ears and red like the dim fire filled his eyes, red of blood turning to darkness.

“The dream again?”

He lay in the comforting dark, the light weight of her head on his chest, her arms about him.

“Yes,” he admitted. “It is nothing, don’t worry.”

“Sleep, love,” she whispered. “I will keep watch.”

He heard his own breath, a titanic whoop as he sucked in air to starved lungs turning to choking as he coughed up cold water. Swimming wildly against the weight of sword and armour he spun about, all was red, flickering cold fire red flames. But there was a darker section, he reached and kicked and got a hand to it, smooth stone. Gasping, coughing he hauled himself up onto it and dragged himself away from the blood water as if it had the power to drag him back.

Drenched, shuddering with cold, he stared about in dismayed confusion. He was in a vast cavern, filled with a great river of clear water that flowed slowly, lit by some unknown orange-red light that made it look as if it were a river of flame. Rising out of the river were great pillars of stone that reached up to where the light could barely go and splayed tree-like to support the roof of the cavern. The ledge on which he had taken refuge was at the wall of the cavern, it was too vast to see the opposite wall, only a haze of grey far across the red.

Where was she? How was he here again? This was a nightmare from long ago, when he had run like a spooked rabbit from their camp near the Sunset Road and nearly drowned. He touched his breast, felt the hard chain mail and the sodden black cloak of the old Empire where a moment before her head had rested.

It was….No, it is yet to be….It was, I remember.

A small dark spot was out in the river, slowly growing bigger, approaching.

I came back, I won her….You have but started your journey.

It was a boat, a small black boat, in the stern a tall gaunt figure poled it toward him, the pole could not possibly reach into those vast depths, but the boat moved, and the figure had no face, only a long black cloak and a shadow beneath a black cowl. Coras watched with disinterest, consumed by his own confusion.

I love her….You despise her and all that she represents.

The boat nudged up to the stone ledge, the black figure stepped ashore, standing over Coras, the pole twisted in his grip and now revealed a long curved blade, born of a farming nation Coras knew a scythe when he saw it. The figure bent slightly, extended one black arm and a withered hand protruded from it, grasping.

“Will you pay the Ferryman?” a hoarse voice rasped from the cowl.

“Why?” Coras asked, drawn from his inner turmoil by the bizarre question.

The figure hesitated, the hand withdrew and it leant on the scythe, surveying him with hidden eyes. “You are not Finyar,” the voice declared after a long pause.

“No,” Coras agreed. “I saw him, though, he gave me a message.”

“Ah,” the figure sighed, casting back it’s hood it revealed an old man, white haired, skin stretched tight over his features and set like leather so he appeared little more than a skeleton. With a groan and the audible pop of joints he sat down beside Coras and laid down the scythe. “That happens sometimes,” he noted regretfully.

“What is this place?” Coras asked curiously.

The man looked about, as if taking in his surrounding for the first time, then glanced back at Coras. “You are a Calren?”

Coras nodded.

The man brightened and gestured grandly. “Behold the river of life, from deep wells it springs and by these mighty pillars the good earth is nourished and gives forth it’s bounty.” He hesitated, Coras was eyeing him with open scepticism. “People usually just make their own stuff up,” the man grumbled.

“Why am I here?” Coras demanded.

“Can you play chess?” The man asked. Coras shook his head. “Damned if I know then,” the man sighed, using the scythe he hauled himself back to his feet with a lot of creaking and pops, he shuffled back toward his boat.

“Wait!” Coras protested, striding after him. “Wait!”

Somehow his legs tangled in the scythe and he fell, the red water closed over Coras again.

He was at the window of their bedroom, looking out into the night, raid was beating against the window, he thought fleetingly of the nights he had been out in the wilds on nights like this and smiled a little smugly, what an idiot he had been. So restless, so eager to find adventure.

She stirred and called to him sleepily. His very heart. He left the window, she reached up her hand and he took it, she pulled him gently back to their warm bed.

The grip of her hand suddenly tightened, seizing his wrist in an agonising clamp, he tried to pull free but with tremendous force she yanked him off balance and then he was hanging by the grip, arm screaming in pain, then he collapsed shivering onto ice crackling grass, trees rustling in the rising wind, the midnight stars wheeling overhead.

Martin, panting hard, was kneeling over him, pushing at his chest, forcing out the water in coughing gouts. “He is alive,” the Knight gasped.

“Oh I am so relieved!” A sarcastic voice with a heavy Moorland accent declared from close by. “Now what about my horse?”
 
The flow is good, but you have issues with grammar and punctuation.

Examples:

Coras reflected that in the sagas no mention was made that guard duty was uncomfortable, cold, exhausting, and boring. As he shifted for the hundredth time to try and avoid the tree roots that sought to bore up into him<COMMA> he peered miserably out into the rustling darkness and fought the losing battle with sleep.

His eyelids were unbearably heavy<FULL STOP> Despite his efforts<COMMA> they kept creeping down<FULL STOP> once <COMMA> he started, certain he had actually fallen asleep, and stared about wildly, imagining the comrades who had trusted him were now dead in their blankets, but soft snores and a mumbling voice complaining about something reassured him. <Consider repharasing into shorter sentences>

Action also occasioanally lapses into this..then this...then this.....

The grip of her hand suddenly tightened, seizing his wrist in an agonising clamp, he tried to pull free but with tremendous force she yanked him off balance and then he was hanging by the grip, arm screaming in pain, then he collapsed shivering onto ice crackling grass, trees rustling in the rising wind, the midnight stars wheeling overhead.

consider rephrasing.

Just needs a good edit. I liked it though.

Mactavish
 
I suppose like any of us I am curious to know if I can actually write, I know I can fill hundreds of pages with characters and plots that intrigue me, but are they a total bore to anyone else? I have submitted a couple of completed novels and got the standard rejections which give me not a clue. This is a clip from my latest effort which has not been submitted, I aimed more for a Conan the wimp rather than Conan the Barbarian as I think super heroes have it far too easy. My anti hero spends most of the book tripping over his sword and blundering into the wrong places. But what I am asking here is not a judgement of plot, but just: is it readable?
********************************************************
Coras reflected that
comma
in the sagas
comma
no mention was made that guard duty was uncomfortable, cold, exhausting, and boring. As he shifted for the hundredth time to try and avoid the tree roots that sought to bore up into him he peered miserably out into the rustling darkness and fought the losing battle with sleep.
Practical matters were missing too in the tales,
semicolon
he had put his back to their damped camp fire so that his eyes would not be dazzled, but what if the camp were attacked from the other side of the fire? So he kept looking back over his shoulder to blink at the red embers, and when he looked back again into the dark he blinked the shape of the fire for a long time.
At first he had paced around the perimeter, hand on the hilts of the ancient sword, proud in the armour the Troll had gifted him, but then the irascible Moorlander Woman had snarled at him from her huddled blanket that he made more noise than an Elephant Pig trotting over hot coals. Mortified
comma
he had set his back to a tree and sat down to peer moodily into the dark, picked out only by the stars peering through the trees and the red play of shadows as the fire flickered and set the trees to dancing with each other.
Being a hero was not all it was cracked up to be.

His eyelids were unbearably heavy,
semicolon
despite his efforts they kept creeping down,
full stop
once he started, certain he had actually fallen asleep, and stared about wildly, imagining the comrades who had trusted him were now dead in their blankets, but soft snores and a mumbling voice complaining about something reassured him. He set to playing games with the shadows, putting shapes to them,
full stop
the gleam of dull fire on frost dusted stone became a wood nymph, dancing slowly with a long veil of red silk, beckoning enticingly.
A noise disturbed and his eyes flew open. Coras blinked, confused, why had his eyes been closed? He was awake, had been awake, watching the shadows form their strange shapes. The boulder was still there, red fire light and tree shadow forming still the strange and haunting vision of a young woman, only now she was holding a finger to her lips as if to shush him, then she turned and skipped into the forest as light as a moth
full stop; or perhaps "seeming" rather than "seemed".
, a soft giggle seemed to breath at him on the ice tinted wind.
ice-tinted?
It was the only sound, the fire no longer popped and crackled, the sleepers were deep in dreams, even the horses had stopped their grunts and stamping.
Fear slammed through his chest, terror that he had been derelict, that he would have to face the scorn of them all. Coras leapt to his feet, staring about,
semicolon
they were gone, the precious horses. The ropes they had been tethered with hung loose like dead snakes from the branches,
full stop, and I don't think a comma after "fidgeted"
feeble as it had fallen the fire still showed the scuffed ground where they had fidgeted, and a trail of scuffed leaves heading toward where the vision of the nymph had gone.
Shouting in fury Coras drew the sword and chased into the trees after them. He heard Martin shout his name but ignored it, how could he face the Knight? Branches slapped at him and the ground sought to trip him, he sheathed the sword after it collided with a trunk and sprung back, numbing his wrist and almost decapitating himself. He panted, jerking in freezing air as he ran, and ahead he saw soft lit shapes, no more than swamp fire
swamp-fire?
ghosts, figures of young women walking beside dark horse shadows. He shouted again and charged at them.
He fell. With terrible shocking suddenness he plunged as the ground vanished from beneath him, then water as cold as death closed over him, freezing his heart, stopping his muscles with bonds of steel,
full stop
deep and deeper he plunged and the pressure pounded at his ears and red like the dim fire filled his eyes, red of blood turning to darkness.
“The dream again?”

He lay in the comforting dark, the light weight of her head on his chest, her arms about him.

“Yes,” he admitted. “It is nothing, don’t worry.”

“Sleep, love,” she whispered. “I will keep watch.”

He heard his own breath, a titanic whoop as he sucked in air to starved lungs turning to choking as he coughed up cold water. Swimming wildly against the weight of sword and armour he spun about, all was red, flickering cold fire red flames. But there was a darker section, he reached and kicked and got a hand to it, smooth stone. Gasping, coughing he hauled himself up onto it and dragged himself away from the blood water as if it had the power to drag him back.

Drenched, shuddering with cold, he stared about in dismayed confusion. He was in a vast cavern, filled
when you associate "cavern" with "filled" you don't get any dry ledges to drag yourself onto; in fact, you're lucky if you've any air to breath
with a great river of clear water that flowed slowly, lit by some unknown orange-red light that made it look as if it were a river of flame. Rising out of the river were great pillars of stone that reached up to where the light could barely go and splayed tree-like to support the roof of the cavern. The ledge on which he had taken refuge was at the wall of the cavern, it
the ledge was too wide? Perhaps "which" rather than "it"
was too vast to see the opposite wall, only a haze of grey far across the red.
Where was she? How was he here again? This was a nightmare from long ago, when he had run like a spooked rabbit from their camp near the Sunset Road and nearly drowned. He touched his breast, felt the hard chain mail and the sodden black cloak of the old Empire where a moment before her head had rested.

It was….No, it is yet to be….It was, I remember.

A small dark spot was out in the river, slowly growing bigger, approaching.

I came back, I won her….You have but started your journey.

It was a boat, a small black boat,
full stop
in the stern a tall gaunt figure poled it toward him, the pole could not possibly reach into those vast depths, but the boat moved, and the figure had no face, only a long black cloak and a shadow beneath a black cowl. Coras watched with disinterest, consumed by his own confusion.
I love her….You despise her and all that she represents.

The boat nudged up to the stone ledge, the black figure stepped ashore, standing over Coras,
definitely full stop. The bit before is essentially two sentences separated with commas instead of something more consistant
the pole twisted in his grip and now revealed a long curved blade,
semicolon
born of a farming nation Coras knew a scythe when he saw it. The figure bent slightly, extended one black arm and a withered hand protruded from it, grasping.
“Will you pay the Ferryman?” a hoarse voice rasped from the cowl.

“Why?” Coras asked, drawn from his inner turmoil by the bizarre question.

The figure hesitated, the hand withdrew and it leant on the scythe, surveying him with hidden eyes. “You are not Finyar,” the voice declared after a long pause.

“No,” Coras agreed. “I saw him, though, he gave me a message.”

“Ah,” the figure sighed,
semicolon
casting back it’s
its
hood it revealed an old man, white haired, skin stretched tight over his features and set like leather so he appeared little more than a skeleton. With a groan and the audible pop of joints he sat down beside Coras and laid down the scythe. “That happens sometimes,” he noted regretfully.
“What is this place?” Coras asked curiously.

The man looked about, as if taking in his surrounding for the first time, then glanced back at Coras. “You are a Calren?”

Coras nodded.

The man brightened and gestured grandly. “Behold the river of life, from deep wells it springs and by these mighty pillars the good earth is nourished and gives forth it’s bounty.” He hesitated,
semicolon
Coras was eyeing him with open scepticism. “People usually just make their own stuff up,” the man grumbled.
“Why am I here?” Coras demanded.

“Can you play chess?” The man asked. Coras shook his head. “Damned if I know then,” the man sighed,
full stop
using the scythe he hauled himself back to his feet with a lot of creaking and pops, he shuffled back toward his boat.
“Wait!” Coras protested, striding after him. “Wait!”

Somehow his legs tangled in the scythe and he fell, the red water closed over Coras again.

He was at the window of their bedroom, looking out into the night, raid was beating against the window, he thought fleetingly of the nights he had been out in the wilds on nights like this and smiled a little smugly, what an idiot he had been. So restless, so eager to find adventure.

She stirred and called to him sleepily. His very heart. He left the window, she reached up her hand and he took it, she pulled him gently back to their warm bed.

The grip of her hand suddenly tightened, seizing his wrist in an agonising clamp, he tried to pull free but with tremendous force she yanked him off balance and then he was hanging by the grip, arm screaming in pain, then he collapsed shivering onto ice crackling grass, trees rustling in the rising wind, the midnight stars wheeling overhead.

Martin, panting hard, was kneeling over him, pushing at his chest, forcing out the water in coughing gouts. “He is alive,” the Knight gasped.

“Oh I am so relieved!” A sarcastic voice with a heavy Moorland accent declared from close by. “Now what about my horse?”
 
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