TEEN: Unsteady Blade - Deen's Story (Fire Emblem)

[UselessBytes]

Heyo workshop readers! It's time for another one of my stories, and this time it's a chapter fic! (Hopefully one I won't abandon ) This time it's about Deen, a mysterious swordsman from Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia. I'm a sucker for his kind of character, so I decided to write this little story. The first chapter is a tad short, but more chapters are coming soon. (And as a heads up, you don't really need to know anything about Fire Emblem to read this, so even if you barely know the series, enjoy!)

1 - Enigmatic Blade

Darc looked down at his drink, grumbling about bad service. The crummy ale that filled his mug tasted no better than horse piss, but he’d grown used to it over the years. After all, crappy ale was better than no ale. The bar around him was dingy and rundown at best, but it was still packed to the brim with drunken sailors and serving women. After all, any bar is a good bar after hard sailing on the rough Zofian Sea. He could attest to that personally.

Darc tipped back his mug, draining half the ale in it before slamming it back down onto the bar’s surface. He smacked his lips and looked around at the patrons. Today was a particularly busy day. Sailors and townsfolk filled the tavern as usual, but the unsettling sight of Grieth’s thugs and bandits were mixed among them. Grieth’s men didn’t often leave the desert, let alone come far enough south to end up in Zofia harbor. He figured they must’ve had a particularly successful raiding adventure and had come to celebrate.

He sighed as he raised his mug to his lips again. With those ruffians around, a fight of some sort was bound to break out. It was only a matter of time.

The faces around him were all familiar, and he could easily point out the most likely candidates to start a fight. There was a brutish man at a table in the center of the room, downing mug after mug of ale, named Buxley. His bulging muscles and nasty scars made him quite the character, and he was known to be one of Grieth’s top bruisers. Darc knew that if anyone was to start something, it wouldn’t be long before Buxley saw fit to join in. That is, if Buxley hadn’t started it in the first place. He was a man who was prone to stir up trouble.

Buxley’s presence made Darc uncomfortable. He made a note to head out as soon as he finished his ale, lest he be caught up in some kind of brawl, but some nagging feeling in his mind told him that he shouldn’t leave. He supposed it had something to do with the man with the mess of purple hair sitting a few stools down from him, hunched over a mug of his own. He was dressed in light armor that was colored a muddy, darkened red, almost brown. A dark cloak hung over the man’s frame, and a sword hung at his belt, tagging him as a sellsword, but something in Darc’s mind told him that this man was no garden variety mercenary. He tried to get a better look at the man’s face, but his head was low and his mass of hair made it hard to get a good look at his face. Even more curious, however, was the long, thin, cloth wrapped package leaning against the man’s stool. Darc was a naturally inquisitive man, and this stranger made him itch with questions.

Darc’s attention snapped back to Buxley as he heard the sharp cadence of a mug banging against one of the wooden tables. He sighed and rolled his eyes. Buxley was angry with one of the serving girls again.

“Oy, what the hell you spillin’ ale on me for? You got ta be kidding me, lass!” Buxley’s foreign accent was heavy and thick, punctuating every word that left his lips. The serving girl shrank back in fear. Darc pitied the poor girl. She couldn’t be older than fifteen, and she was clearly scared out of her mind. Darc didn’t blame her. Buxley was a terrifying man.

“I- I didn’t m-mean to, s-sir,” she managed to stutter, her shaking voice barely louder than a whisper. “I s-swear I didn’t! I-I’m sorry!”

Her apologies fell on deaf ears as Buxley pulled himself up from the table, his massive, hulking body towering over the serving girl’s fragile frame. He loomed over her, his face twisted in anger, his stiff leather jerkin soaked in the establishment’s mediocre drink. He pulled a short sword from his belt and brandished it above his head, waving it at the girl threateningly. “I swear I could cut you open without a second thought, kid. You’re an idiot to ‘ave messed with me!” He yelled, doing his best to make every word sound as threatening as possible.

“I’m sorry- I didn’t- I wouldn’t-” the serving girl stuttered, her voice dying in her throat as she sank to her knees, tears forming in her eyes.

Darc clicked his tongue disappointedly as Buxley pulled his sword back, readying to strike. He looked back to his drink, waiting for the inevitable scream of agony that would come as the blade bit into the girl’s flesh.

But it never came. In its place, the familiar clang of steel on steel rang through the tavern. Darc whipped back around to see a figure clad in muddy brown armor standing between the serving girl and Buxley, his sword drawn and raised to block Buxley’s strike. The brutish pirate snarled angrily at the man in front of him who had so casually intervened. The man’s deep purple hair still obscured the majority of his face.

Darc spun back around to where the man had just been sitting. Sure enough, he was gone, the slender package he’d been carrying saving his place at the bar. How could one man move so fast?

“Who tha hell are you, you stupid merc?” Buxley roared, bringing back his blade for another strike. The man sighed, and spun his sword around inexplicably fast, the very tip of the blade slicing across his wrist. Buxley cried out in pain as the short sword fell from his injured hand and clattered against the floor of the bar. The other thugs who’d been egging Buxley on fell silent.

“Despicable,” the man with purple hair muttered, his voice deep and rough. He flicked his sword around and drove it into the stunned pirate’s thigh. Buxley let out another cry of agony as he fell to his knees, unable to decide whether he should nurse his wrist or his thigh. The man reached out with his free hand and grabbed Buxley’s head, slamming him face-down into the ale soaked table. Buxley sank to the ground as his moans of pain went quiet, clearly unconscious.

The man flicked the blood off of his blade and returned it to the leather sheath on his belt. He pulled a few coins out of a pouch tied around his waist and placed them on the table. “Sorry for the trouble,” he muttered to the still shaking serving girl as he headed to the door.

Darc looked on in awe as he choked down the last of his drink. This’d make one hell of a story for the boys tomorrow.

 

[Gengarzilla]

(And as a heads up, you don't really need to know anything about Fire Emblem to read this, so even if you barely know the series, enjoy!)

Coolio, because I don't know a thing about it! It'll help this review tons.

Darc looked down at his drink, grumbling about bad service. The crummy ale that filled his mug tasted no better than horse piss, but he’d grown used to it over the years. After all, crappy ale was better than no ale. The bar around him was dingy and rundown at best, but it was still packed to the brim with drunken sailors and serving women. After all, any bar is a good bar after hard sailing on the rough Zofian Sea. He could attest to that personally.

First paragraph and I'm already being given a good mental image to work upon regarding your setting of a bar which I can guess is in a seaside settlement, so that's a pretty good start overall. Your repeat of the phrase "After all" kinda felt a touch unnecessary though. It might just be me but I'd try to not double up on my wordings so early on.

Darc tipped back his mug, draining half the ale in it before slamming it back down onto the bar’s surface. He smacked his lips looked around at the patrons. Today was a particularly busy day. Sailors and townsfolk filled the tavern as usual, but the unsettling sight of Grieth’s thugs and bandits were mixed among them. Grieth’s men didn’t often leave the desert, let alone come far enough south to end up in Zofia harbor. He figured they must’ve had a particularly successful raiding adventure and had come to celebrate.

He sighed as he raised his mug to his lips again. With those ruffians around, a fight of some sort was bound to break out. It was only a matter of time.

Now we've some other faces in the bar, including, as with lots of similar establishments, a group liable to kick off a brawl. I can relate to Darc's position right here and that's good, to have a relatable character.
One minor point is that you've missed an "and" in "He smacked his lips looked around at the patrons".

The faces around him were all familiar, and he could easily point out the most likely candidates to start a fight. There was a brutish man at a table in the center of the room, downing mug after mug of ale, named Buxley. His bulging muscles and nasty scars made him quite the character, and he was known to be one of Grieth’s top bruisers. Darc knew that if anyone was to start something, it wouldn’t be long before Buxley saw fit to join in. That is, if Buxley hadn’t started it in the first place. He was a man who was prone to stir up trouble.

Oof, I wouldn't want to get on his bad side! Within moments, you twice establish Buxley as someone to be wary of; through physical appearance and a referenced temperament. He comes across like a decent antagonist to your first chapter.

Buxley’s presence made Darc uncomfortable. He made a note to head out as soon as he finished his ale, lest he be caught up in some kind of brawl, but some nagging feeling in his mind told him that he shouldn’t leave. He supposed it had something to do with the man with the mess of purple hair sitting a few stools down from him, hunched over a mug of his own. He was dressed in light armor that was colored a muddy, darkened red, almost brown. A dark cloak hung over the man’s frame, and a sword hung at his belt, tagging him as a sellsword, but something in Darc’s mind told him that this man was no garden variety mercenary. He tried to get a better look at the man’s face, but his head was low and his mass of hair made it hard to get a good look at his face. Even more curious, however, was the long, thin, cloth wrapped package leaning against the man’s stool. Darc was a naturally inquisitive man, and this stranger made him itch with questions.

I guess this merc is Deen? Like I said, I know nothing about Fire Emblem. Anyway...
I like the method of focus transition you made from Buxley to Deen during this here paragraph, and it was also pretty good to get some detail on Darc's personality as well. Though I must say that this paragraph felt a bit bulky and weighted, at least in comparison to the rest of those in this chapter anyway.

Darc’s attention snapped back to Buxley as he heard the sharp cadence of a mug banging against one of the wooden tables. He sighed and rolled his eyes. Buxley was angry with one of the serving girls again.

“Oy, what the hell you spillin’ ale on me for? You got ta be kidding me, lass!” Buxley’s foreign accent was heavy and thick, punctuating every word that left his lips. The serving girl shrank back in fear. Darc pitied the poor girl. She couldn’t be older than fifteen, and she was clearly scared out of her mind. Darc didn’t blame her. Buxley was a terrifying man.

Because I spent a good chunk of my childhood in Scotland, I could already picture the accent in my head.
Anyways, here comes the expected conflict and it makes total sense! What would a bar housing a band thugs and bandits be without someone losing their temper for the smallest of reasons? Very appropriate for your setting.

Her apologies fell on deaf ears as Buxley pulled himself up from the table, his massive, hulking body towering over the serving girl’s fragile frame. He loomed over her, his face twisted in anger, his stiff leather jerkin soaked in the establishment’s mediocre drink. He pulled a short sword from his belt and brandished it above his head, waving it at the girl threateningly. “I swear I could cut you open without a second thought, kid. You’re an idiot to ‘ave messed with me!” He yelled, doing his best to make every word sound as threatening as possible.

“I’m sorry- I didn’t- I wouldn’t-” the serving girl stuttered, her voice dying in her throat as she sank to her knees, tears forming in her eyes.

Again, good source of conflict for the place you've established on top of solidifying Buxley as a name which people ought run away from really fast. Now I can definitely see why Darc wordlessly pegged him as a dangerous guy to share a bar with.

Darc clicked his tongue disappointedly as Buxley pulled his sword back, readying to strike. He looked back to his drink, waiting for the inevitable scream of agony that would come as the blade bit into the girl’s flesh.

But it never came. In its place, the familiar clang of steel on steel rang through the tavern. Darc whipped back around to see a figure clad in muddy brown armor standing between the serving girl and Buxley, his sword drawn and raised to block Buxley’s strike. The brutish pirate snarled angrily at the man in front of him who had so casually intervened. The man’s deep purple hair still obscured the majority of his face.

Darc spun back around to where the man had just been sitting. Sure enough, he was gone, the slender package he’d been carrying saving his place at the bar. How could one man move so fast?

Now that's just plain awesome. I really like the unidentified yet noble badass character archetype; it's something I'm using in my first fanfic here, actually.

“Who tha hell are you, you stupid merc?” Buxley roared, bringing back his blade for another strike. The man sighed, and spun his sword around inexplicably fast, the very tip of the blade slicing across his wrist. Buxley cried out in pain as the short sword fell from his injured hand and clattered against the floor of the bar. The other thugs who’d been egging Buxley on fell silent.

“Despicable,” the man with purple hair muttered, his voice deep and rough. He flicked his sword around and drove it into the stunned pirate’s thigh. Buxley let out another cry of agony as he fell to his knees, unable to decide whether he should nurse his wrist or his thigh. The man reached out with his free hand and grabbed Buxley’s head, slamming him face-down into the ale soaked table. Buxley sank to the ground as his moans of pain went quiet, clearly unconscious.

The man flicked the blood off of his blade and returned it to the leather sheath on his belt. He pulled a few coins out of a pouch tied around his waist and placed them on the table. “Sorry for the trouble,” he muttered to the still shaking serving girl as he headed to the door.

His first spoken word, "Despicable" carried so much weight and power behind it just now when we look at the overall situation you've written out. That's all it took to tell me about this guy's general characterization and moral code: Paid mercenary he may be, but I'll be damned if he'd just hang around and watch an innocent serving girl in some shoreline bar get murdered just because there's nothing in it for him to help.

Darc looked on in awe as he choked down the last of his drink. This’d make one hell of a story for the boys tomorrow.

Good, this is a short and snappy way to wrap it up.

~
​

Short, yes, but I enjoyed reading this nonetheless. I wasn't certain how it would flow together when I noticed that your PoV character, Darc, is a silent observer to the major conflict of this chapter, which is something I don't see very often, though I believe you made it all work out well. Him not having a single line of dialogue kinda helped me see the scene through his eyes.

 

[lucarioknight56]

I need to get in the habit of reviewing more often, so why not? First chapter, here we go!

Grammar/Structure:
Overall great, no confusing transitions or awkward wording I see. Just one thing: your character articles at the end of exclamations tend to be capitalized rather than lowercase ('"Watch it!" He said.' instead of '"Watch it!" he said.'). It's a small error, but something to keep in mind when writing dialogue.

Characters:
You did well making your characters, particularly with Buxley and the mysterious mercenary. Darc does well as a viewpoint, being your average bloke at the bar having his daily drink, so no need to say anything else about him. No qualms.

Setting:
Within the first few paragraphs I had a good image in mind about the setting: a dingy little bar with plenty of drinkers, particularly those with short tempers. All of it was told in a very eloquent way; you had no unnecessary description, and it was all told in an active viewpoint (wish I could say the same about my writing). The atmosphere of the place could be easily felt, particularly as Buxley loses it over a simple mistake. While this is by no means a complex or glamorous location, it is one that is easily remembered.

Style:
A nice light, entertaining style. No elaborate descriptions, as would be typical to the average joe, much like Darc is. No changes I'd suggest really.

Overall:
The intro does well in captivating the ready in a simple, easy-to-read way, with interesting characters and an environment fit for the job. Nice work!

 

[UselessBytes]

2 - Debts

Deen wiped the sweat from his forehead and pushed his purple hair off of his face as he looked up at the shimmering sun. He frowned at the blazing mass of fire hovering above the horizon, squinting towards the small village silhouetted against the glowing orange circle The houses and buildings looked no bigger than stones. It was still a good distance off, and the sun was starting to dip below the horizon. Deen quickened his pace, shifting from his usual walk to a light jog, beads of sweat forming on his face.
Deen looked around at the monotonous expanse of sand and rock surrounding him. Zofia’s desert was notoriously large and infamously hot, but Deen had never put much thought into the matter before starting across it. He wished he had, now that he was running low on water and had spent three days in the hot expanse of sand. He grimaced, regretting his decision to skip restocking his supplies after leaving the bar in Zofia harbor.
Deen scanned his surroundings as he ran, keeping an eye out for any potential threats. Between desert wildlife and Grieth’s thugs, he hadn’t had so much as a single day of peace since he entered the desert. He’d been harassed and attacked five times, six if he counted the desert viper that’d snuck up on him. He’d be grateful to reach civilization by nightfall.
He had an old acquaintance that lived in the small village off in the distance, and could almost feel a comfortable straw mattress against his back. After days of waking up covered in sand and dirt, a clean bed sounded like a gift from Mila herself.
His breathing was a steady tempo as his boots slammed into the sand. His armor was hot and heavy as he jogged, as was the long, slender package strapped to his back. He’d considered shedding the protective gear after his first sweltering day in the desert, but a surprise attack by a small group of bandits had quickly put the idea to rest. He had to be ready for battle at any moment, as he always was. His hand drifted to his sword on his belt. The story of the incident in the bar a few days ago had no doubt made it’s way back to Grieth by now, and here Deen was, trekking through the desert Grieth called home while being on his bad side. It was tantamount to suicide for any normal man. However, Deen was no normal man.
Deen was still at least two hours out from the village when he came across a merchant’s cart. It was a small vehicle, no more than a large cart drawn by a single horse, but the man riding it was friendly, and offered Deen a ride into town.
“Yes, of course, I’d love a ride,” Deen replied, his voice hoarse from a lack of water. “Thank you,” he said, climbing aboard the cart
The merchant smiled. “Of course! I try to offer rides to folks I find out in the desert. I’ve seen too many people meet their end in the heat of the wasteland to not try and help. What business do you have in Samsarrah?”
“Hm?”
The merchant laughed. “I guess you aren’t from around here. Samsarrah is the name of the village we’re heading for, the one you were walking to. What’s got you all the way out here?”
Deen shrugged. “Not anything in particular. I’m a wanderer, nothing much more.”
The merchant nodded. “I see. A traveling mercenary, I’d guess, based on the sword alone.”
Deen nodded.
“Well, I’m afraid you won’t find much work in Samsarrah. It’s a fairly peaceful town.”
The rest of the ride went on in silence as the merchant tended to his horse. He dropped Deen off on the outskirts of the village and bade him farewell.
“Thanks again for the ride,” Deen called out as the merchant’s cart rumbled away over the rough cobblestones. He looked around at the village in front of him and took a breath.
“Better get to finding Ryder, then.”

XXX

It took Deen a little over an hour to find a man in the local tavern who could tell him where he could find a man named Ryder. He stood outside the door to a fairly standard home made of the familiar combination of wood and mud bricks that made up most buildings alongside the edge of the desert. He raised a fist and knocked hard on the wooden door, and had a split second thought: Would Ryder even recognize him? It’d been well over three years since he’d seen him last.
His worries were dismissed when a man with long, flowing black hair and sun-kissed skin answered the door with an enthusiastic, “Deen!” Ryder waved him in and Deen entered, immediately finding himself in a completely different environment. Deeply contrasting the rough architecture and decoration of the local tavern, Ryder’s home was decorated in a style common to the plains of Aurelis, focusing on the man’s own culture. He was one of many who’d migrated to Zofia from Archanea in hopes of making their own way in life, whether it be to reap the harvests of Mila’s bounty or merely to differentiate themselves from their ancestors.
Ryder sat on a cushion surrounding a low table and motioned for Deen to do the same. “So, tell me, Deen. What have I done to merit your presence on this fine, sweltering day?”
Deen snorted. “I’m just passing through. Figured I’d stay the night with you, if you don’t mind.”
Ryder cracked a smile. “Always wandering, you are. You were wandering when we met and you’re still wandering now. Ever think about staying in one place for once, huh?”
Deen shook his head. “Routine doesn’t work for me, Ryder. Never has. I’ll just keep traveling and looking for work that way.”
Ryder laughed. “Of course, of course. Can’t ever change your mind, I learned that a long time ago.”
Deen let out a slight chuckle and shook his head. It was good to see his friend again.
Ryder dove headfirst into one of his many stories about what had happened since Deen had last been with him, and Deen listened intently as the night went on. The two talked for near an hour before their story sharing was interrupted by a sharp knock on the wooden door.
Ryder cringed at the sound. “Sorry, gotta deal with this.” He stood up and headed over to the door, pulling it wide. Standing in the doorframe was a tall, thin man with pale blonde hair, almost white. His leather coat was crisp and clean, missing the usual coating of sand and dust everything in the immediate area had. A long, thin sword hung at his belt, and Deen recognized it as a katana. The weapon was uncommon in Zofia.
“Ryder, you didn’t tell me you’d have company over,” The man said, looking past Ryder and at Deen. His voice was smooth, and sounded friendly at first, but if one listened closely they could hear the coldness and cunning hiding beneath the warm facade.
Ryder’s face was grim. “It was unexpected. What do you want, Rowan?” He stepped to the side, fully blocking the entryway. It was clear Ryder didn’t like this man.
Rowan chuckled, and fiddled with his jacket. “Don’t be so hostile, Ryder. I’m just here to check up on you, make sure you’re getting the money together.”
Ryder grit his teeth. “I’m working on it. Now, as you can see, I have a guest. Please leave.”
Rowan smiled slyly. “Nah, I think I’d like to meet your guest. It’s not often we get new faces in this dead end town.”
Deen stood up, prominently displaying his blade and armor. His face was twisted into a distasteful scowl. “I don’t know who you are, but my friend Ryder asked you to leave. I suggest you do so.
Rowan held up his hands in a mock surrender. “Ouch, okay, not friendly. I’ll see you around, Ryder.” He turned and sauntered away into the street, his blade jangling against his hip as he did so. Ryder slammed the door shut and let out a frustrated groan.
“Who was that?” Deen questioned.
Ryder rolled his eyes. “Just a local slimeball. A good friend of mine borrowed quite a bit of gold from him before disappearing in the desert, and he seems to see it fit to collect the debt from my personal coffers. I wouldn’t put up with it if he wasn’t so eager to let loose that sword of his.”
Deen raised an eyebrow. “And the royal guard is okay with a slimeball merc threatening citizens?”
Ryder snorted. “The royal guard? They don’t dare step foot in Grieth’s territory, let alone make their way all the way to Samsarrah. They may be the only part of King Lima’s retinue that aren’t lazy or corrupt, but they still couldn’t give less of a damn what goes on out here in the desert.”
Deen frowned. “I see. What’s the debt?”
“200 Gold Marks,” Ryder said.
Deen grimaced. “Gods above, that’s a hell of a lot of money. What was your friend doing out in the desert? Starting his own kingdom?”
Ryder shook his head. “Who knows? Anyways, I’ve got work to do tomorrow morning, so I’m going to turn in before it gets too late. There’s a spare bed in the other room whenever you get tired.” He stepped away from the door and excused himself, disappearing through a doorway opposite the table Deen was standing at. Deen looked down at the table as his hand drifted to his own sword. His near perpetual frown deepened at the thought of the man called Rowan. He wasn’t a fan of someone exploiting people like that, let alone one of the few people he considered friends. His fingers curled around the familiar leather grip of his blade, and he made for the door. He’d settle this debt one way or another.

XXX

Rowan let out a frustrated grunt as the thin blade of his katana raked across the wooden training dummy, carving a fresh scar into the wood to match the many others gouged into its surface. Why couldn’t that stupid foreigner just pay up already? If he doesn’t show at least a little gold next time I visit, I think I’ll let my blade have a little fun, Rowan thought as he drew the sword across the dummy again, leaving another thin scar. Maybe give him a few nice scars to match this dummy. Maybe that’ll loosen his-
“You Rowan?” A deep, rough voice echoed out from behind him, interrupting his train of thought. He spun around, brandishing his blade. Before him was a man in dull colored armor and a cloak, with a slender package on his back. His deep purple hair was familiar, and it took him a moment to realize he’d seen this stranger before, back in Ryder’s house.
“Yeah, I am,” He said, relaxing slightly and returning to his usual smooth, deceiving demeanor. “So, you know Ryder, eh? Didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m not here to chat. Ready yourself.” Deen said.
Rowan paused. Ready himself? Ready himself for what? His question was answered with the soft hiss of a blade being drawn as Deen removed his sword from its sheath. So he wanted a fight. Rowan had to bite back a laugh. Did this second rate sellsword really think he could beat him? He decided to entertain the man and readied himself, bringing his sword back up.
Deen pointed his sword at Rowan. “Here’s the deal. I win, you stop trying to squeeze money that isn’t yours out of Ryder. You win, I’ll pay back the debt any way you please.”
Rowan grinned cockily. “Feisty, aren’t ya? I’ll agree to that!” Rowan swiftly stepped forward and jabbed at Deen, looking to end the duel quickly, but found himself lunging at empty air as Deen easily sidestepped and moved behind him. He planted his feet, pivoted, and slashed behind him, smirking as he did so. He’d never met anyone who could react to his lightning quick pace.
Until now, that is. His smirk crumbled as his stroke was stopped by Deen’s blade. His cocky grin morphed into a sneer as he pulled his sword away and slashed again, this time in the opposite direction, only to have the strike stop early upon clashing with Deen’s sword. He stepped back, and snarled. “Gods above, how the hell are you so fast?”
Deen allowed himself a slight smile at his opponent’s frustrations. Rowan noticed the smirk, and it drove him over the edge. He roared and dove at Deen, unleashing a flurry of slashes. Every one of them were met by Deen’s sword, and there wasn’t so much as a single scratch on him. He angrily raised his katana overhead and brought it down hard, but it was yet again stopped by Deen’s blade. Deen twirled his sword, hooking it around the thin katana and sending it clattering to the ground. His sword found itself leveled at Rowan’s throat.
“I believe you’ve been beat,” Deen stated. Rowan growled at him. Deen pulled his sword back and swiped it downwards, cutting through Rowan’s leather jacket and biting into his skin, leaving a thin cut not unlike the ones that crisscrossed the training dummy. Rowan bit back a yelp of pain.
“I believe you remember our deal?” Deen asked.
“Piss off!” He barked, blood dripping down his bicep. Deen frowned and flicked his sword towards Rowan’s leg, opening a similar wound on his shin. He howled in pain as he fell to one knee. “Alright, alright, gods above! I remember the damn deal. I’ll stop hounding Ryder for money!” he managed to spit, clutching his shin with one hand and his bicep with the other, trying to stop the light flow of blood.
Deen shook the blood off of his sword. He frowned at the injured man before him. “People like you piss me off,” he said. “I suggest you leave town for a while. At least until I’m gone.”
Rowan struggled to his feet, spat one last curse at Deen, and then began to hobble off, not even bothering to reclaim his sword. Deen watched him until he disappeared into a distant alleyway and shook his head.
“Hiding behind a sword only works if you’re better than your opponent. What a coward,” Deen scoffed. He sheathed his own sword, and headed back to Ryder’s.

Another chapter down! This’ll probably the average length of them in the future, but that doesn’t guarantee there won’t be anything longer. If you can’t tell by now, this story has an episodic feel to it, so there won’t be much of a connected story. There will be one soon, but for the most part, this is what the series is - A look into Deen’s life, and what happens within it. Hope you enjoyed, and I’ll see you folks next chapter.

 

[lucarioknight56]

It's been awhile since I've reviewed, so why not this little number? Chapter two, here we go!

Plot/Story:
The concise nature of each the plots works out well, but, that said, there isn't a lot of depth. I think the style would work well for a connected story, and you've said that there will be one soon, so for now, I'll assume this is set-up for a larger piece.

Anyways, I am curious to see where this might go. Seeing Deen’s life is a nice view into his judicious character, and really does help set up a behind-the-scenes plot. If you take advantage of this, it could really work in your favor. There is potential for something marvelous!

Grammar/Structure:
Nothing wrong really, but you've really got to fix up the spacing for this to be easier to read. There's also a few capitalization errors, such as right here:

“Piss off!” He barked, blood dripping down his bicep.

It seems isolated, but there might be more scattered throughout. It doesn't distract from the reading, but I thought I should let you know.

Characters:
I like seeing Deen as a soul who hates seeing injustice done against his friends. I think you could benefit from more detail about Ryder's traits, but as I don't know much about the series, that'd have to be left to you.

Setting:
You give a decent description of the setting, especially when Deen goes into Ryder's home. I'd suggest maybe a little more in this department, but I wouldn't consider it necessary.

Style:
Your style works well in brining out the personality of characters and their actions, and does a fine job in giving description. I like it.

Overall:
A good read with plenty of potential. Just fix up the spacing issues and it would be swell. I look forward to reading more!

 

[AceTrainer14]

Here for the awards.

The story is, so far, pretty short and sweet, and on the surface, there is nothing major. I was intrigued by the world, and Deen makes for a solid lead character. You have a decent, basic grasp on all the necessary elements to make the story worth reading: imaginative and varied characters, a colourful world, interesting set pieces. The bar brawl over defending an innocent woman was rather cliche for this genre and this character type, but I'll admit it was an easy way to showcase who Deen is.

My main concern after having read this is that I am not really sure the point of it all. It currently feels like two loosely connected one shots that, on their own, aren't particularly riveting. I imagine the story is going to somehow follow Deen and his adventures, but I think there needs to be some more urgency rather than just seeing him going about beating up people who obviously deserve it. That was semi-fun in when it came to eighties action movies, but a story like this needs something a bit more.

Another issue I felt was the dialogue felt a bit simple, particularly for the type of world this is in. Things such as "Nah" and "Ouch" really stood out as modern terms that don't really slot into the world. There were also things like stating character motivations ("Better go find Ryder, then") and using phrases that don't exactly bring out a character's uniqueness ("Sorry, gotta deal with this" - is he a lawyer answering a phone call or a medieval-esque guy answering the door?). I would try to put yourself in the character's shoes more and envision the world they are inhabiting and give them dialogue that has more spark and more potential for enhancing their characters.

I'd also strongly suggest using more varied words and descriptions to help make the story sparkle. One thing that really distracted me in the first chapter was the use of the word ale - obviously, it's a bar and that's what they are drinking, but it's an example of a missed opportunity to vary things and make each sentence stand out a bit from the last. Different descriptions for the drink or even substituting the drinking action with something else would make things come alive, even if Darc is only there for a short time - there is no such thing as small players, though.

I would strongly recommend Eternal Bloodline, which won the category this was entered in to. It actually is remarkably similar to this story: the main, warrior character introduced through someone else's eyes, a scene at a bar, a scene where they go to meet an old friend. It would be good to have a read of that and have a look at some of the other elements that made it a winning entry, namely it's subtle yet detailed world building and dialogue that really spoke to the characters.

As this is an awards review, it is more critical than normal. This is a good effort and it was enjoyable to read, but I do think it would greatly benefit from some more originality mainly in terms of dialogue, and some bigger hints as to what will come next in the story.

 

[Persephone]

Plot:

I have no idea whatsoever where this plot is going two chapters in. The first chapter is narrated by someone who isn't Deen, and all that really happens is he stops a barfight and saves a girl. Second chapter he hikes across a desert to an unknown destination with unknown goals and saves an old friend of his from a local merc.

So I don't really know who Deen is or why he does what he does, which is not an insurmountable problem after two chapters. But it is one that you'll need to fix soon enough.

Characters:

There's a merc named Darc in the first chapter who is a fairly observant fellow. But it doesn't seem like he's going to be seen again. All I know about Deen is that he's a wanderer who protects his friends from one-note bad guys who want to hurt them.

Again, at the two chapter mark this isn't a fatal flaw. The story doesn't have any fatal flaws. But I would try to give more little details and quirks about your characters to convey subtly who they are and why they do what they do.

Setting:

All of this is stuff I'd imagine if told the word "bar" or "desert" in a D&D campaign. I'd recommend adding in little flairs. Mention the dominant resource, especially if it's obscure, or some old myths about a place. Or find clever ways for Deen to cope with how hot it is. (Burying himself under the sand during the day? Only hiking at night? How does he get water? How does the town get water?)

Style:

Two things:
1) Please put spaces between paragraphs because text blocks are visually unappealing.
2) Sometimes the narration or characters say things that sound kind of obvious given the setting. Give your readers more little details in your narration and dialogue, and let them guess at the big truths.

Technical:

I think there was some stuff that the copy editor part of my mind caught, but it wasn't big enough to detract from the narrative or anything.

Overall:

This story is not fatally flawed. I could see it, on the current course, improving enough to be rather enjoyable. But you need to find the things that make it stand out from every other medieval fantasy story out there.