The Campaign Builder's Guild

Okay, so.... this is the small beginning of a book or short story I've literally just started this morning. Personally, I'm incredibly pleased with it, but don't let that stop you giving harsh criticism if you feel it deserves it... I'm not gonna post more of it as I write it, I don't think, I just wanted to see what such great minds as those of the CBGers thought of my initial efforts... Well, here it is.

[ic]It was dusk in the Young City, and that part of the sky not obscured by the vastness of the gas giant Goliath was darkening from ochre through burgundy to star-punctured black.
Down statue-lined Bliss-Blown Boulevard strolled a young Englishman by the name of Edward Clawe. His red-coated captain's uniform stood out starkly from the flower-garbed throngs he passed, but despite the stares he carried himself calmly and confidently.
Although his gait was leisurely, he knew where he was going, and it was not long until he arrived.
He had reached the eastern end of the Boulevard, and had passed now beyond the expensive restaurants, drug-houses, theatres and delicatessens to the grand dwellings of those rich enough to frequent them.
He approached one such house, its entrance guarded, as many here were, by two Sleepless princelings, armoured in scintillating suits of crustacean shells. Their colourless faces turned to regard him as he stepped up to the door, but he was recognised, and wordlessly allowed to enter.
Within, he passed through several spacious rooms, all decorated with elegant minimalism, being shunted from one escorting servant to another, although he knew his way well enough without their fawning ushering.
Eventually, he reached the inner courtyard, in one corner of which was the master of the house, Yithiniloogo. The old man sprawled, naked and gnarled, on a cushion-littered rug. His was the splendid and insouciant nudity of the very rich, rather than the squalid and filthy nudity of the very poor.
He turned his razor gaze on Clawe, and asked, without preamble, 'What news from New Marrakech?'
'Very little has changed, sir. The insurgents still hold the north of the city, and Her Majesty's forces the south. Skirmishes continue in the centre, just as bloody and petty as ever.'
'Yes, yes. I appreciate your professional interest in the military situation, but you know what I really want to hear about. What of the excavation?'
'Another two sarcophagi have been unearthed, and they are being transported here for you, sir. They should arrive within the week.'
'Only two?'
'Two, sir.'
Yithiniloogo was silent for a while, his indigo face creased into a thoughtful frown.
Then, just as Clawe opened his mouth to ask a question, his patron spoke, providing him with an answer as if - and Clawe sometimes wondered if this were not the case - he had read his mind.
'Your daughter is sleeping. She was up all last night practising her swordplay. It is, I fear, becoming an obsession.'
'I see nothing wrong with a spot of exercise, sir, especially when it also aids one's ability to defend oneself.'
'Mm. Perhaps you are right. Anyhow, you may as well go and wake her. I want the two of you to join me for supper in an hour.'

Ada Clawe, despite having been born only two years ago, was her father's elder by nine years, having spent three decades in the Temple of Geometric Precision one day.
She was tall and wirily athletic, with gold skin, copper hair, silver eyes, and the same thin, angular features as Edward.
She was also prone to occasional bouts of temporary insanity, doubtless caused by her encounter with temporal distortion.
Ada had dressed herself in snowdrops for supper, and she seated herself unceremoniously beside her father at the low table, as servants set it with bowls of exotic fruit and rich sauces, plates of breads and cheeses, and decanters of chilled water.
They began to eat, and Yithiniloogo entertained the Clawes with various anecdotes, some of which they had heard before, but politely listened to all the same. As the meal wore on, though, the old man spoke less and less, seeming more distracted and wrapped up in his thoughts.
Outside, Goliath began to sink with monstrous slowness, and the moons Spangle and Banner rose like two great eyes, milky with cataracts.
Eventually, Edward spoke up. 'If you'll forgive me asking, are you disappointed by the number of sarcophagi, sir?'
'Yes,' answered Yithiniloogo, after a pause, 'although I shouldn't be. Even one such find is an incredible achievement, and yet... I haven't spoken of this to either of you before, so I must ask you to keep it as close a secret as you know how. Do you both promise?'
'Yes, sir.' Father and daughter replied in unison.
'There came into my possession, some years ago, an ancient scroll upon which was written a detailed description of the layout and contents of a certain building. When we began the excavations at New Marrakech, I realised that we had found that building. And yet now, as we near completion of work on that site, we have found nine sarcophagi in total, when the scroll says there should be thirteen.'
'I see,' said Ada, 'but why do you keep this scroll secret? Surely it's a significant find in its own right.'
'I can't say, even to you, my dear friends. Secrets are powerful things.' Yithiniloogo sipped his water, and then expertly cut Edward off just before he could ask a question.
'I know what you're going to say; that we could yet find the missing four in the sections we haven't reached. Well, according to the scroll, they won't be there, and it has been right about everything else so far.'
'Even so, sir, I think it's a little early to give up hope altogether.'
'You misunderstand, my dear redcoat,' chuckled the old man, 'I haven't given up hope. Not at all. I am merely troubled and somewhat perplexed, but we should not let that spoil our meal. Did I ever tell you about the time I fought a gravejack?'

Lord Ludwig stroked his aquamarine beard and watched the progress of the carriage below. Drawn by two burly oxen, it rumbled through the valley, kicking up a trail of greyish dust in the fierce midday heat.
Lord Ludwig took a long draw on his water-pipe, and felt glad of the parasol beneath which he sat.
The carriage drew closer, clattering between boulders, and towards the ambush. Now discernible were the figures of a driver and three Sleepless. A smile played across Lord Ludwig's pastel-blue lips. The information had been correct, and the trouble he had been to had not been a waste.
Sleepless would not fight Sleepless, so he had had to go to the Orthodox Church to find his strongarms. Below in the valley, a squad of black-clad monks emerged from their hiding places and the carriage came to an awkward halt.
Lord Ludwig looked on with delight as Mistress Tongue strode daintily forward through the brothers, her steps as poised and elegantly precise as a flamingo's. Then she levelled her arquebus and shot the driver matter-of-factly through the head.  
The monks followed her lead, and a rattle of musketry rang out. One of the Sleepless managed to get off a shot before he died, which Lord Ludwig thought quite impressive under the circumstances. As a result, a monk lay on the ground, thrashing and groaning in agony, his life ebbing away.
Meanwhile, Mistress Tongue stalked over to the bullet-riddled carriage and inspected its cargo. Satisfied, she turned and waved up at Lord Ludwig.
And that, he thought, is that.
He sat back contentedly and inhaled acrid drug-smoke as the two sarcophagi were transferred to the carriage he had had hidden nearby while Mistress Tongue put the wounded monk out of his misery - none too hastily - with one of her beloved knives.[/ic]

Very, very nice. Only thing I see that could be wrong with it is it comes across as slightly too wordy in some parts. Beyond that there are other things that need work but I couldn't point out with what since its just a matter of re-looking them over and changing structure and style.

Too wordy? Perhaps you could give examples of which passages you mean, so as I can see if I can do anything about it?

My  :2cents:

This piece suffers from what I will call 'Lost' syndrome. That is, it attempts to hit you with a whole bunch of imagery that doesn't really connect to anything apparent, and while it is supposed to draw you in by immersing you in mystery-- at least for me-- all it does is leave me to shrug, scratch my head a moment, and forget I ever read anything.

Granted, it doesn't need the tons of exposition and painfully slow start that makes 19th century literature the bane of impatient school children everywhere, but a little bit can't hurt.

I personally enjoy it.  It reminds me of Lilith, by George MacDonald, which I also enjoyed.  

It starts a little painfully, but finds legs later.
I find the second line fails in that it is too long and hyphenated, and the third line is worse as it makes no sense (in that the term 'although' suggests opposition and knowing where one is going is not exclsuive of a leisurely pace).  But the fourth line catches the reader a bit, and line five has great potential amidst the mass of commas (open a parethetical). Or add a sentence.

The conversation is where this piece truly finds leg, pace, and cohesion.

Quote from: sparkletwistMy  :2cents:

This piece suffers from what I will call 'Lost' syndrome. That is, it attempts to hit you with a whole bunch of imagery that doesn't really connect to anything apparent, and while it is supposed to draw you in by immersing you in mystery-- at least for me-- all it does is leave me to shrug, scratch my head a moment, and forget I ever read anything.

Granted, it doesn't need the tons of exposition and painfully slow start that makes 19th century literature the bane of impatient school children everywhere, but a little bit can't hurt.

To be perfectly honest, I thought there was rather a lot of exposition for such a short passage. Our taste in literary style is obviously quite divergent.

Quote from: LordVreegI personally enjoy it.  It reminds me of Lilith, by George MacDonald, which I also enjoyed.  

It starts a little painfully, but finds legs later.
I find the second line fails in that it is too long and hyphenated, and the third line is worse as it makes no sense (in that the term 'although' suggests opposition and knowing where one is going is not exclsuive of a leisurely pace).  But the fourth line catches the reader a bit, and line five has great potential amidst the mass of commas (open a parethetical). Or add a sentence.

The conversation is where this piece truly finds leg, pace, and cohesion.

The fact that Bliss-Blown Boulevard is named thus is, I admit, unfortunate in that it causes an overabundance of hyphens, but I hardly think I would go so far as to say that it causes the sentence to "fail".
As for the sentence about the leisurely gait and so on, I think that while you're perfectly correct in saying the two aren't mutually exclusive, there is a certain assumption that people with a definite and important destination will walk more purposefully.

Thank you for your feedback, although I realise I have mainly refused the help you have offered, but then again, I don't actually agree with any of it :P

Maybe I'm just too arrogant... Lol.

Quote from: sparkletwistThis piece suffers from what I will call 'Lost' syndrome. That is, it attempts to hit you with a whole bunch of imagery that doesn't really connect to anything apparent, and while it is supposed to draw you in by immersing you in mystery-- at least for me-- all it does is leave me to shrug, scratch my head a moment, and forget I ever read anything.

Granted, it doesn't need the tons of exposition and painfully slow start that makes 19th century literature the bane of impatient school children everywhere, but a little bit can't hurt.

This ^^^