Call of the Siren



-Prologue-


A hand reached out from the darkness, and curved an arc through the night air, as if it were tasting it. Long, jagged nails scraqed at the gentle winds, and returned to the shadows. From within the small cove of trees the figure stood, draqed in a flowing black cloak. It watched the flames flicker in the distant village, nestled in the burning hills. Under its hood, a pale face stretched into a wicked smile, not out of some macabre enjoyment, but something deeper.

It strode out of the thicket, gliding effortlessly towards the wreckage of Gnaar Mok. The twisting fire stretched across the swampland, completely engulfing the seaside village. Large, ornamental towers shone in the moonlight, flames curling around them like pikes dug into a barren battlefield. The dilapidated slums, the majority of the fishing village, was already burnt to the ground, the wooden huts forming piles of rubble and dead bodies.

The figure paused briefly beside a fish stand, overturned and ashen, but untouched by the fire. A dying man lay there, partially covered by the shattered roof of the building.

“B-bandits,” he muttered, a red substance spurting from his lips as he spoke.

He didn't seem intimidated by the ominous appearance of the cloaked figure. The man had seen all the horror he could bear in one night.

“They came at dusk,” he continued. “K-killed the street-goers first. Then t-they took everyone from their homes outside. Slaughtered them. Even the women and children. They took everything. What they didn't take, they... they b-burned.”

The cloaked being simply stared at him, shifting its head from side to side, like a bird.

“Y-you're from Oblivion, aren't you?” he said. “Come to t-take me away?”

Again, the figure continued to stare oddly at the man from beneath its hood.

“It's o-okay,” the man said. “I'm r-ready.”

At this, the being shifted its head almost completely sideways. The hood slipped down, revealing a pale face, and jagged, brown teeth.

“I'm... I'm r-ready...”

Sensing the man's desire to die, the being inhaled sharply, and as it exhaled a cool, almost unnatural air flowed towards the man. It seemed to svck the color from his face, drain the desire from his eyes. Then the cloaked being strode off into the night.

“N-no... please...”

The cloaked figure vanished into the distant swampland, its cloak trailing ominously behind it.

“Take me! P-please take me!”

Fiery pieces of debris began to collapse around the man as the decrepit Inn next door slowly fell.

“Take me!” he shouted desperately into the night, but the figure was gone, and the village of Gnaar Mok soon followed suit.



-Chapter One-


He stood in a wide valley, gazing out on a seemingly endless plain of dead grass. The sun beat down on his skin like a thousand heat lamps, yet no sweat dripped from his pores. The sky was vast and abnormal, like a giant, bowl-shaped canvas dipped in a vat of a million colors, yet no twinkling star graced his presence.

There were voices, calling out to him in an undecipherable language, their shrill echo turning his stomach inside out. They came from everywhere, but seemingly nowhere. He turned to their melancholy cries, but no-one was there. As the sky above tore in twine, he dove helplessly into a hole that had not been there before. He drifted into a complete darkness, so absolute sound could not penetrate it, save for the shrill cries of the dead.

* * *

Llaren awoke to a loud scratching at the door of his hut. The limber Dark Elf rose to a crouching position, his crimson eyes easily pinpointing the wooden door in the complete darkness. Something heavy was clawing away at it, trying to force its way in. Llaren quietly crept over to the sheathed dagger which lay by his bed.

Without a sound the Dunmer unsheathed the finely-crafted, chitinous blade, and approached the door. In one swift movement, he swung the door open, and had the dagger at the throat of a small, hooded figure.

“Don't move,” said Llaren, pressing the flat of the blade to their throat to remind them of their predicament.

He held the dagger in position, and used his other hand to light a torch that hung on the wall by the door. In the newly-found light, Llaren found the “threat” to be an old Dunmer woman, covered in a makeshift robe of tattered rags. She carried a walking stick that was taller than her, covered in feathers and shells and leaves she had gathered.. It appeared to be what she had used to claw against the door.

“Nevrasa?” said Llaren, removing the dagger from the woman's throat. “What are you doing here?”

“The Wise Woman sent me. She needs to speak with you, Nelvayn.” The old hag spoke in a sharp, raspy voice, almost incomprehensible.

“Why does she need to see me?” asked Llaren. “I have no ties to your clan.”

“You will soon,” she replied, tapping Llaren's bare shoulder with the stick.

“No,” he said. “No.”

Llaren put out the torch and returned to the darkness of his hut.

“But you must!” said Nevrasa.

“And why is that?” asked Llaren from the shadows as he returned the chitin dagger to its sheath.

“Our lives depend on it! Our tribe will die without–”

Llaren shot out of the darkness, and loomed over the frail, old woman.

“I am not a hero. I'm a survivor. A loner. Your village. Your lives. Your petty religious conflicts. It does not concern me.”

The woman remained silent, staring into the bold, serious face above her. She lowered her stick and held it tightly with both hands. As she turned to leave, Llaren spoke again.

“The sooner you understand this, the better off your tribe will be. I'm going hunting tomorrow. After that, I'm leaving. I trust you will try to find another killer for your cause.”

The two stood there in the darkness, silent and still. Then the hag turned to face him again.

“To live you must kill. You should know this better than anyone, Nelvayn.”

Then she left. Llaren stood there for several minutes, then returned to his hut. He lay on his makeshift bed, thinking about the woman's words. Before long, sleep overcame him.


* * *


When the Dark Elf awoke, the sun had yet to grace the sky. It was chilly out on the Grazelands, and Llaren's cloth garb gave little warmth. The Dunmer prowled at the top of a wide hill, laying prone in the tall grass. A herd of Guars gathered on the plains below, nibbling at the the Wickwheat and Stoneflower that dotted the land.

The bipedal creatures resembled large worms with feet and bulbous heads, mouths filled with square teeth for chewing plants and fruit. A small band of the animals had drifted from the herd, specifically a youngling, which appeared to have an injured leg. The creature limped across the fields, desperately trying to keep up with its family.

Llaren observed it intently. He drew a chitin arrow from the quiver on his back, and pressed it to the bowstring. As he slowly crept down the hill, he put his sights on the fledgling Guar. As the Dunmer advanced through the tall grass, he surmised he wasn't the only one at the hunt. Tall grass across the field slowly dropped, as if something was wading through it.

Llaren picked up his pace, heading for the young Guar. But he was too slow. The other hunters sped through the grass, revealing themselves as they leaped towards the herd. Several green-scaled creatures surrounded the Guars, their serrated teeth glistening with saliva.

In an instant, the nix hounds tore through their ranks, taking down the weak and young first. The stronger Guars stood and fought, but soon succumb to the sheer speed and power of the hounds.

Llaren stood from a distance, watching the massacre.

“S'wit,” he muttered, returning the arrow to the quiver.

The hounds ripped apart the carcass of a large Guar, picking the flesh from its alabaster bones with vicious tenacity. Llaren had been out-hunted. He dared not face the hounds, for he knew they would likely prevail in a direct confrontation.

Just as Llaren prepared to leave, he gave a final, sweeping glance at the carnage the hounds had made... and saw an arrow plant itself in one of their skulls. The nix hound toppled over, a translucent mixture of blood and brain seeping from its cracked head.

Llaren drew a chitin spear from his back and waited, just in case these were bandits on the hunt. More arrows flew, few of them missing their targets. The hounds fell one by one, but the Dark Elf saw no sign of an assailant. He looked to the north, towards his hut, and saw two figures emerging from the tall grass. One held several throwing spears, while the other supported a heavy crossbow, likely stolen from the Imperials.

The hounds rushed at them, but they had fallen straight into their trap. Snare traps and claw traps alike cut their ranks in a bloody haze, and those that slipped past fell to arrows and spears. However, one small nix hound had cut a path around the traps, and managed to slam against the crossbowman, knocking him over.

By the time the spear-thrower noticed, the other had been torn asunder by the creature's vicious claws. With the toss of a spear, the young hound was impaled in the skull, dead on impact. But the crossbowman was fatally wounded.

The spear-thrower crouched beside him and gazed with horror at the deep gash in his side. The hound's claws had ripped straight through the leather armor and dug into his rib cage, revealing the bloodstained bones and pulsing organs within.

As he tried to help his ally, Llaren approached from behind. He pressed the tip of his spear to the man's spine, who promptly cursed under his breath.

“Stealing our kill, hmm?” said the hunter, attempting to evade the spear tip. Llaren pressed it further, drawing blood on the man's exposed back.

“Who are you?” asked Llaren.

“I should ask you the same.”

“You don't have a spear to my back,” replied the Dark Elf. “Now answer the question.”

“I'm a nomad. A hunter. Just like you, I suspect.”

“You're in no position to suspect.”

The hunter grunted in reply, still trying to worm his way away from the spear. Llaren continued to prod it forward into his back.

“What reason have you to treat me as such?” said the hunter, raising his tone. “We have done nothing to you.”

With admirable speed, Llaren withdrew the spear, and pressed his dagger to the man's throat. Using his free hand, he used the spear to point at the crossbow, laying in the grass (which was now blood-red).

“Our crossbow? What of it?”

“Stolen,” muttered Llaren.

“We bought that.”

“No. You didn't. It's got an Imperial insignia on it. You stole it.”

“Even if we did, what's it matter to you?”

Llaren used his boot to strike at the back of the man's knees. He fell to the ground, and Llaren pressed the blade closer to his jugulars.

“There was an Imperial fort near here, by the sea. It was raided several days ago. Everyone was killed. The women. The children. Completely looted. Burned to the ground.”

“You're suggesting the two of us had something to do with that?”

“No. I'm suggesting a group of bandits had something to do with it,” said Llaren. “I live near a tribal group known as the Ahemmusa. They've been telling me of bandits, attacking caravans and Imperial outposts of late.”

“Oh, so you're suggesting we're apart of this bandit group?”

Llaren swung the man around and stared at him, the dagger still against his neck. The man was a Redguard. Dark-skinned, wiry-haired. He had a goatee and bold brown eyes. Calculating eyes. Llaren didn't speak, so he did.

“We're just travelers! We aren't bandits! Now please, my friend needs help immediately!”

Llaren glanced at the other, bent over in the grass, clutching the bloody gash in his side. He was short. A Bosmer? It was hard to tell, for he wore a bonemold helmet.

Llaren was about to speak when something rustled in the tall grass to their right.
Three men walked out of the thicket, dressed in tattered cloth and rags, carrying spears and clubs. Dark Elves.

“Llaren Nelvayn,” one of them said. “Come.”

Llaren looked at them for a moment, then at the Redguard. He looked back at him. Sweat covered his brow, and his eyes nervously darted between Llaren and the Ashlanders.

“Ahemmusa?” asked Llaren, facing the Ashlanders.

The lead Ashlander nodded, and made a motion with his spear, as if to say again, 'come'.

Returning his gaze to the Redguard, Llaren remained quiet.

“Under one condition,” he said finally.

The lead Ashlander raised his brow.

“The Redguard comes with me. The wounded man there, as well.”

The Ashlanders stood quietly for several moments, then the leader whispered something, and one of them went to get the injured man. Then the group headed off into the tall grass, Llaren at the back of the line, his spear pressed to the Redguard's back.

I'll say only this: this story has potential.

Thanks?

I liked it.

Thanks. That's good xD

Anyone have any particular critiques, lengthy ones, that is?

-Chapter Two-

From far above Red Mountain, a ghostly figure glided through the fog, heading East. Its cloak, black as moonless midnight, trailed behind it like a serpent. Its pale face remained expressionless as it strode onward, using its spindly fingers to feel the rushing wind as it swept by. The being began to drop in elevation, approaching the cascade of crimson highlands below.

With a heavy gust of wind, the cloaked figure stopped in midair, just several kilometers from the base of Red Mountain. The jagged peak rose up from the highlands, piercing high into the sky. This was it. This was where it slept. The being slowly floated ahead, but came to a stop yet again.

It turned it's eyeless face to the left. Then to the right. Directly in front of the being were two great pillars, roughly fifty meters apart. There was a strange presence in between the pillars, one all too familiar to the cloaked apparition.

The being swung its head up high, as if it were observing something only it could see. It waved its hand. Then a flash of light, a gust of wind, and a whistling noise reverberating through the air. Something struck the space between the pillars and shattered into a thousand fiery sparks, as if it had hit a barrier of some kind. Immediately after impact, the air between the pillars wavered, almost like water, and spread out in a great ripple, one that trailed up above the mountain in a semi-spherical shape.

As the ripple vanished, a mist rolled out from the base of the mountain, towards the floating being. It raised its pale hand, rotating it slowly as the mist washed over it. Its jaw slackened, and its great mouth lolled open, revealing rows of sharp, brown teeth, and a pitch black tongue, forked like a snake. The creature hissed in ecstasy while the mist began to swirl around its body.

It's close. It is here. I feel it.

The pale, eyeless face gazed at the invisible barrier, the Ghostfence, as it was called. It would find a way through. It would not fail Her again.


* * *


Llaren followed the Ashlanders down the hill, towards a great field of tall grass. He kept his dagger at his side, and the spear tucked against the Redguard's waist. One sudden movement, and he would swipe it down his leg, cutting straight through his Achilles's tendon. That would be certain death even for the most skilled at evasion.

The one leading the line called himself Tendris. Llaren had heard that name before, perhaps from Nevrasa, or the Wise Woman. It was not the name of a noble, but one more suited to a seasoned warrior. Tendris carried a long-shafted halberd, easily capable of ending the strongest of men in a single strike. Llaren dared not to question his demands. They should have sent him instead of Nevrasa the night before. Then again, maybe Nevrasa had come on her own will. Maybe things truly were bad for the Ahemmusa. Not that it mattered to Llaren. He would soon be leaving for the Bitter Coast.

It wasn't long into the trip that the wounded hunter began to shout in pain. Given their location, it wouldn't be long until the local predators heard the shouts or caught the scent of blood. Hetman, the Dark Elf at the back of the Ashlander trio, was the first to realize this.

Hetman was the Ahemmusa's scout, he knew the wilderness better than anyone else. He drew his longbow and proceeded to inspect the tall grass surrounding them, which grew several meters over their heads.

"What is it, Hetman?" said Tendris, noticing the scout's odd behavior.

"His shouting. It will attract the nix hounds. Or worse."

Tendris stopped in the middle of the trail. He planted his massive halberd into the dirt, and looked down on the injured Bosmer being carried between him and Hetman.

"Any suggestions?" Tendris called to the back of the line, addressing Llaren in particular.

Llaren glanced at the tall grass all about them. "The only options I see are to abandon or kill the wounded one, or continue on regardless of the danger. I suggest the former."

Llaren could feel the muscles in the Redguard's back tense up as he said this.

"We cannot," said Tendris, much to the Redguard's relief. "We cannot abandon the injured."
"Then your only option, as your scout has already surmised, I presume, is to continue on ahead."

Tendris raised his halberd from the dirt, and motioned them to again follow him down the trail. Lightning struck the darkening sky, and a rain began to fall upon them. Soon the trail grew thick and muddy.

"You would abandon my friend so easily?" whispered the Redguard, so that the Ashlanders couldn't hear him.

Llaren prodded him with the spear. "I have little empathy for bandits such as yourself."

"I'm not a bandit," he whispered harshly, so much so that it broke the concentration of the scout ahead.

"We'll know soon enough," said Llaren, ending the conversation.

Ahead, Tendris stopped at a fork in the road. The wooden sign had long since been plucked from the ground in a violent storm, and shattered into a thousand splinters.

"It is this way, Hetman?" said Tendris, pointing down the left road with his halberd.

Hetman stood there thinking, blinking nervously as the rain dripped down his flat face. He was not one for dangerous situations.

"Is it this way, or no, Hetman?"

Hetman shook his head. "I don't know. It is too dark to tell. Perhaps the hunter knows."

Tendris scowled at the scout. "Llaren?"

"I know not, Ashlander."

Tendris gazed angrily into the stormy sky. He couldn't tell if it was night or not. "Redguard?" he asked.

"Yes. I know the way."

Llaren withdrew his spear, and grabbed the Redguard by his shoulder. Thrusting the dagger underneath his chin, the Dark Elf whispered harshly into his face. "He's trying to lure us into a trap. A bandit, he is, Tendris."

Tendris shrugged. "I care not. We stand a fairer chance against his bandits than we do against a roaming Daedra."

"Not if they're the same bandits that overtook the Legion fort, by the sea," said Hetman.

"I'm placing little trust in you at this point, Hetman," said Tendris, glaring at the feeble scout. "For now we trust the Redguard."

Tendris raised his halberd, and Llaren stepped back from the Redguard. "Lead us into a trap," said the Ashlander, "and you will be the first one that I gut like a fish."
The hunter nodded, swallowing hard.

"I never caught your name," said Tendris.

The two brown orbs focused on the Ashlander and his great halberd. "Sorian," he said. "Sorian Christophe."

Tendris nodded firmly. "Lead the way, Christophe."

Sorian took lead, and the Dunmer (and the now unconscious Bosmer) followed closely behind.

"A damned Outlander is leading us back to our own camp," muttered the one carrying the Bosmer.

"Silence, Yakum," said Tendris in a commanding voice.

Llaren leaned in close behind Yakum, and whispered in his ear, a faint trace of humor in his voice: "Worry not about your shame, Ashlander. That isn't where he's leading you."

Yakum gulped, and the Bosmer sagged low in his arms. Llaren withdrew back in the line, chuckling grimly.

The group walked on for what seemed like hours, and Llaren began to wonder if he had even gone this far from his hut when he left on the hunt. Then again, Sorian was likely leading them into a trap. The rain did not pause, despite their constant wishing, in fact, it fell harder and heaver than before, flooding the narrow path around them. It got so dark that Llaren couldn't see more than a few meters in front of him, and he would often prod his spear forward just to make sure Yakum was still there.

When the silence continued on for longer than Llaren bothered to count, he once again lurched the spear forward. Nothing. He called ahead. Tendris responded. Lightning cascaded across the night sky, momentarily brightening the trail. Yakum (and the Bosmer he was carrying) was gone.

Llaren raised his spear high, and again called to Tendris. They stopped advancing. Soon Tendris, Hetman, and Sorian appeared from the darkness.

"What is it?" asked Tendris.

Llaren need not respond, for Hetman had already said "Where is Yakum?"

Tendris looked at Llaren. "Have you??"

"No," quickly intervened Llaren. "I could not see the hand in front of my face, let alone Yakum."

Tendris looked astonished. "Then how??"

"The tall grass," said Hetman, aiming his bow to the side of the trail. The others turned to face the grass, to see it shaking violently. Suddenly it parted, and out stepped the largest creature Llaren had ever seen. It was a massive, green titan, its rotund belly pierced with a giant golden hoop. It had horns, and two enormous clubbed fists. The creature stood easily four times the height of Tendris and the others. In it's arms it held what remained of Yakum: a shredded and bloodied upper torso, arms hanging limp from their sockets, eyes motionless, but still eerily filled with fear.

Llaren lowered his spear. Chitinous weapons wouldn't leave a scratch on such a foe. Tendris knew this as well. Hetman did not. He backed away from the giant, firing arrow after arrow at its heart. The arrows, made only from the resin-like shells of dead insects, shattered on impact. The ogre tilted its head with curiosity as it watched the little, funny-eared man shout and shoot at it.

"Hetman, into the grass, now!" shouted Tendris, waving his halberd about madly. Hetman hadn't heard this, for by the time it had been said, a massive fist had swung into the side of his skull, showering the muddy ground with its contents.

What was left of Hetman's head landed about Tendris' feet, and he merely stood there, staring at it. Llaren swiftly brought him back to reality by swiping his arm with the shaft of his spear.

"We have to go!" he shouted.

Sorian hadn't waited for such a command. He had already abandoned the road and disappeared into the tall grass. Llaren and Tendris followed suit, following the trail of trampled grass he left in his wake. The titan of a creature lumbered after them, but it was too slow, and ultimately settled on the corpses of Yakum, Hetman, and the Bosmer.

The three ran for several minutes, finally stopping at the top of a steep hill. Sorian slipped in the mud, and rolled towards the edge. He rose to continue, but Tendris put a hand on his shoulder. "No," he said, "the beast has lost interest. We are safe for the moment."

Llaren exited the grass to see them by the hill, panting.

"Just what the hell was that?" said Sorian, catching his breath.

"An Ogrim," said Tendris. "Daedra. Very dangerous. We were lucky to survive that encounter."

"They weren't," said Llaren, stabbing his spear into the wet soil. The rain had begun to lighten up, and the clouds slowly parted, revealing the night sky.

"I hate to say it," began Sorian, "but I've lost my sense of direction. I have absolutely no idea where we are."

Tendris cursed under his breath and tightly gripped his halberd.

"It is fine," said Llaren. "I do." He pointed across the plains below, towards a hut nestled in the hills.

"My home," he muttered grimly.

"Oh no," said Tendris.

The hut was ablaze.

Long, jagged nails scraqed at the gentle winds.

That's an interesting metaphore. Just be careful not to go too far. Some metaphors don't make sense (like the voice of stars, for instance; stars don't have a voice).

...ashen, but untouched by the fire.

How is that possible? Did the ash fall from the sky?

You have a very poetic way of describing scenery. I like it.

Ashlanders not knowing their way in their own country? And all they need to know is which of the two roads to take? Doesn't make sense to me.

Not sure what is happening, really. Your plot jumps from the hunter to the eyeless creature. I hope it turns out into something interesting.

Well, I apologize for my lateness in giving this, I had promised to do it some time ago, but it was not all laziness on my part. My internet was down all weekend, and although I had already read the first chapter and made a list of things to comment on, I was at the time unable to do so. However, I am here, and I intend to give you the full critique experience


Alright, first and foremost I must say that I did enjoy the story. The hook was great, the descriptions were near amazing, the protagonist is interesting, and it just gave off a good story feel. However, no one likes post that are all sunshine and happiness, so I've also prepared a few things I think you could work on. Some of these are purely stylistic, and completely up to you on whether to take them or not, but I couldn't go without pointing them out.

The first thing I notice, and this is something I see a lot, is that the scenes changed very suddenly, without an introductions for the individual parts of the chapters. A lot of people don't include these, and this is one of those purely style based things, but I do find it gives readers a chance to understand what all is taking place before the action begins. It doesn't have to be very long, just a short little tidbit describing the scene and/or how the character got there. It shouldn't be a summary of what went on during the timeskip, but it should allude to it. It can reflect on the previous events, like what the day was like when the character woke up, but it most likely won't. It's just a paragraph or two of very slow, very descriptive writing, to give the reader a break between the action. Now, this can change the pace of the story to give it an overall different pace, but it can offer a better understanding of complicated scenes. Sometimes, even if you can picture them perfectly, and even describe them bit by bit, but a general overview can be helpful.

For example, you have done a perfect job here:

That's exactly what I was talking about. However, in the following chapter, the action happens so quickly, the reader soon loses stock of what all is going on.




This is all the introduction you give to the elves before a swath of dialogue. Most of it very important dialogue, that carries very valuable information. You did a pretty good job overall with it, but I think it could have been better.

That brings me to my next point: pacing. The pace of the story is how quickly it reads. Shorter sentences read quickly. While long sentences, on the other hand, with lots of flowery bits, commas, and other detail, tend to read rather slow, and make the action crawl to a halt. Short, fast sentences are good for action scenes, or when there's not a lot of describing to do, such as a quick timeskip (They sped quickly down the corridor, took a turn, and ran outside). Long sentences are good to slow the action down, so the reader can take in all the descriptions or other important information. However, long sentences get tedious and boring, and should be used sparingly. On the other hand, a story is not a story without them.

Some types of stories need to be fast, some are better slow, but most fall right in the middle. Unless you're writing a thriller or a psychological novel, your pace needs to be mixed. Your pace is pretty good, but no one is perfect. It starts out slow, then goes fast with some dialogue or action, then gets fast again near the end. Introduction to describe the scene, body to move it along, and a conclusion to sum it up. You can roughly tell by the size of the paragraphs.

Like I said, your pacing is pretty good, but if you keep the pace of the story in mind while you write it, you'll find it much more engaging. And eventually it will become so second nature you'll do it without thinking.

Next on my list is your descriptive focus. You describe things well enough, but sometimes I wonder if you are describing the right thing. Only describe what is necessary to set the scene, then what is necessary to move the story along, while keeping a good characterization going. I feel like you're frequently jumping around to things that don't need to be described, while you miss out on things that do. I don't really have many examples, as this is a very obscure, complicated part of writing, and I read your first chapter over three days ago, but I distinctly remember such a thing happening.

I only have a few more minutes, but before I go I have two more things to say: some of your dialogue feels rather flat, and it feels like you're only showing the bare minimum for the story. I'll do the dialogue now, and get to the showing part in a second. This is really a simple, common problem; your characters all speak in a similar fashion, without letting me feel their emotions. I should be able to tell, just by reading the statement and the dialogue tags, what the character is feeling. If I don't then I don't connect with him, and if I don't connect I don't care what happens to him. And if I don't care I stop reading.

This is easily fixed by showing their faces, eyes, body language, etc. in dialogue tags. Just say something like "His eyes grew somber as he pleaded with the woman." It works wonders

Now, on to the bare minimum bit. If you read a professional novel, you will notice that each chapter takes upwards of thirty pages. Fan fictions seem to be shorter, both in chapter length and in total story length. This has two causes: amateur writers are much lazier (not slamming on you, jusy all of us in general), and they don't know how to write in full detail. Even if you only follow what your protagonist is seeing and feeling, they are going through a lot more than what we write about. Real authors have more to write about, and they do it in a more all encompassing way. There's really no cure for this other than to keep writing, and always ask yourself what else is going on.

Well, despite all that I said, you really have little to improve on. Everything I mentioned was minor, and I had to dig to find any of it. Upon cursory examination, I found nothing at all wrong with your story So, thank you for writing, and keep up the good work :goodjob:

Ah, thank you. Sorry I'm so late to reply ^_^

Thanks for pointing out a lot of the flaws. You definitely got a lot of my major problems pinned down, like pacing and strange description. As for the dialogue, I'm actually very good at that, I just didn't really try that hard on this story, I'm not sure why, maybe because I recently read the Road and was going for a more natural style dialogue.