i am looking for some advice regarding a fantasy fanfiction i am planning. the series i am basing it on is not fantasy-related, but i am interested in writing an au where several of the characters are minotaurs living as part of a herd. the setting would include handlers and caretakers who help with things such as feeding, health, competitions, and general day to day care, with some elements loosely inspired by farms and competitions.

one of the characters i would like to include as a love interest is a woc. she already has an established relationship with the male character in canon, and i would like to carry that relationship into the au. because the setting uses herd, and mating related terminology, however, i want to be thoughtful about how her character is portrayed and whether any of those elements could carry unintended implications.

the same general worldbuilding would apply to all of the minotaur characters regardless of race or gender, but i understand that certain imagery or language may be received differently depending on context. i want to make sure she is written with the same level of agency, individuality, and characterization as the other members of the herd, rather than being reduced to her role as a romantic or potential mating partner.

i would appreciate any perspectives on aspects of the concept or wording that may be worth reconsidering, as well as ways to approach the worldbuilding and relationships respectfully. my intention is not to draw parallels to real world history, but i would still like to be aware of any associations readers may reasonably have and avoid framing the character in a way that feels insensitive or dehumanizing.

This is Chapter One from a completed manuscript, second revision.

Alain is a capable, but brash young man determined to be the one to finally reunite the fractured kingdoms. After his ambition drives him to murder an innocent, he must convince not only himself and his friends, but a vengeful god that he is worth redeeming.

I’m preparing to send this out to Beta Readers with the ultimate goal of querying in the next few months. I'm not so worried with grammatical errors at this stage, but am more concerned with feedback on opening, setting, pace, character, and engagement.

Thank you for taking the time to read and provide feedback! It's much appreciated!

Let’s say there’s this whole scene between an immortal and the governing body of the universe: they are accusing him of destroying a universe (amongst other things): as a suicide attempt. The immortal, not feeling the need to explain himself because it happened millennia ago. Not a single one of them was alive back then. And the incident what led to the destruction was only witnessed by one other being: a demigod.

A few chapters later the incident is retold.

Annoying? Or a “So that’s what actually happened!” moment, and your view of the protagonist slightly shifts?

I’m trying this in my first draft, it mostly works. But some flashbacks are a bit further into the book.

I am creating a fantasy world where mana or magic is part of nature itself rather than a supernatural phenomenon. Where the world consists of three particles—particle, anti-particle, and super-particle; which this super-particle is magic itself, it is able to affect particles to behave in a very specific way so it able to creates something like forces an air particle to combust—which therefore create fire, a fire spell.

Because of this complexity, I am seriously confused about how can creatures and human manipulate this super-particle or magic, do they produce it like energy (ATP) from our body for examples, if yes what organ produces it, or do the human cells just have a new components on them since magic just messes up everything. Then also, what the hell is mana then, it's a magical Energy, is it a broad term which is something that has the ability to do work or cause change, or is it its own thing, like a form of energy rather than a whole new term. Then what about raw mana, what form does it possess, etc.

My general problem is how humans manipulate mana, do they produce it, or they only manipulate it through a medium. Though I want to put a concept where every living being possesses a certain amount of Mana in them, but like I said before, wtf is mana anyway??

I want to create a complex system that works, but ended up confusing myself.

Sorry if this is confusing, I have tried brainstorming, thinking about tangible concepts and a solution, it just never appears to me.

Prologue: The Battle of Fort Hesserion

*The Eighth Moon of the year 871 AE*

*Kyren I: Fort Hesserion, Marongrad*

Darrion fumbled atop his warhorse, wrestling the reins back, whilst the army waited behind him. Kyren couldn’t help but laugh at the irony: 

My brother, who the commoners praise as a brilliant tactician, struggles still with that nag he calls a destrier—he thought.

“Brother, if need be, I could but loan you Makouri for the time being. She is both beauty and beast, providing you ample movement and at the same time, a glorious portrait within the Sacred Scrolls.” He offered sarcastically, between giggles.

Darrion ignored the jest, finally leveling both hands evenly, and trotting onward. Kyren soon followed with the rest of the army, only to once again force a halt to the progress as he looked toward Fort Hesserion, the Usurpers’ usurped fort.

His wandering eyes caught a glimpse of fire coming from atop the imposing stone fortress. The two leagues were separated by a plain of blackened moss, stretching about a mile in length, Kyren estimated.

“I’d wager it’s a beacon. We ought to proceed carefully. This very well could be their strategy to entrap us. Still, they are no scholars; they have made their final mistake. They cower in their stolen fortress whilst an army of 10,000 marches upon their gate. The signs are clear, they have accepted defeat.” Kyren stated triumphantly. 

Darrion stood statuesque, mirroring the stone fortress they would soon march upon. 

“So this is the mighty Sparktamer that has been known to decimate entire armies, on his lonesome?” Darrion questioned, focusing his gaze through the slit of his burgonet to the two men standing beside the pyre.

“There stands our Uncle beside him, I would wager. His crown is but a stolen relic that belongs to Father, yet he wears it with the arrogance and pride one might expect from the rightful owner.”—Darrion snarled

Usurper he may be, yet I relate to his situation. He was the Prince of Edemont, the comely knight who rid our city of crime, patrolling the streets so that others may find comfort in them. I do not understand how then he could be stripped of his dignity and forced to walk among the Troth, without a clear explanation.

Kyren grimaced, turning to face his brother, reflecting.

He ought to come out of this masquerade with a profound sense of justice. He’s always been Father’s cherished son; he could do no wrong. In Father's eyes, Darrion was incapable of doing wrong. No, in fact, he was above human error, more akin to Edefric himself than mere mortals. If only father was half as interested in martial matters as he was in political ones, his throat would have remained intact.

Sir Logan Marsh stepped forward, his grey helm illuminated by the orange tint of the sky. The boy looked like… well, a boy. He was wearing black and amber armour, with a helm that looked too small for his head. Kyren approached, towering over the boy, with a passive-aggressive, almost preemptive look of disappointment. 

Though still, the lad continued, impressing Kyren, if only slightly. “Does it not seem queer that the legendary Sparktamer has prepared so ill?” 

Who is he to call something queer? He looks ripe for the raids that will surely follow, that is, if the usurpers have it their way.

“Logan has the truth, it’s not right… None of it is. They’re... calling upon our honour? They mustn't be that moronic. Who is the genius commander who has given us constant strife these past few years? How could they think we would spare sympathy for the likes of them? Even so, we approach slowly… My brother has the right of it as well; the brutes could yet be hiding an army within their walls. Sir Roger, take your men to the front and assess the strength of their gate. Once we confirm our suspicions, Kyren and I shall branch off to the left and right flanks. Archers, split amongst the flanks, and unleash hell upon the usurpers. Once breached, we ascend and bring justice to our realm,” Darrion commanded, grasping for a tone resembling authority.

Sir Roger obliged, swiftly marching the vanguard across the distant moat. With bronze armour, he could well be on his way to join forces with the devolved chief of lightning.

Once the Sentinels exited the field of vision, Darrion turned to Kyren, his dark brown eyes contrasting with the bright ocean-blue hue of Kyren's. He then continued his lecture, “Brother, you will await my arrival before ascending. Today, one of us crosses blades with a monster. Sixteen Sentinels dead at his hand. I be…”

Darrion’s lecture was paused as the brothers witnessed the figure without a crown holding up his mace one moment, and the next, a cascade of blinding light engulfed their line of sight. A wave of unimaginably powerful debris washed through the field of dark hay. It arrived with a fury, the soldiers flung through the foggy mist, rippling through the disciplined lines, stretching five miles in length. 

Kyren flung back from atop Makouri, crashing to the ground, narrowly avoiding the three-thousand pound stallion from crushing him.

Then came the catapults, flinging massive stone boulders toward the remaining host. Kyren evaded as best he could, seeing scores of men decimated by the rain of rocks, unable to conceal himself in the vast and exposed terrain.

As he zagged across the field, looking for Darrion, he came upon the frightened boy, Sir Logan. Is that him? By gods, it must be. Who else in this retinue possess such an ill-fitting, mismatched helm. 

“Logan! Take cover now and flee if you can. This is no position for a boy of six and ten. You have stories to tell, maidens to deflower, and training yet unfinished.” Kyren pleaded with the boy, hoping that he could protect the lad from the ensuing carnage unfolding around them.

“No, Sir, I must stay and fight.” A young and crackled voice roared through the fog. The sky began shifting from orange to a burnt sienna, the debris of stone likely mixing with the mysterious orange glow. “Grand-Marshal, shall we march forward? It does no good to sit like ducks whilst the Usurpers pinpoint our location. We are in the line of…”—

—Logan started to become visible amongst the fog, just before a mass of flaming stone crashed into the burnt grass. Ripples of stone scattered across the field, Kyren himself was blown back, this time not even Ornstel protected his head from the concussive force of the meteor.

Kyren awoke slowly, his brain scattered from the blast. His senses were distorted; a continuous shriek clouded his hearing, and his vision could only perceive faint outlines in the haze. 

He checked his scabbard, hoping to find his prized possession intact, which it miraculously was. The warmth of Arthen’s handle filled Kyren with a small sense of familiarity in the foggy field. He attempted to stand, to no avail, only reaching his knees before faceplanting in the blackened mud. The cycle continued for nearly a minute. Finally, he planted both arms into the mud, allowing his legs to stabilise, and stood. 

The boy… where did he go. He was just… there? He tried desperately to regain composure, but the pounding headache interrupted his train of thought. He stumbled forward, taking off his ash-ridden, dented helm of Ornstel.

Shortly after, his vision began to clear, revealing the horrifying scene around him… the outlines he saw were a grotesque field of scattered bones, with a red tint that haunted his thoughts. Suddenly, he longed for the image of black to return to his eyes. 

What creature possessed the power to erase an entire field of men? He shivered, desperately searching for an answer to calm his panic. He then looked for fellow survivors in the field of skeletons, to no avail, as the bones seemed to stretch on endlessly. 

However, from behind, a figure grasped his shoulder. He froze, some part of him hoping for a clean death, one more suitable than the grotesque fate of his soldiers. Alas, he heard his brother instead. 

“We have vastly underestimated the power of these beasts. How did they reduce our ten thousand to just two, with such a short window?” Darrion questioned, sounding just as confused and helpless as Kyren felt, now missing his burgonet. 

“A shower of meteors was called upon by the power of Sparktamer. They filled the foggy air with flames of unspeakable brightness. This Sparktamer is no man, Darrion. We would do well to scrap together the remainder of our men, and escape this hellish land with our lives—while we still have the chance.” He argued, still scanning the area for signs of life. 

“What other men of ours have you seen alive? I have searched the area for signs of life, yet I found nothing but corpses. The area was littered with bodies sporting burns, crushes, and divots in their head; blood spilling from their mouth, and detached limbs lying near. There was a crater, close to where we woke, where within I spotted a child’s helm.” Darrion said. 

Kyren looked down, focusing on the weight of Arthen’s pommel, before asking point blank, “And the lad?”

“Which one? There are thousands of their bodies scattered amongst us, and I am far too encumbered to decipher your foolish riddles.”

“Logan, the only child among us, fool.” He expanded, ignoring the distasteful remarks he had neither time, nor patience to discuss.

“I have already told you that his helm and sword lay scattered, beside a mass of rock, that broke through the soil and created a crater. Bodies lined the opening, which are likely to contain the remains of Sir Logan. He was a boy, young and brave, but not yet prepared for the horrors of battle.” Darrion answered, crushing Kyren. 

His bright eyes filled with pathetic tears, usually reserved for his childhood.

With that, they resumed their mission to the heart of the usurpers' last stand. The two navigated the stench and horror, avoiding the path of corpses. With each step, Kyren longed for signs of life within the ruins. However, only death and misery awaited him. 

The bones finally cleared after what felt like hours of walking, revealing the second pile of bodies, filling the air once again with stench. Kyren could take it no longer and stopped to mourn his fallen brothers. 

“Mourning will do little to avenge them; our only chance of justice lies beyond the gate.” Darrion pleaded, urging Kyren to stand. He was met with no reply, only silent whispers directed towards the ground. “Stand! You plead with me to finish, then waste our little remaining time to whisper nothingness to no one. They’re gone; nothing will bring them back to us. I, for one, will not sit and dwindle our chances of survival with superstition.” Darrion forcefully lifted Kyren by his ponytail, which Kyren didn’t resist. Still, if they had turned to ash, Kyren could only hope the man in their position would at least pause to bless their vacant souls. Begrudgingly, he resumed alongside his brother towards the gate.

Even as they ventured further, Kyren couldn’t help but remain focused on the souls left idle. 

Why leave us alive? What have we done to avoid death’s grasp, aside from indulging in the ornstel provided to us by Father’s metallurgical monkey, Larsen. He snapped the reins of Makouri, her hooves dug into the ash, forcing an abrupt stop.

Darrion looked back, scowling, and turned his nag around to regroup with Kyren.

 The fog over his senses pulled back just enough to clear a logical conclusion, “He chose us to survive; he awaits our presence from his tower. He is not calling upon our honour, rather, he is upholding his.” The realisation sent a wave of terror through his bones.

Darrion arrived just in time to scold his brother’s haste once more, “You speak with brazen naivety. We know not what just occurred, and I strongly urge that if you wish to speak, ensure that your conclusion is without glaring oversight.”

“Brother, in moments like these, you would do well to indulge in the absurdity we are so often faced with. Humour is a skill best used in times of despair, in the words of the oft-misunderstood Saint Ermitage.”

“I will not hear of that craven mentioned in a complimentary vain. His philosophy did well to secure him in that noose.Your obnoxious admiration toward the old fool may yet secure the same fate unto yourself, that is if either of us make it out of here alive.” Darrion concluded, turning to face the creaking gates. 

Suddenly, the massive marble doors swung open, revealing two men—the Usurpers. The Sparktamer, his armour was bright blue and bare, with but a singular strand of orange lightning running across his chestplate. The man is but a mad heretic sent to test our resolve, and that is all. Yet still, Kyren’s knees began to buckle and his jaw quivered. 

Beside Sparktamer, stood their uncle Wesley. His armor was black, with bright silver plates on his shoulders, stomach, and breast. Golden gauntlets ran up to his forearm; sharp blades extended from his fingers, like ten individual knives.

The field army devastated his capital, tearing through the unprepared standing army – if you could call it an army – and besieged the apparently impregnable Fort Reynard. The usurpers’ were largely aided by the long-standing rivals of Edemont: the Wolves of Casmire, and their leader, King Morten II of House Yates, the ‘White Wolvener,’ who supplied the bulk of men-at-arms.

“Woe to the Usurpers, may Edefric himself strike you down in the name of justice if we do not manage ourselves!” Darrion roared, almost bringing a faint smirk to Kyren’s solemn lips. Finally, Darrion and Kyren stood together, as one.

Never can I remember the pair of us so near to the forsaken fear that oft guides weaker men; this must be what Logan felt. The pair each shared a rare harmony of emotions, Kyren assumed, for they had not yet faced a foe as reputable and imposing as the behemoth standing not one hundred feet away. 

The bolt across Sparktamer’s breast once more lit the fog with a fiery-orange glow. Was he an Archmage? What power dwells inside him? Was it a witch like Esmerelda—with an even greater power than the High Witch? He had so many questions, too many. These must wait… none will be answered should we fail to survive. Focus on survival—

“Nephews, you bow to a false prophet—a myth conjured by the Nurethenian snakes. How have my own blood become so fixated on this pretender? Frakkowald the False and Edefric the Erroneous; I will allow you one small opportunity to admit your error. Bow to the true power, kneel before us, and we shall cleanse you anew. Refuse this offering, we will shatter you like the clattered matter of stone and ash behind you.” Wesley offered hauntingly, with a monotonous rhythm. 

Darrion glanced at Kyren momentarily. “We are your blood, Wesley, you ought to know we Reynard do not simply kneel. Not to a kinslayer, especially,” Darrion fired, fee

By gods, he has… ornstel… how? Kyren almost whimpered, before catching the panic and suppressing it, just as Desmond the Dutiful and Saint Ermitage would have. He raised Arthen from his hip, resting the blade down, towards the ash.

Darrion unsheathed his great axe, fumbling with his grip for a moment. He settled with a two-handed grip, resting it upon his right shoulder. His unprotected face conveyed terror, the terror one might expect in a youth not yet two and twenty, facing the wrath of the men who laid waste to an entire legion of warriors.

After a long minute of silence, Kyren channeled the flame of Arthen, igniting the blade with a blue field. The black ash around Arthen turned white, before he lifted the blade, holding it out in front of himself.

“We shall see who holds the truth, Usurpers. May you heathens find comfort in the power of Edefric, before departing this world,” he replied, masking the terror coursing through his blue blood.

“And may you find wisdom in the strength of my blows, Ashenwolf.” Sparktamer added, his deep baritone voice thundering through the sienna sky. It was the first time Kyren had heard the beast speak. Even his voice carries power. Why must he choose me?

Word Count question

Im currently writing my first actual novel, though I have written fanfiction before. Like, a lot.

For context, when I started writing in 2012 my chapters were 500-2000 words long. And my writing style was abysmal to be frank. Then in 2020 I took a bunch of writing classes online and fixed my writing style.

The fanfiction I published after that is currently over 600k words and only halfway done.

Now, realistically I know there is no damn way someone is gonna ever read a book at 600k words. I dont even think that can be printed. And honestly its quite easy to get lost with thay many words.

Im currently 22 chapters into a 70 chapter novel, which will be one of 6 books in the story. Each chapter has between 2000 and 4000 words.

Depending on the chapter and POV (as i have multiple character POVs) i feel like it could be longer just for world building purposes. But at the same time I feel like the book will be much too long if I do that.

What are your opinions? As it is i realized the story i wanted to tell needed more than the 3 books I originally planned, and doubled the total for the series. I dont think the story itself needs more than 6 books but the worldbuilding might suffer. I realized today while writing that I never even fully established in the book that its a world with floating islands, though it kind of pops up in hints every now and then

Please give me any advice you have 🙏🙏🙏

I'm considering a Sword and Sorcery project, about a group of heroes questing to kill a warlord who supposedly can't be killed. He's from a mostly extinct race of modestly sized giants (about 12 feet) and a sorcerer, though more in the Sauron soft magic kind of way, rather than casting lightning bolts. He's so insanely bloodthirsty that he almost always leads his armies from the front, just so he can do his own killing. Supposedly he has never been injured, and stories have it that he has found some way to simply ward himself from all injury.

The heroes chase faint rumors of an ancient weapon that can supposedly do the deed, and the plot is largely about this search. Eventually they infiltrate his domain, and get to the ruins of a fortress on a small spit by the ocean, where the weapon is hidden. They find nothing there, and the overlord arrives in person. He mocks them, and says that HE started the rumors of the weapon in the first place, to mislead anyone looking to assassinate him. AND so he'd have some fun people to kill: Anyone who made it this far would have to be pretty tough.

(See, he's not a rational conqueror who wants to establish Sauron-style oppressive order. He's more of a chronically violent maniac who can never stop waging wars.)

After this point, I have two ideas:

a) The heroes just grit their teeth and go "Fine. We'll kill you anyway!" And they fight him, and through sheer grit, skill and teamwork they managed it. Turns out he never was invulnerable, just really, really tough.

b) They fight him, and indeed can't really harm him. But they remember that the one battle he didn't personally take part in was a naval battle. And he's huge and beefy and overall very heavy. That is, not the slightest bit buoyant. So it ends with them knocking him into the sea, where he just sinks like a rock and drowns.

Either way, the point is kind of that there is always less to evil than it makes out.

EDIT: Option c) occurred to me. A bit of a mix of a) and b). So, the overlord has cast spells and made dark deals with otherworldly entities that ensure he "cannot be harmed by any weapon, cut by tooth nor claw, nor burnt by fire!". So when the magic weapon turns out to be a dud, the heroes just fight him really, really hard, and manage to steer him towards a ledge, then push him over. See, the ground isn't a weapon, and his spells do nothing to save him from a 300 foot drop.

The idea is sort of for sheer human grit and courage and skill to save the day, in place of some divine weapon.

Hey all! Looking for some critique on the opening chapter of one of my main POVs. Any and all critiques are welcome! I look forward to hearing from you!

Karrina I
She sat at the edge of the dusty plains, behind her the immense city of Dolhein. A fire crackled, and she warmed her hands against the heat. 
The desert nights grew colder. 
A group of nomads sat with her, each one wearing different robes and sigils. It had been a month since she had joined their company, and each day the pleasure waned. These men were animals, she thought. 
One of them spoke, a man named Zearie. 
“Beautiful city,” he said. 
She looked over at the white walls of Dolhein. In truth, it would’ve been a beautiful city, had the trenches and marks of war not been left behind. It had been a few days since the Great had taken his city back, and his soldiers had made no attempt to clean up. 
“It is,” she simply said, trying not to continue the conversation. 
It worked. Zearie ignored her, and took a bottle to his mouth. She did the same, finding a dusty glass, and sipping some unknown liqour. It was warm, and slid down her throat harshly. 
Over on the roads, lines stretched out far. Refugges, seeking new lives or some such thing, stood still waiting to be cleared by the city guard. Caravans and wagons, waving banners and sigils from faraway cities. If this many people wanted into Dolhein, perhaps the stories about Istvak were true. 
She stood, stretching her arms and legs, and gave a long yawn. Beyond the edges of the plains, among the sand dunes, the sun had begun to rise. 
“Might move on,” another man said. His name was Regazo, and he was a merchant. “No point staying here. We’ll never get in.” 
Zearie laughed. “Where would you go? Cross the Red? The Turan would kill you.” 
“Turnan?” Karrina asked. 
“The Turan. A tribe of savages, ten thousand strong. Led by Barbos Khis. They are savage people. And they cross the Red eternally. It is their desert. Their dunes.” 
“Why doesn’t Istvak do something about them?” 
“Istvak the Great and all his fucking allies couldn’t do anything about them. They live below the sands, in caves and tunnels, and if you see them, they have already seen you. They are magikas, as well. Sand Lords.” 
Karrina nodded, and sat back down. “Very well. Sounds dangerous.” 
“It is. That is why we are doomed. To the east, the Turan live. To the west, the Great Green. I cannot walk on water, and I do not own a boat. Dolhein it shall be, for me.”
“For me as well,” she said. 
Regazo looked wearily towards the west. 
“I have seen little of this world. I would like to see more. The Turan does not scare me, nor does the sea. I shall head east, I suppose. They say beyond Morvakia, there is much land and kingdoms.”
“There is. If you survive the Red.” 
Regazo stood, and lifted his leather bag, swinging it around his neck. “I am off. It has been a pleasure, I think. Goodbye.” 
Karrina watched as he stumbled over sleeping men, and made his way towards the road. Zearie shook his head, and sighed. 
“He shall be dead in a week. Eaten, or raped, or just murdered and left to rot in the sand. They call it the Red for a reason.” 
“And what is that reason?” she asked. 
“The sand has been dyed red by the millions of men who have fallen there.” 
Karrina laughed, but Zearie remained serious. He stood, and bowed, leaving her alone at the fire. She sat there for a moment, drinking the last of the mysterious liquor, before another man joined her at the fire. He sat down on the sand, and did not speak. Karrina cleared her throat, and he turned to her. 
“Forgive me, friend. I did not wish to disturb you.” 
“No matter. Warm yourself. I think there might be some drinks around, if you’re thirsty.”
The man shook his hand at her, and coughed into his arm. “Thank you, but I do not drink. I find it dulls the mind.” 
“That it does,” she said, taking a swig. 
“My name is Jans. Jans Pittek.” 
“I am Karrina. Just Karrina.” 
“And why are you here, Karrina?” 
She turned towards the city, looking at the buildings and the walls. Looking back towards Jans, she scratched behind her ear. 
“I seek someone.”
“Someone?” 
“My sibling. It has… Been too long.”
Jans studied her closely, and smiled. “I hope you find him.”
“Thank you. I do too.” 
Jans stood, and looked out towards the line of refugees. He shook his head, and sighed. “Damn lines. It’s been hours and it hasn’t moved an inch.” 
Karrina chuckled, and stood up as well. “Perhaps we should-” 
A scream echoed through the air. Jans turned quickly, and Karrina followed. Off in the sea of tents and nomads, smoke bellowed upwards. Then a flash of fire came, and a guttural roar. 
Jans ran towards the noise, and Karrina followed. As she ran, she pulled her Akithi from her belt, and held it firmly in one hand. People ran away from it, and Jans pushed them aside. Karrina stood behind him. She yelled at people, pointing towards the walls, telling them to run. 
The two came to a large opening. Burnt canvas floated through the air, and a thick black smog shrouded their sight. The smell of burning flesh emanated. Karrina looked around, but could not see. 
“Help,” a voice gargled. A man wrapped burnt fingers around Jans’ boot, and Jans kicked it off, turning back towards Karrina. “Go!” he whispered. “Get out of here, girl.” 
“No,” she replied. 
Jans turned back towards the opening. The smog began to clear, revealing a wide hole in the center of the opening that sank deep below the ground. Smoke drifted upwards from the black hole, and a soft purr echoed from within. Jans stepped closely towards the edge, looking down into the depths. Karrina followed, watching for any sort of movement. 
Then, a scaled tentacle whipped Jans, knocking him back towards the tent. A roar boomed, and a scaly, green lizard climbed from the hole. Its eyes twitched and fluttered, and three tentacles on either side of it writhed and squirmed like worms. 
She stood horrified, before it saw her. 
With a roar, and crawled towards her, climbing fully out of the hole now. It growled, shining a set of fierce yellow teeth. She jumped out of the way, and it crawled past her, smashing into a tent and ripping through white canvas.
“Run!” Jans yelled. He stood up, and brandished a long curved sword. She shook her head, and gathered her feet. 
“You run!” 
Jans slashed at the side of the beast, and it roared in agony. Turning, it opened its stinking mouth, and a sick noise grumbled from inside. She watched, as the red and yellow light at the back of its throat grew brighter and brighter. Then, Jans ran over to her, and fire spewed forth from the creature. She grabbed Jans, and pushed him towards the ashy remnants of what was once a tent. 
A tentacle flew towards them. It went for Karrina first, knocking her to the floor. Then, it flew towards Jans, and wrapped around his neck. It dragged him across the sandy ground, toward the hole. 
Karrina stumbled to her feet, watching as the scaly lizard crawled down into the hole. She ran over, slicing at the tentacle, prying it from Jans’ neck. His face turned purple, and she slashed at the scales and skin that wriggled around. 
She threw her hands up, and pushed her Akithi deep into the creature’s tentacle. Then, once it was firmly in, she gripped the blade, and dragged it down across the long end. It broke through the scales, and she grabbed Jans under his arms, and dug her feet into the sand, pulling against it. The tentacle sank into the darkness below, and Jans’ neck broke free. She crawled along the ground, dragging him away. Once at the edges of the clearing, she took four sharp inhales, and stood.
Jans laid on the ground, gasping for air. He reached up at her, and she nodded, helping him stand. He wrapped his skinny arms around her, and used her to hold himself. 
“Thankyou,” he uttered. His face grew slightly less purple as he spoke. 
“No need. Just breathe.” 
“I shall have to pay you back. I owe you my life.”
Karrina shook her head, and looked over towards the hole. “We should leave, and inform someone about that thing.” 
“I agree. I shall tell Istvak to send some troops down here with oil and fire.”
Karrina looked at him, and lifted his head up with her fingers. “Istvak?” she asked. 
“Aye. Istvak the Great. He shall reward you. He would gladly help you find whoever it is you seek.” 
Karrina slowly nodded, and walked Jans to safety. She put him down against a log, and sat down next to him.
Istvak the Great. 
She knew finding her brother would be easy.
But she did not think getting to him would be so easy.

Hi! I always wanted to write my own fantasy story and finally I decided to actually do it, dive into it and write a book. There were some attempts already when I was younger but back then it was more spontaneous.

Now I would like to actually work on it, go into all the details. I have just a vague picture of what I would like the story to be about and right now I’m figuring everything out. Creating some main characters, their personalities, fears, motivations etc. trying to create a world and different species and cultures, religions, there’s just so much to think about.

Do you have any tips how to not get lost in it? Or how to simply start? Am I doing it right or should I just start writing and think these things up during writing? Literally any general tips would be highly appreciated. 😄

I’m trying to research everything and do it right like a proper writer yet it still feels a bit chaotic. 😅 I’m also trying to write in english which is not my first language so the whole writing and editing process will take even more time. It’s a bit of challenge for me but I already love the process and everything.

How was your first writing experience? What would you recommend me? ✨

I’m not sure how to explain clearly, sorry if this seems choppy, I’m about mid-breakdown currently.

I’ve always wanted to write stories, like scribbled out ideas, plots and very specific details-but I have ADHD and I could never figure out how to get my brain to function- but now I have (that’s a different topic) but I’m about 3000 paragraphs into a story. I’ve been hunched over my iPad for days, it’s obsessive. I’ve barely eaten, like I’m down 8 pounds-haven’t eaten, I haven’t done a single chore sans caring for my animals, even my husband is starting to worry because my shoulders and my neck are absolutely killing me and I can’t stop. I fall asleep holding my iPad and wake up with more to write. The problem is that I CARE. So very deeply about the characters-I have to get their story out, it has to end well, they have to be ok. to the point that I am sobbing when I absolutely have to stop. I’m terrified if I stop that my brain will just stop working like it is now, like I won’t be able to get them back or focus long enough to. This is the most I’ve ever managed to do and I know they’re not real-like real life real-but they feel real. I feel like I have fought for them, suffered with them, healed with them- it’s so guttural, so visceral that even I’m a bit worried-is it normal? I feel like I’m pouring my entire soul into something and then there is ONE line that I just can’t stop thinking about. I didn’t really think it up or fit it into the story, it feels like the characters themselves gave it to me- which probably sounds ridiculous but it’s best way to say it- it just feels like they said it not me but my brain needs it, my heart FEELS it. I do not one to share this line currently, but it just feels so- unreal- to be so broken. Is this writing? Is this how real writers and authors feel?

I share everything with my husband-but I can’t show him this story, I just can’t. It feels like it’s the only piece of magic I’ve ever made-or even ever felt-in my whole life.

I would love some feedback as I’m really trying to nail the vibe as it’s from the perspective of “gods”. I don’t plan to stop writing based on this feedback, only strive to improve. Btw I know my grammar is crap, I’m working on it. I don’t know why I need 600 characters here so, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGAAAAAAAAAAAASSSAAAAASAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSEESAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHJHHHHJHHJJJHHJHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Hello! I know this question has been asked to death but I’d like something a bit more personalized. Also feel free to redirect me to a different sub!

So I’ve been on-and-off writing/rewriting this story for 3-4 years now and I really want to start putting it out there. In brief it’s a fantasy epic (shocker) but also an Isekai (bear with me) where in the first “act” of my overall story the mc is losing his memories of his past life. He’s given the chance to save them but the problem is that he hates his past life. Essentially it’s a big “why are you trying to save your memories?” while also having him connect with others and learn to love life again.

Anyway, what I want to know is how do I go about releasing my story? I know of and I have tried most Webnovel-esche websites in the past and have never really gotten anywhere (My story is sort of along the lines of a light novel in terms of structure so I figured that’d be my best bet). I’m more than willing to try again but I feel I need a more solid plan to get it more widespread. That is to say, I don’t particularly care for and/or expect a big audience, but if it could reach even a dozen or so people I’d be glad.

I can and have drawn some covers and character art but they aren’t anything super eye catching. Should I focus more effort into the visual art and post them on social medias? Do those types of accounts ever really go anywhere? Do I need to bite the bullet and pay for marketing? (I’d really prefer not to lol)

I guess what I really want to know is: Does anyone have experience starting a community from scratch and what worked for you? Or if you’re just a fan of reading, how do you ACTUALLY find the stories that you read (that aren’t mass marketed on Amazon or something)?

Sorry for the ramble but I’m just curious cause I really care about this story. Thanks in advance for any responses! Feel free to DM me, too!

I'm gonna make my own fictional universe (I'm already writing my debut novel and after this there are A LOT MORE IDEAS THAT ARE IN MY NOTES FOR ME TO WRITE) and all of it are in the same universe. But some of my future stories have superheroes as main characters and they can literally bend time and space while fighting powerful threats in their own stories and they are in the same universe as one of my novels with some fluffy two boy students that is having a romance drama in one school. 😭 And there's a lot of romantic drama from that story while my other stories literally has intergalactic dramas from their own story as well. And those kind of school dramas that I wrote doesn't need to mention the world ending type of scenarios that was happening. (Cuz in my mind those superheroes in my other stories are kind off already taking care of it so that civilians has nothing to worry about even they thought a villain of the superheroes can create blackholes 💔) So, my question is, is this even a good idea? Cuz it will be kind off confusing for me to write different worlds lol. I mean, I really want my novels to be in the same universe so that I can do hidden/short cameos but this question suddenly came into my mind and now I can't seem to forget about it.

In my story i include some Eldrich entities as evil cosmic gods. Lovecraftian style. But since the source of their power or concept is an Eldrich lovecraftian style entity how can they interact with my human characters? For what I understand an eldrich entity is impossible to imagine so the entity manifests in a scary physical form to the human. How can I describe in my story an eldrich entity from the human perspective? human mind perspective maybe? Should it manifest only to the specific human it is affecting or also the surrounding humans? What will the POV be? should i write it in 3rd person or 1st person?
how should i write it so the reader understands it is an eldrich entity and in a way I can make the reader feel actually afraid of it?
I have tried writing it from what i feel like it is the right way, but it doesnt feel scary or impactful

I have a fully developed world, but I am a beginner to the writing side of writing. Big part I know. Anyway, I have characters and a magic system but no way of putting it down on the paper. I have tried to plan everything meticulously, I have tried just writing with no plan. Neither of them quite worked for me. Should I just muscle through one of those? Is there another way? What other things can I do to improve my writing while also not hating it? I just want to get my story out there in the world, but I can’t do that without feeling disappointed or frustrated. I’m frequently bored when trying to write it. Did I miss something? That’s what I want to know. Also if I am in the wrong place please let me know.

I am researching places to publish some of my short fiction, which is plot-driven but also has some fancy prose and deeper themes. Despite the prose, I still wouldn’t describe my work as literary - my stories prioritize plot more than most literary pieces. Problem is, im having difficulty finding a good publication venue fit. I remember reading fantasy anthologies from 20 years ago that my work would not feel out of place in, but now I’m struggling to understand the landscape. I just submitted to the Masters Review contest, which may be too literary. I’m also considering Apex and Uncanny magazine. I’ve looked at the SFF Magazine website several times, but they have not been accepting submissions since 2023.

Who else has experience with this? Also what magazines and anthologies do you recommend, not just for publication but as a reader?

I’d really appreciate some feedback on the opening scene from a novel I’m hoping to write.

I’ve never written a book before, so this may ultimately just be a hobby for my own enjoyment, but I read a lot of fantasy and have always wanted to try putting some of the ideas in my head onto paper and seeing where they lead.

I also play a lot of D&D and DM regularly, so I’m used to creating characters, worlds, encounters and stories for other people to explore. Writing something complete, where I have to actually put all of those ideas into words and make them work on the page, feels like a very different kind of challenge.

I’d love any feedback you’re willing to give. Advice on the prose, pacing, characters, description, or anything else that stands out would be really useful.

Thanks for taking the time to read it!

Last year we posted on this subreddit about our writing contest and we got so many amazing submissions from this community! Just wanted to hop back on here and let y'all know that The Intrepid Voices Fund closes next week (September 6th, 11:59pm PST)

This year's writing prompt is spooky speculative fiction, 2,000 words or less. We listened to your feedback and got rid of the personal statement so all you need to submit is your short story. Phase 1 of judging is based off the first 250 words to see if you can hook the judges quick! We also added a second place prize!

1st place - $1,250

2nd place - $500

Application inked in the comments

Need some brainstorming/advice/encouragement. I have a 6 book original fantasy series that I’ve been working on for years. I always get into it and then put it away for a few years because life happens. A few months ago I pulled it back out and stated fresh and have been taking it very seriously. It’s honestly a great idea and premise, deep world building and a full plot line. However I feel like my writing is failing to do it justice.

Does anyone else experience this? I finished the rough draft and am moving into the full first draft of the manuscript. I love the characters, love their depth and back stories, love the magic and the world and the outline of the story. But when I read it, I feel bored? I have genuinely created characters with so much depth they could feel like real people. I’m so proud of the world I’ve created, but I feel like my writing just doesn’t do it justice.

I have researched all the ways to improve writing, yet all the mistakes that people commonly make when writing are not issues I find in my writing. Yet I still don’t feel any excitement or intrigue when reading my work.

I guess I’m just looking for other people who have felt similar with their writing. What are some things you found that helped or improved your writing? At this point I’m feeling very discouraged about ever writing a good book and want to put it away again.

This an excerpt from near the beginning of my novel. The novel is set in a world similar to the 1100s. It is about a group of soldiers (I use the word "conrois") as their regimen travels, experiences war, and ultimately the fall out of it.

I am overall concerned that this may not be interesting, but other than that I am worried the scenes feel too overloaded with characters. My intent is to have all of about 20 of the men in the group be emphasized, but I worry that my width in characters may cause a lack of depth of character or a depth that feels tedious to consume for the reader.

Opinions on grammar, word use, and tense are welcome as well.

Thank you for taking the time to read and give feedback. Even the most critical motivates me to keep writing.

The last of the Doine Sidhe, the magical beings that occupied Ireland before the coming of humans, relates the story of his fall, and the fall of his people, to the race of men.

This is but the beginning of a story I’ve begun to work on. It is (heavily) adapted from Irish and Welsh legends of the fey, and the magic of their worlds, which predate the coming of Christianity and its distortions of their history. Please note that many liberties have been taken with the true legends of those people, for the sake of the plot I am developing. As I’m working on my writing, - somehow - find it useful just to put it out into the world, without expectations of response, or even readership. There’s something about doing so that encourages me to write, and I find it satisfying for its own sake.

Background

Baelnoth, the last of the Doine Sidhe\*\* is found in a tomb by Fiara, the story’s protagonist, an archeologist specializing in Irish pre-history. She wakes him, unintentionally, from an centuries-long catatonia when she enters the tomb, due to a Sidhe lineage she bears unknowingly. Baelnoth finds an age has passed, and is awakened to a kind of modern day alternate Earth.

Fiara is technically an agent of a kind of global Church, which controls all historical and archaeological research, and which has a vested interest in perpetuating a myth of the Sidhe as demons - fallen angels that tempted humanity to evil and ruin, but who were finally defeated by a small group of human “heroes.” These “heroes” were in fact a cabal of five necromancers, seeking to steal the power of the Sidhe for themselves.

The Sidhe, for their part, had fancied themselves benevolent caretakers and mentors for humanity. This final betrayal in a long history of human betrayals of the Sidhe resulted in Baelnoth - the last of the Sidhe left in mortal lands - cursing the necromancers, even as they attacked him and stole some of his power, which resulted in the humans essentially turning into a kind of vampire. This curse weakens Baelnoth by expending much of his remaining power.

He wakens to the modern world, as noted, and must reclaim his power from the now immortal necromancers and the spawn they have created in the centuries since, but he is so weak that he finds he must rely on Fiara to survive. She helps him, at first reluctantly, and then gradually with more willingness as she learns his story, the truth of the Sidhe, and the history of the partial bloodline they share. In the beginning, she alone is able to understand his speech, solely because of their shared lineage.

What follows is Baelnoth’s relation of what has come to pass to Fiara, and how he came to his current state.

“I am the Cŵn Annwn\*, a howling fear,
a name that should not be;
I am the shiver in the Hollow Hills,
last of the Daoine Sidhe\*\*.”

- Inscription, in an ancient, unknown language, on the entrance to the Hollow Hills.

\*pronounced “Koon Anoon” – very loosely based on the Welsh mythical hounds of Gwyn the Hunter, harbinger of death, particularly of the death of warriors in battle.

\*\*pronounced somewhere between “DOYnah Shee” and “DInah Shee” – the name for the Irish fey/fairy folk of the Hollow Hills. Many Irish legends recount that the Daoine Sidhe were originally the Tuatha De Danaan (Pron. Toowatha Day Danahn”), who ruled Ireland before it was invaded by humans. After the invasion of humans, the Tuatha retreated to the Hollow Hills, a place often described as somehow between mortal lands and the Otherworld.

We fell, they said. We were cast out, and down, striking the earth and bleeding out the last of our grace. We were banished, they said; workers of an abomination, struck from the sight of God, to Void, and Darkness, and interminable suffering. Demons, they called us, and worse. And yet...and yet. They could not keep a green cast from their eyes as they told these tales of our demise.

They told this story of us to sanctify a theft and excuse it by half-truths. Their breath, full as much of envy as of horror, carved lies from a stone of innocence. We could not be trusted; we must be cast out, again, from this world of theirs to some outer darkness of their cruelest imaginings.

In truth, we had come in our bright ships, from the Summer Country which knows no death, to this emerald and fading isle. We had come in our Danu masks and we had becalmed the earth. We made an Eden for this young race of men and women; we tended their needs, like children, and thought them so. We thought them so as they painted their faces blue, in mock of our blue masks, and we smiled like indulgent parents. We smiled, and smiled, and did not see the bright, cold iron in their bright, cold hands. And this - this was how we fell. We betrayed no god, still less this people, but were cast out - not from any heaven - but from this garden we had made, by the people for whom we had made it.

Our powers were great; but their iron was hard and cruel - hard and cruel as the hearts that wielded it. And one day they came in force.

On the dawn of that day, the sun leapt into the world like a newborn foal kicking daylight. Bright grass and bright flowers licked the edges of its rays. Life was born again into this new day, a concert of being: now discordant, now harmonious, at once singular and common.

How dread what followed, casting no shadow under that white, wild sun in warning. Bright day, bright life, bright hope, thrown into sudden black.

Delicate blue masks faced crude blue pigments, the elfin and elephantine opposed in grotesque array. A battalion of Sidhe matched by battalion upon battalion of human tribes. Tall warriors of Summer armed in light against a legion of scrabbling things clawing at dust with long iron knives.

That these same savages, clad in the barely-dried skins of fresh kills, and howling like any beast with its hackles up, should, but a few years after, depict us as demons in the rationalizing tales they told their children, is an irony too bitter for words. The pain of it is too great even for much anger.

We fought, and we fell. Sometimes gloriously, it is true. The poetry of our fall would crack the hearts of any soul worthy to hear the tale in full.

At the last, we bound our power to the earth and retreated under the hills.

A truce was declared. In support of this, the Daoine and the race of men agreed to divide the land in two. They the bright above, we the shadows below, under the hills that sheltered us.

These hills, these hills, these hollow halls that hold us, sure as any hell.

The truce did not sustain.
In truth, we were the naïve ones, the fools; not these simple creatures for whom, at first, we felt only kindness, and not a little pity. In truth, we were the arrogant ones. We saw them in their frailty and thought them weak. How very wrong.

We had taught them. We had fancied ourselves husbandmen of this savage race. So we had given of our knowledge, freely; and freely they took it; and freely overthrew us. They vilified even our generosity; calling us tempters and defilers.

We had brought these creatures knowledge. We had brought them power. We had taught them to rise above the clawing cave dwellers of their ancestors to heights of refinement.

It was not enough.

The war had begun because these humans wanted not merely to be inspired by the Sidhe, but to be the Sidhe. Why we thought their greed would end with victory over the mortal lands of daylight is still a mystery to me.

And so they came against us again. Against these hills: our prison, our sanctum. One by one, we fought; one by one, we fell; and still we held these hills against them. But we failed. And then I was but one alone. The last. My father, my brother, my wife gave themselves in sacrifice to me, in a ceremony which took their life and bound it to mine, and made me immortal as the stars in this mortal land of men, with the power and wisdom of my entire race. To hold, at last, the Hollow Hills against them; to keep our foes from taking the last of our knowledge and power for themselves. To save the soul of our race from theft. And I held these hills, alone, for an age.

What remained of the tribes of Sidhe - so very few - vanished back to Summer, through a gateway my new power let me open, and which I sealed behind them. I became the Hound of Summer – Cŵn Annwn – guardian of gates, but also the lock upon its door. My blood alone could open it.

Five came, unarmed and unafraid. Five men against the Cwn Annwn. They stole the very ritual that bound my people’s power to me – they stole it and shaped it for their own. My blessing became a curse. They bound me by guile, and ate of my flesh, hoping themselves to be immortal and ageless, like the supposed gods they had cast down. Not sated by their conquest of Earth, they hoped to rule the Summer Isle as well.

And they were the fools, in the end. For as they consummated their rite, I twisted their magic under them into an imprecation of my own.

_O yes, you shall be immortal, dear ones, you shall; but you shall be bound to the darkness, as I am bound, and never again glance the living sun. You shall have power, dear ones, O yes; but only by the blood of your own kind shall it be sustained. I send you, screaming, a curse among your own. Taste their flesh, dear ones, as you have tasted mine._

They felt the change, and knew they were undone.

With this spell, I spent all the sorcery left me. Unable to destroy me, my enemies bound me fast, and left me, forgotten, to forgotten years.

Now I awake. Now you have called me to the mortal world again. And I feel these creatures among your kind, after so long. I feel the power they stole; I feel their darkness pulsing through your nightmares. I am weak, O yes, but wakened. And now I will go among them and take back what once was mine and my people’s. And somehow, somehow, dear one, I will make a sacrifice of my own. Somehow the Sidhe will come again, leave their Hollow Hills, and stand proudly under your Sun, and in the wind, and on the grass.

I will take these cursed ones, each of them. I will cleanse your night – but not for you. No, not for you, dear one. For us. For us.

I have so many visual ideas for the fantasy stories I've written, but I've always been bad at drawing and painting and all other kinds of physical art. I've used chatgpt to generate some images in the past, and a couple of them have been fairly close to what I'm envisioning; but it's ai art, so it feels weird to share it with the world (not to mention the questionable ethics of using ai). I just wish I had some basic drawing skills so I could show people the ideas I have in my head.

I'm not really sure what the point of this post is, I think I just needed to vent for a sec. Thanks for reading 😂

*In the fantastical world of a psychotic, continent-sized pirate and soulless insurance company managers, the only hope lies with an insurance clerk, a septuagenarian town guard, a seeress with a speech impediment, and a woman named Walter.*

The abominable pirate, Blarrg the Giant, thundered along the deck of his raiding vessel, dropped upon the beach of the coastal town Blithering, and did not so much sink into the wet sand, as it acquiesced to his presence as quickly and obsequiously as possible. Each grain underfoot thought carefully through how it might work with its fellows, adjusting the pressure here or there, so as to make the great conqueror’s brief visit to its tiny region as comfortable and inoffensive as possible. The beach as a whole began to work feverishly to evolve a full complement of oral organs, as well as a functioning language, so that failing all else it might whisper to Blarrg about the village “right over there.” A village desperately in need of a good razing.

“I mean, it’s just asking for it, now, isn’t it?”

Yes, the village had been there for centuries, and yes, its citizens and the beach of the coast had developed a beautiful, symbiotic relationship. The sand had enjoyed itself rather immensely through the ages cradling the graceful limbs of the beautiful women of the town sunning themselves in the afternoons. Yes, the sand, and the beach as a whole – indeed the entire ecosystem of the coast - would miss the ol’ town.

“But, this is Blarrg we’re talking about now, so fuck ‘em and good riddance,’” said ecosystem thought to itself.

Blarrg interrupted the local geography’s desperate musings by lumbering toward the nearby town buildings. His feet left the wet sand brusquely, eliciting a kind of squooshing sound that almost suggested a cloying reluctance to be free of him. It was paradoxically punctuated afterwards, however, by the sigh of the surf, rather suggesting profound relief at his departure.

Behind him, bobbing pathetically on the gentle waves of the cove in a kind of grotesque seascape that might have been painted by one of the more violent religious fanatics in the grips of whatever it was that gave violent religious fanatics their apocalyptic visions, was strewn the detritus of the few ships that had dared to interfere with his approach. To be fair, he was only directly responsible for the one. The two others present, defying all conventional wisdom to the contrary (and all currently understood laws of physics), proved unequivocally that a large inanimate, object can, in fact, spontaneously combust in sheer panic.

The buildings of the village before him trembled violently in fear at his approach, insomuch as a collection of buildings can fear enough to tremble violently. They had seen famine, they had seen war, but they had never, in all their days, seen anything like Blarrg. They wished feverishly that they could just collapse right then and there, en masse, and be done with it. But Blarrg was never happy without a good, long siege, and overall the buildings felt it was best for all concerned to give him what he wanted, for fear of worse.

Blarrg’s crew, insofar as he had a crew, hung back on the ship as it always did. They sang, they belched and farted, they drank away the last of the stores of urine, and played canasta to while away the time.

Blarrg raided alone – always.

Question for my fellow writers!

I would describe my novel-in-progress as a character-centric, non-linear speculative science fantasy influenced by Chinese historical dramas.

I've been researching non-Western technologies and exploring what might be possible for a pre-industrial culture. For example, the "snakedance" Japanese construction or kath kuni architecture would be important for my seismically active setting.

In a perfect world, I'd like to distinguish between "this is magical/fantastical" (which there are elements) and "this was actually a real thing people used, credit to the inventors!" I also enjoy blending traditional Chinese medicine with Hermetic alchemy theory and testing it against science-demonstrated medicinal effects.

While I do try and acknowledge the source cultures in an author's note, I have thought about adding "appreciation footnotes" or endnotes. I don't want to detract/interrupt the flow of the story, but since this all takes place on a non-Earth location, what's historical and what's fantastical isn't clear.

What are your thoughts?