[CW/Feedback] Rate the Writer

[Code: PIRULUK]

Hi all!

I'm here to bring yet another idea I had that will likely die out from lack of participation like all the rest (QQ)

So I've been thinking, and it struck me that every writer will tend to specialise. In the sense that every writer will have one aspect of their writing which is very good, which they excel at. Similarly, every writer has aspects of their writing which they are... not so good at. (common sense I know. Sorry if I'm slow :x )

That said, trying to identify one's own strengths and weaknesses often proves a frustrating - and usually ineffective - task. Our self-judgments are coloured by our prior perceptions, be they positive or negative, and therefore are inaccurate representations of our true abilities. The best way to do facilitate this is through peer review.

Therefore, this thread exists for you to judge and in turn be judged by others.

How this thread works is that you'll post up a sample of your writing(in a spoiler, to prevent clutter, and only one piece per submission, so make sure to pick your best). This can be a poem, a oneshot, an RP post, or a part of an ongoing story. Other members will read the piece of writing you have submitted for review and evaluate it, according to these simple two questions:

-What you did best

-What you did terribly

People who take the time to evaluate you will then post up their own writing, and you will evaluate them in turn using the same two questions.

Some ground rules:

1) Be strict. Coddling does nobody any good.

2) Be honest. This exercise is meaningless if the criticism provided is not honest criticism.

3) Be responsible. If someone evaluates you, make sure you return the favor. Writer collaboration and peer review is an exercise founded on mutual benefit.

4) Don't be afraid to be disrespectful of the writing. It's alright to call a person's writing "shit", provided you can explain the reason why it's "shit". Be reasonable and civil, but sometimes nothing serves as a better wake-up call than a violently-worded letter that explains in detail exactly why your quarter-dragon half-elf quarter-god Battle Mage with Archery Proficiencies is a walking heap of badly written wish fulfillment fantasies.

5) DO be respectful of people. Personal attacks are NOT condoned in this thread. Criticise the writing, criticise the writer's ability. But don't slam the writer as a person.

6) Don't be afraid to be subjective in your critique. It's also important for a writer to know how their work is subjectively regarded by different people, it helps them understand the demographic of their work better.

Alright, with that, I hope this initiative stays alive (one can dream, right? ;A;), and hopefully, this idea will help us all improve as writers.

[Code: PIRULUK]

Now, as creator of this thread and the spearhead of this initiative, it would be terrible form if I did not first subject myself to scrutiny. Therefore, here is the sample of one of my favorite pieces, hosted on this site.

Graterras: The Maiden of Fire and Blood

This tale begins in fire.

Red. Red, red, red. All Helen Lemercier can see is red. The light, peach-coloured blanket is resplendent in its vestibule of flames, the cold fire licking away the petals on the intricate floral designs. The mirror on the left wall cracks, cracks, cracks, cracks, until all it reflects is the shattered beauty of the room. Crackle. Crackle. All sounds vanish, replaced by the sinister cackling of the flames. Crackle. The world has two sounds: The crackling of the fire, and the barely audible shink of steel lacerating flesh, just outside the open door. Shink. A dull thud resounds through the room, a body crumples to the ground.

The world has three sounds: Crackle. Shink. And if you strain your ears, you can faintly hear a sob.

Helen Lemercier, sobbing, glances up. Her mother's lifeless, glassy eyes stare back. She feels anew the weight of her mother's corpse above her body, muffles a scream. Shuts tight her eyes. She reaches out blindly, grabs her mother's arms - cold, so cold, yet the fire so searingly hot - and pulls them forward, better covering her own body with her dead parent's. Footsteps, at the door. Helen keeps perfectly still, breathing slightly and quietly. The smell of death and blood assail her nostrils, searing them with a sharp, burning odor. The footsteps begin anew, fading quietly into the distance. Helen breathes a sigh of relief, then clutches tight the shawl in her left hand.

The once-pristine white shawl which Helen had recieved as a gift from her mother was now bloodstained, spattered with the blood of her family in a manner which could only be called artistic: Completely random, yet also not quite. As the footsteps continue to grow softer and more distant, Helen grips her teeth and hugs to herself all that she has left of her family. She will survive. She may have lost her family wealth and title, but no matter what, she will survive.

When the flames die down, when the enemy has left, a single girl stands firm amidst the blackened remains of what was once a large mansion. In her left hand is the red-and-white shawl, in her right is a piece of parchment, with words written on it in fresh blood. The enemy shall burn. The girl releases the declaration and allows it to flutter to the ground, coming to rest upon a charred and blackened footstool. The girl wipes the blood from her hair, wraps the shawl around her face, and walks away.

The Lemerciers - being wealthy landowners who made their fortune through trading with the common people - had built their mansion on the outskirts of a small city, for the purpose of facilitating trade and communication. Where exactly this city was has been lost to the Sands, but it was here that Helen Lemercier fled to after her home was razed. In the streets, she covered her face with her shawl to hide her identity. However, upon seeing her, many people understandably gave her a wide berth. After all, a bloodied girl with ash-blackened hair and half-burnt clothes hardly presented an approachable front. Helen lowered her gaze and tried to ignore the looks directed at her. Each stare seemed to be from one of her dead family, accusing her of clinging to life when they had died. Every so often, she stopped and entered an alleyway, removing her shawl and crying into her hands. Each time, she questioned the reason for her survival. Each time, she implored the Gods to grant her death.

What changed her happened during one of these temporary halts. In a particularly secluded alleyway, as Helen sat crying, She heard footsteps and a loud belch. She looked up, and found herself to be locking eyes with a well-dressed man behaving in an entirely inappropriate way. He staggered as he walked, and his face was almost blood red. The stench of alcohol assailed Helen's nostrils. A drunk, and a wealthy one, it appeared. Helen deigned to ignore him, then got up, folded the shawl neatly in her hand, and started to leave. However, she was stopped in place by a rough hand on her shoulder.

"And where are you going, pretty one?"

Helen was struck by a slight fear, but she answered, as evenly as possible,

"Away from you."

The drunk laughed, then forcefully spun her around and shoved her against the wall, pinning her arms above her head.

"Come on, let's have some fun, first."

He grabbed the front of Helen's shirt in one large hand and ripped it away, fully exposing her midsection. He released his hold on her arms and moved to grab her now-exposed breasts.

When and how do great warriors and heroes manifest? Some warriors attain their skill through vigorous, continuous training. Some are simply born talented, and hone their talents, either purposefully or unintentionally. And yet some are simply born with a gift for murder, suppressed until sad circumstance forces Fate's hand.

As the drunk roughly handled Helen's breasts, Helen moved her freed hands, placing them on the drunk's shoulders, gently caressing the back of his head. In her left hand was the bloodstained shawl. She playfully looped it around his neck, tugging on it to bring the drunk's mouth closer to hers. The man ceased his undeterred molestation and closed his eyes, puckering his lips. At that moment, Helen jumped while pressing down on the drunk's shoulders with her forearms, catapulting her over the head of the man, the shawl still wrapped around his neck, her hands still holding its ends. As her soaring arc through the air was about to end, she used the momentum from the jump to kick backwards at the man's shoulders. With the shawl holding the man's neck in place, the blow caused the man's upper torso, beneath his neck, to lurch forward, while his head could not move. There was a loud snapping sound, then the man crumpled to the ground. Helen released the shawl and rolled forward to a stop, then stood up to survey her work. The man's neck was bent at an awkward angle, his eyes rolled back. Dead. Helen began stripping the man of his belongings, putting on his clothes to replace the torn blouse. She took his purse and counted the coins. Less than she thought. The drunk must have been simply minor gentry, or perhaps he drank away all of his fortune. She pocketed the purse and unwrapped the shawl, wrapping it around her waist. With it having absorbed the smell of alcohol, it would be unpleasant to cover her face with. She left the body behind and walked out of the alleyway, continuing her search for a path to vengeance.

This murder marked the first of many in the illustrious, blood-spattered tale of Helen, Scorched Maiden, Bearer of the Bloodied Shawl.

Again, remember. Critique based on these criteria:

What I did best

What I did terribly

Now come at me!

(pst Huk soz for double post but I thought it would be stylistically better to leave my own post out of the OP)

[Raindrop Valkyrie]

((it's fine, I honestly agree with the assessment so don't worry about it.~))

@Acquie

What you did best: I love the sense of motion and emotion we get form the way you describe things. The Story itself flows with the addition of sounds, motions, movements and feelings. It moves the story by ways of feeling than perhaps a normal progression. First we feel the confusion the panic as more sounds build as she realizes what is happening. They add, and build an swell, slowly painting a picture of creeping dread as the reader realizes along with Helen what's happening. We feel the motion of her mother's body falling, and th contrast of the cold, the terrible thing that had happened with the heat of the fire. The situation around. We feel as she does that she has no time to mourn, no time to feel the coldness of grief as the heat of danger still resides there. It this that I like, that it's emotion that moves the story... the feeling of that moment we get a second hand taste of as a reader.

What was done the worst: I feel, in the fact that this piece never comes from Helen perspective, I have a hard time connecting with her, or understanding. I feel like, I never truly get to know her. While I get to feel alongside side her, I don't get to hear her thought her mind as these things happen around her. It's like watching it happen. It leave me... wanting. Wanting to know more about her, to under just how much she was effected by this, ot know how she is processing this, how she is coping. I feel like, as a result of this not being here, that I'm missing a piece with which to understand her. I feel like, she's out of reach of my ability to grasp becasue will I can feel with her, I don't get to know how she truly feels. I don't get to know her. I get to see her... but I don't get to know her. It's like, I'm a fly along for the ride sitting on the wall, and I get to watch these events, I get to feel them as they unfold in front of my eyes, but... I don't get to know how that person feels. To me, it leaves me wanting that, almost craving it.

and my piece:

The Bard of Flowers:

I am the bard of flowers. A bleeding heart that cares deeply for a world that cares nothing for him, or not nearly as much. The Queen's Anne Lace, for I am a bastion for those that cannot find solace elsewhere. Or, at least I try... The Yellow Rose, for the joy my tales bring, and the bonds of friendship that they create. The Sunflower, for the dedication and love of my craft.

Flowers have always been symbols since we laid eyes on them. We saw their struggles, how the bud, closed off to the world, suffered the elements, the dreary emotional storms of life. And one day, it opened. Its shell of armour fell away as it revealed its face to the world. We, We few are like flowers. In life we first start closed, for many reasons, but one day we open that door and see the world. Whether we finally find that talent we have been meaning to find, our calling or something similar. Perhaps the courage to show the world our true face and not hide behind a mask. Eventually we open our buds, and bloom. For we are life, we are beautiful. We are all glorious.

Maybe we look different. I know for sure that a morning's glory hardly looks like a rose. I'm sure there's a flower that each of us cherishes more than the others, but... all flowers are symbols of emotion. They vary of course, but they represent what makes us most human. emotion. The turbulent seas of that beast known as emotion. Oh, how horribly flawed you are. But, I love you.

You are what makes me human. I feel for I am human. Despite your flaws you make me beautiful. After all, what beauty doesn't have mar and toil underneath. We only look flawless on the outside, but we are cracked, scarred and broken underneath. Some more than others. Some... much better at holding on to all those little shattered pieces. Restrain. A terrible thing to have to do. But, this world shows us its cruel face often and plenty in its appearance. It tells us emotions are wrong, they are only a flaw. But, this is wrong. At least as far as I'm concerned. They are who we are, our soul, our meaning. If we did not have them... we'd be little more than biological machines plinking away trying to make sure there is more of us and that's it. There's so much more to life than that. It's emotion that makes this so. It is the flavour of life. The Spice of it. The Lifeblood. It is our songs, our art, our stories, our muse. Emotion is the force that drives us to feel, to seek, to better, to improve, and most importantly to understand. Emotion is the strongest force within this world. Its many shades colour it. The reds of rage, passion! The white of innocence; purity. The blues of sorrow.. and pensiveness. The green of vibrancy! LIFE ITSELF! Nature's favourite colour. The black of death, grief, strife. The busy yellows, full of energy, joy and their cousin pink sharing so much in its celebration.

In nature, we see all these colours. For emotion, is natural. It is part of us. It is us after all. Too often we are told how and what to feel. We shouldn't listen to this. We should not restrain ourselves this way. Its like asking a painter to never paint with the colour pink, for whatever reason. Still, even if you tell them that, they'll find way anyway, there's no point in suppressing emotion for it will inevitably bubble to the surface. And, when it does, in a way you won't want to see it. For the yellows of joy, easily congeal to rage when pressed, the cool blue, can turn FIERY RED. Careful where you tread, for a flower that has been trod on far too many times... one day won't stand for it any longer. You'll feel the fiery recourse of thorns bite into your flesh.

You know... my favourite flower is the bleeding heart. Not just because it represents me perfectly but for another reason. My heart still bleeds. Sometimes so much it feels like I'm paralyzed that I can no longer move. One white heart, for a person that I shall never see again, a red one for the world. My two hearts both bleed. They bleed all the time and still to this day. Sometimes, I worry that I care to much, that I shall bleed so much that it shall kill me. Eh... let it. It means that I cared about something. I may not be remembered... but that doesn't matter. My spark may be forgotten, but the things i did, the kindnesses I paid forward will kindle new flames, bloom new flowers. And, those flames will spread passion; they shall ignite elsewhere. And those flowers will bloom and show others what it means to find who you are. As such, more will bloom. Even when I'm gone... when I've bled so much, they'll still feel the ripples in that blood, no matter how small they are. They'll always be there. Maybe, they won't cause much impact, they'll be a small buzzing against the ankle of a titan... but it'll still be there. My heart will eternally bleed for this world and everything in it. May it be why I die. May it be the reason I go into whatever new journey awaits me. Because I cared so much for this world. Of course... I'm not wishing that day to come faster. Just that when it does come, that I still care as much as I do.

I'm the Bard of Flowers. The man who once danced amongst a field of anemones, however, no longer. A man who has now had a bird of paradise land on his shoulder. I wear a cloak of daffodils for while I know that the world will never love me back as I love it, I don't care. I am content, I am happy, I am joyful. I shall put a orchid in my cap, and a protea shall rest beside it, a king and its queen. It is I, who rules my destiny. I shall wield the mighty sword lily, so that no matter what darkness I face, I will always remember who I am. I am the Bard of Flowers. I shall continue to write with my quill, the Sunflower. I will pen stories for ages to come. For I, am the Bard of Flowers. its all I know how to do and its all I care to.

[Code: PIRULUK]

@Hukuna

What you did best: Yum. This reads like a free verse poem with a great narration. I read it out loud, and it sounds exactly like something I'd hear at a poetry slam. And I mean that in a good way. It has a good use of sentential length, and contains an inherent rhythm, that compels readers to keep reading. Very good use of imagery, and a high level of consistent symbolism runs throughout the piece, which lends it a nice cadence and overall adds to the presentation.

What you did terribly: That singular use of "Eh" in the second-to-last paragraph. SADASJKHFDASDJFEASHFUDASHFD. It totally broke the rhythm for me, and I found myself struggling to read after that. It feels so out of place, especially since it's an expression of apathy when from the context of the paragraph it should be an expression of resolve. Also, while you employ plentiful symbolism in the piece, I find the explanation of the symbols detracts from the effect. For instance, when you specify that your sword is the lily and the quill is the Sunflower, I feel like it kind of ruins the effect. Also the fact that you specify the orchid and the protea are "a king and its queen" feels a bit superfluous; the image doesn't seem to add anything of value, and feels like it borders on purple prose. Finally, I feel like this piece would serve best as the prologue to an anthology of poems or short stories, but falls short as a standalone piece. As an introspective, independent piece, it falls out of the expectations of that medium; I feel like the Bard is talking to me, but I don't feel like he's saying anything of value. Basically, it feels like a rant, which treads the uneasy border between an introspective and expository piece, without falling into either, and that feels very strange to me.

[Noir]

Good thread, so let's get to it.

Pros; This is a fascinating piece in general. You depict scenes like this really well, between the angst of loss, the deceptive, seductive murder scene, you've illustrated them all remarkably; despite the harsh circumstances, you also have a penchant for depicting characters like these in that they get back up, having found a purpose to live on even if fate was prejudiced to her for a moment. The prose is great, and getting to learn new words from this piece is also very educative; little to say, in general. fantastic work.

Flaws: First of all there are spelling and punctuation inconsistencies EG:

"In a particularly secluded alleyway, as Helen sat crying, She heard footsteps and a loud belch." The 'S' there shouldn't be capitalized.

"In her left hand is the red-and-white shawl, in her right is a piece of parchment" "Is" is unecessary before "a piece of parchment in the latter reference, personally anyway."

One of the things I notice in your writing is your lack of capability to paraphrase verb-wise, generally speaking apart from this piece in itself. It isn't a major issue but I am personally a bit strict when it comes to word repetition; you only use 'wrap' when it comes to action with the shawl near the end, for example, when there are like many other options available. I personally think you could do better, as the constant use of a verb comes across as very stagnant and awkward in writing to me, especially considering the illustrative use of vocabulary in the earlier paragraphs, that gave me an early good impression, only for this fault to cut it down somewhat.

Hit this up, if you may; it's a chapter from my recent work.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1YlIGAYtxBu8qiCBdKiHNrUFJzUq-0CmVXyrqozHsZfg/edit

Edited May 26, 2016 by YagamiNoir4896

[Sutoratosu]

Good thread, so let's get to it.

Pros; This is a fascinating piece in general. You depict scenes like this really well, between the angst of loss, the deceptive, seductive murder scene, you've illustrated them all remarkably; despite the harsh circumstances, you also have a penchant for depicting characters like these in that they get back up, having found a purpose to live on even if fate was prejudiced to her for a moment. The prose is great, and getting to learn new words from this piece is also very educative; little to say, in general. fantastic work.

Flaws: First of all there are spelling and punctuation inconsistencies EG:

"In a particularly secluded alleyway, as Helen sat crying, She heard footsteps and a loud belch." The 'S' there shouldn't be capitalized.

"In her left hand is the red-and-white shawl, in her right is a piece of parchment" "Is" is unecessary before "a piece of parchment in the latter reference, personally anyway."

One of the things I notice in your writing is your lack of capability to paraphrase verb-wise, generally speaking apart from this piece in itself. It isn't a major issue but I am personally a bit strict when it comes to word repetition; you only use 'wrap' when it comes to action with the shawl near the end, for example, when there are like many other options available. I personally think you could do better, as the constant use of a verb comes across as very stagnant and awkward in writing to me, especially considering the illustrative use of vocabulary in the earlier paragraphs, that gave me an early good impression, only for this fault to cut it down somewhat.

Hit this up, if you may; it's a chapter from my recent work.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1YlIGAYtxBu8qiCBdKiHNrUFJzUq-0CmVXyrqozHsZfg/edit

-What you did best

Your poetic language helps to paint a powerful scene, and it is obvious that meticulous detail has been put into every nook and cranny of the place. The setting feels like a living, breathing piece of scenery rather than a piece of still and static life, it immerses the reader in dripping fluidity, which does leagues of good for keeping their attention drawn to the narrative. Your formatting is kind to the eyes and does worlds of good making the piece far easier to read than if it had been jumbled into long paragraphs or lacked indentation or any line separation, as more than a few works I see nowaday unfortunately seem to be leaning more towards (It's unfortunate, that some don't realize that formatting is still an important part of a piece's narrative).

In closing, you did quite the job of showing that there is some obvious- likely romantic -affection between the two main characters, through just the first person narration and what brief bits of dialogue there are as well as the body language. While we may not know terribly much about the characters in-depth personalities, motivations, etc, all the things that makes one humanized and relatable, that is alright; even great authors often need entire novel's worth of work in order to display such to an audience. But even so, the so fluid expressing of such a common emotion as love helps to alleviate the fact that, in truth, we have no idea going into the tale who these characters truly are or why we should care about them- their obvious love coupled with the care put into the language touches on an inner base human instinct, similar to the effect of Suspension of Disbelief- We as an audience want to care for the characters, even if at the present, we have no real logical reasoning why we should; just as we want to put our faith into a fictional realm and believe that, within the confines of the narrative at least, what is being told to us is true in some form, even if we no actual logical reasoning behind why we should put our faith into the world.

-What you did terribly

This is more personal opinion than anything else, but... the Unicorn which entered towards the ending section. While you may have succeeded in getting me as a reader to set aside my preliminary apathy and care for the characters, there wasn't enough present about the world itself to convince me that I should set aside my disbelief so completely as to not bat an eye at the overused trope of the Unicorn. IE- the exposition made me connect to the personas, but not the actual world itself. I was an outside observer, looking in on the cute banter of a young couple one moment, and a skeptic wondering where in gods holy name a unicorn of all creatures suddenly came from in this world I have been dropped into which holds little context or exposition for it's inner workings.

That's the one and only thing I think you went wrong with in the piece- it feels like it is a scene plucked from the middle of novel or larger story. Now, if presented in chronological order in said novel, when I would've had born witness to ample exposition and groundwork in the beginning to familiarize myself with this world and accept the fact that yes, unicorns are present here, it's normal, there would have been no problem. But when the beast was dropped in like it was, coming at the call of the narrator, I as a reader felt as though the story had been immediately cheapened, and had gone from a scene of two star crossed lovers interacting to a page torn right from the annals of an old and cliched fairy tale book... especially when not only did the unicorn appear with little to no context they could exist here at all, but then started to even fly about as if it were a pegasus- a trait which, to my knowledge, is not commonly attributed to the traditional lore of a unicorn, and this in turn only made it feel like the story was further cheapened from what it had started out as.

TLDR? It started out very good, but started to go down-hill for me as a reader when the Unicorn was brought in.

Here's a short blurb from an original fantasy verse I'm currently working on- a very, very rough alpha draft of a prologue that thus far only Rose has seen. Like, it's literally almost the same as is originally written down in my prose journal (with a few grammatical edits made by Rose). Seriously, it is humanly impossible for me to impart upon you how utterly rough an idea this is- hence why I chose it instead of one of the countless RP posts I've made over the years.

Yes, I know it's short, don't comment on how short it is, you're not doing me any favors by doing so. This is likely not going to be the final product, more an example to myself of the themes and tone I'm trying to set for the world and story, as well as the characters themselves and their dynamic.

"Do you think they'll buy it?" A scowl crossed Mattus' mug.

Even here, outside in the foyer, the horrendous tang of charred flesh hung heavy on the air. It was a sparce little space, now that he had time to actually take it in. Drab, grey walls that appeared as if they'd not been loved in years, once adorned with the regal tapestries of the Arkadian Crown and illustrious banners of its many attendant houses, now barren and marred by the stain of soot and ash and blood, more than would probably ever wash out regardless how hard the handmaids scrubbed. The timbers above, worn and creaking with every thunderous clash in the halls and vast courtyard beyond. Shattered tile, strewn about the once pristine floor like a child's playthings caught in an ugly fit, once marked with masterful craftsmanship, not just another testament to this country's current state: broken, forlorn, shattered- like glass on the whispering winds of time. Just like Arkadia, perhaps this hall had been great once. But whenever such a time had been, it had long, long since passed.

"They will, for now at least," Ryder said.

The mage's eyes still held their ethereal, unnatural light from earlier, twin pools of crimson beset by loose locks of alabaster, so disheveled that Mattus would swear the bastard hadn't groomed in years. To think, when first they'd met, he'd tried to jest at the man's albinism over cups. Now he looked into those very same eyes with nothing but pure dread at the caster's temper... he'd seen more than enough men reduced to naught but smoldering cinders in this conflict.

"Of course, it would certainly help if you keep your wits about you. When you recite our tale, they'll be expecting a man grizzled enough by the flames of war to jest in the face of death itself, not some frightened little boy shaken as though he's heard the drop of thunder for the first time."

"Shit..." Mattus thought. He said, "What about the Seljuks already with us? I don't exactly expect they'll simply take the word of the two officers more opposed to their presence here than anyone else in the resistance. Gharen forged a pact of kin with their Emperor, after all... they'll at least want to examine the body of the man set to one day become their new lord and liege, and we've nothing to show them. Last I checked, Ahlrez may have been a sociopath and a mad dog, but no wizard..."

"Already taken care of-" No sooner than his smug declaration had filled the air did the entire castle's foundation shake beneath them as the earth roared. Fire blazed bright in the high windows of the hall, the world beyond painted with honied orange and ruby. Men screamed, countless men, foreign men, dying men, Mattus could hear them through the shattered ports. He knew. He looked at Ryder with a renewed type of dread.

"Oh dear, oh my..." The wizard chided, feigning disappointment with the shake of his head. "Oh woe to Myria this day, it seems some of my faithful constructs have... missed their marks by ever so much. Oh woe, how many brave and noble sons of that desert rat nest have I lain low into the earth this day?" Another quake. Another cacophony of agony. The world was bathed flickering white as they all burned. Ryder beamed, that low, manic chuckle escaping his throat with such vigor that Mattus felt he too would fall ill with whatever strange affliction of the mind the man held.

"All of them, now. Woe to old Myria..."

[Raindrop Valkyrie]

@Strat

Things you did well: This piece hooked me pretty well, I really wanted to know more about was happening and to see more of this world or whatever it is that it's hinting at. It hints at things I want to see, to understand and maybe get to learn about. All and all it makes me want more. It's brief nature probably makes this more so, and I know it's rough but it defintiely succeded in making me interested in what this will be.

Things you did terribly: I felt like I've literally been thrown into the middle of something with no context. For as interesting as the set-up is... it pretty quickly looses the magic for me as terms are thrown around left or right that it expects me to understand... but there's no way I can understand them since there's no context to be found at all. Like, I just don't know who these characters are... and I don't get enough of a feel for them or the world around them to grasp onto anything. I just really have nowhere to stand and get a point of reference that isn't woefully incomplete. Like, it doesn't do enough to set anything up. I don't really get imo... much of a sense of either of these characters. We get a couple of quick actions and a tiny bit of dialog. But, it's dialog that I feel could be easily a conversation between any two characters. Like it really just feels like they are barking exposition at me which... isn't good considering I have no idea what any of the things they are talking to me about are. I get very vague ideas but nothing concrete enough to make me know what these characters are about. While I liked what I read, I just felt lost in and like I was drowning in a bunch of things I barely get context on and at the same time lost and unable to find the direction the piece was headed... I just... literally had nothing to ground me enough that I didn't feel lost, dazed, and confused. Maybe it's just me, but it felt overwhelming to have so many concepts thrown at me all at once.

Won't post a new piece yet since you can just give me some on the one that is in here now up in my first post.

[Noir]

-Content

Thank you for the review, though I actually linked that thread by accident and had a different work in there instead, not realizing until a while had passed. My apologies. I'll review your work or stuff in the future later on when I head back from work.

Edited May 26, 2016 by YagamiNoir4896

[Flux]

Won't post a new piece yet since you can just give me some on the one that is in here now up in my first post.

And so I shall try:

What you did well: The language felt very poetic and pretty, and the various flowers and their symbols caught my interest from the beginning. The language flowed nicely for the most part, though there were a few exceptions that I'll get to in the next part. I liked the overall messages conveyed through the language, but I also like how towards the end, you came back to explain the bleeding heart metaphor you used right at the beginning.

What you did poorly: As I said above, there were a few places where the rhythm was messed up for me.

In nature, we see all these colours. For emotion, is natural. It is part of us. It is us after all. Too often we are told how and what to feel. We shouldn't listen to this. We should not restrain ourselves this way.

The red portion here is the first place that I remember. I feel like you could've made good use of some repetition here through the phrase "We should not." The contraction in the first sentence felt off to me. I feel like it would've flowed much better if both lines read "We should not." It could work if they were both contractions too. I just feel like they should've read the same way. Kind of nitpicky, but it stuck out to me.

Its like asking a painter to never paint with the colour pink, for whatever reason. Still, even if you tell them that, they'll find way anyway, there's no point in suppressing emotion for it will inevitably bubble to the surface.

The first sentence here just felt really odd to me in general. The wording seems like it could be better. At the moment I'm thinking "It's like asking a painter not to paint with the color pink," though I still feel like that isn't the best either. I would leave out the "for whatever reason" part entirely. The second gripe here is just a grammatical thing, so not really a huge deal, but it also stuck out to me. The second sentence should end after "anyway" and then start a third sentence with "There's no point in suppressing emotion, as it will inevitably bubble to the surface." Just some nitpicky grammar stuff that would help make the wording flow better. It feels like I'm being annoying pointing it out, but it's who I am ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

The only other thing would be that perhaps the symbolism goes on for too long. While it was initially interesting, I ended up lost halfway through. It felt like the point of his speech kept changing, and my brain got tired of deciphering metaphors and symbols. Maybe I'm just not a poetry guy, who knows. It was a good read overall though. The bard seems like an interesting character.

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I kind of struggled deciding whether or not to post something for critique. I don't really have many long passages that can stand alone, so it came down to this one or the Aervana opening post. Both have their issues as a piece to critique, but I'll throw this one in. For those who don't know the setting, it may or may not make much sense, as it assumes some character knowledge for the full effect. I'd have preferred to throw out the opening of the LN I'm working on, but I haven't actually written anything yet for various reasons. This is kind of short, but whatever. Anyway, here you go, poof!

Zweiss stood in the dark room, the only light coming from the moon outside the window. He was on the third story of the mansion, in Mr. Taylor's private office. The events outside had been more than enough to tie up any authorities still on the premise. They were still busy identifying bodies and trying to gather from the remaining witnesses what exactly had happened. Thus, Zweiss was left to his own devices for the time being, and came to Mr. Taylor's office. The office had been locked, of course, but when you controlled a power such as Zweiss's, a few locks were no real obstacle.

He closed the drawer of the desk he had just finished looking through. There was a sound of metal on metal and an almost indistinguishable hum in the air as Zweiss activated his power, and the drawer's lock clicked back into place. A frown spread across his lips for a moment. He still had not found what he was searching for, and there was only one drawer left in the desk. He gave the final drawer a tug, finding without surprise that it too was locked. It took him only a moment to open it. He thumbed through the papers on top, making his way towards the bottom of the drawer. Just as he passed the final papers, he found what he was looking for. It was a keycard that read:

John Taylor - Vice President of B.O.A.

Unrestricted access

Zweiss smiled as he pulled the keycard from the drawer, placing it in his pocket. This would be Taylor's spare, based on Zweiss's prior intel as well as how deeply it was buried. He could have a duplicate made and planted before John Taylor suspected a thing. He walked out of the office, closing and locking the door behind him.

"I've got what we need," Zweiss said to empty halls of the mansion. "It's time for our infiltration to begin."

There was the tap of slow footsteps as a figure walked around the corner. It was a man dressed in a blue suit, his hair dyed the same baby blue as his eyes. He placed a hand on Zweiss's shoulder, and the two of them disappeared in a flash of blue light.

End of Chapter 1