Help
Gardens of The Moon inspired me to finally delve into the realms of authoring. And now that I'm quite a way into my first (untitled) novel, I'd like to recieve some criticism.
This is the beginning segment of the first chapter, and I haven't yet edited anything.
I would be incredibly appreciative if you could give it a read, and some feeback
The curtains of mist had barely lifted, and the moon had only recently gone. The bugs of the morning chirped their usual drone, and wind swept through the bristling leaves of the forest, rippling the surface of the dam nearby. A glassy reflection of hills and sky lay in the water, smudged by occasional sweeps of air. Tall grass swayed in their warped lines, animating the bulges of earth. Boots crunched the rock and gravel, and squelched in the mud on the path, set alongside the dam. The young man trudged on, head downcast, and shrouded in a black hood. The blue tinge in the air brought an unnatural stillness to the land, saturating the feeling of seclusion. Greetings of wind came and went, brushing the tips of his long black hair, and tugging on one side of his hood as it did.
The boy stopped, turned, and stared back at the cottage he was leaving. It's sorry-eyed windows almost beckoning him back. Chimney smoke ran out black now, the embers of an old fire burning the soot inside. A fish jumped to his right, splashing water, deftly catching an insect on the surface, but the sound was muffled, swallowed by the mist that roped over everything. The wind gusted once, then died again, and he continued his slow walk. Up ahead, at the end of the path, loomed a large wall of cane, impermeable, save for a small trinket of dirt that followed through the middle. When he arrived at the mouth of the trail, he sighed, not wanting to go home, but knowing he needed to. As he set one foot in the tight walkway, all external noise of trickling water and birds vanished, unable to follow him into the thicket.
The ground was finicky and sporadic, rocks bewitching the traveller's feet. It was a long climb to the top, and on arrival, a few panted breaths left the boys mouth, forming short-lived clouds of steam. A blanket of bumpy hills and mountains stretched seemingly to the ends of the world from here, mottled by disorganised dots of hovels and homesteads, all themselves with a ribbon of smoke dissipating towards the heavens, and he wished to himself that he was a skilled painter, so that this moment may be with him forever. One mountain crested in the distance, towering over all others, even those nearer to him. A dangerously lengthy overhang jutted out from it's peak, barely visible houses sat upon it, just beneath the line of clouds through the sky. It was unimaginable that anything could lie beyond such a breathtaking wonder, but it was so. A city was beyond it, sprawling webs of construction. He thought to himself how much he hated cities, but he had to deal with it, for that's where he was headed. He started his descent down the rocky slope, the walls of swaying cane having receded away behind him. His ankles already ached from the walk up, and by the time he had reached the foot of the hill, they were swollen, and his face was red with exertion. The dark gray sky was now gently being pushed back by the rising sun, a somber orange encroaching in a bright crescent, and spots of people walked to their farms, minor motions against the hushed panorama. When he neared some settlements, he chose to ignore the people, even those he knew. Even when they called his name from across their crops. Farej. His own name felt mostly unfamiliar, like a stranger you've seen before. He hadn't said a word for so long, he wondered if he could still speak. Farej? Farej! it's you! The sounds were faint, sounding like murmurings from a dream. Familiar faces he'd known from a life he was trying to leave behind.
He marched on, passing these faces whose welcoming smiles were now long gone, replaced with confused frowns, his muddy boots carrying him ever further from them. Grass underfoot bent to to the will of his body, it was brittle and dry, and looking across the land, it was a stark difference to the valley he had just come from. The scene ahead of him remained alluring, the grass was still green, despite the dryness, and lush trees sat atop the highest hills on every side of him, rocky bundles protruding from the slopes. A sweet, full melody drifted down from another tuft of houses, perched stop a steep hill to his left. The notes had driven a throng of villagers to gather in a circle, listening to the fast stringing of whistles being thrown up from the flute. The song made Farej's heart lurch. He'd been away from people for so long, and without music, without joyous gathering. The song made him feel like a person again, and he thought of his mother. Emotion contorted his face briefly, and he composed himself, marching on home. Passing the countless towers of earth around him, he recalled the letter he had found on his cottage's doorstep a night ago. And he though of how it had gotten there. None knew where he lived. The letter read:
'Farej, come home, it is urgent. I fear this letter may not reach you in time, but our home has been razed to the ground. I know why you left, and we'll talk of it later, please just hurry! We'll be in Olpur, maybe in an inn if they allow us all to enter.
Love,
Seleste.'
The letter itself felt not like any paper he had ever felt before, it's weight nearly not existing. It felt as though if you were to hold it, and close your eyes, it wouldn't be there when you look again. It had no texture against the skin of his hands either. The only proof that it was real was that he could see it. He read it over a tenth time:
'if they allow us to enter'.
"Us?" he said out loud, the wind dragging the words straight from him as he walked.
Who could she be referring to? It was just the two of them as he recalled. He left home on his 12th birthday, ashamed of what he was. A hired blade. He wiped the remembrance from his mind, and instead looked around again. The farmhouses and cottages appeared far less frequently now, and the cheery music was long gone. What buildings were left this far away from the farms were dark, shady, and abandoned. Only one shone through with an uninviting yellow gaze. Farej shivered, not from the wind, and looked away, seeing a crouched figure atop a faraway hill. Though it didn't seem far enough. He stopped in his tracks and turned to the shape, his legs now unaccustomed to not moving. Squinting through his black hood, Farej's eyes could just make out that whoever it was, they were facing the other way. Relieved, he turned, and continued towards Olpur. Unaware that the man atop the hill was now watching him, still on his haunches, unmoving, observant. Farej, with his back to the sight, and already moving, felt a chill running up his back, despite the sun having risen a good stretch above the horizon. He did not dare look back. Climbing a hill that felt to have brought him no further away from the crouched man, the peak finally came, granting him brief respite.
you think too quickly to get your ideas down properly on a first pass. A and B amount to the same problem, really, from different angles. It might be worth trying a different writing technique, if you haven't done so before? If you recognise yourself in B, then maybe outlining will get the thoughts down, and give you time to flesh them out when you expand the outline.
