The Tsornian from Stormsrock by Mark Harris

This is another one of the opening chapters of Stormsrock, but this time it focuses on a completely different character, Dreskar, an orphan who survives from competing in an arena, something like the Colosseum in Rome. However, it is not too long before his life is flipped upside down, and he embarks on a journey of epic proportions.

The Prologue: http://writersandlitlovers.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/the-prologue-to-stormsrock-by-mark.html
Crooked Pass: http://writersandlitlovers.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/crooked-pass-from-stormsrock-by-mark.html

The grinding cacophony of the heavy steel gates being raised was almost drowned out by the thunder of voices. Dreskar stood in stony silence, gripping the shaft of his spear tightly, his expression emotionless. How many people are watching? He wondered. Five hundred? Six hundred? After a certain point the numbers became meaningless, amalgamating into a single faceless entity, watching his every move. He had to mentally remove himself away from his surroundings, and concentrate purely on himself and his opponent.  Directly opposite him, he could see what he was up against. It was a tsornian, a reptilian bird-like creature, three feet taller than him. He had fought one before, but not alone, and the last time he did so he was left with a deep cut along his side. If he had been alone, he would have died for sure. Dreskar stepped forward into the arena, his boots sinking slightly in the sand. The roar of the crowd was almost deafening, but Dreskar could barely hear it. His eyes were fixed upon the tsornian, carefully watching its every move. The tsornian did the same to him, its red eyes following the tip of his spear. Dreskar knew that this would be a tough fight, his toughest yet, perhaps. Tsornians were a step above the mindless beasts that he usually fought, they were devious. The last one he fought had entered the battle pretending to be injured, causing him to be severely wounded, and his fighting partner, Rasha, killed. They had underestimated it, a crucial mistake. But he had never been more ready for this fight. The majority of his time out of the arena was spent training, and he was at peak physical fitness.

            This time Dreskar would not take any chances against his foe. He would need all of his concentration and skill to become triumphant. Their eyes still locked together, Dreskar and the tsornian began to circle one another. Strike first, he thought. The tsornian obviously had the same thought, as it charged forward, trying to catch Dreskar with its beak. It turned to face him, but by the time it had Dreskar had leapt underneath it, trying to stab its vulnerable underbelly. The spearhead pierced the flesh, but it seemed to have little effect on the creature. He ripped out the spear, and ducked underneath a swipe from one of its claws. The other claw came striking down from above, and Dreskar leapt to the side, and as the claw rose again for another strike, Dreskar’s spear was thrust deep into the creature’s arm. Die already! It might take Dreskar a dozen attacks to incapacitate the tsornian, but he knew that the creature would be able to slaughter him with a single well-placed claw. The spear was still firmly planted in the tsorian’s flesh, and when its arm rose into the air, Dreskar rose with it. The creature shook its arm violently, and Dreskar lost his grip on the spears shaft, and he felt a sudden feeling of weightlessness as he was catapulted into the air. He smashed into the roof of the cage, before falling back towards the ground. He hit the sand with a thud, but before the pain could register Dreskar was back onto his feet. Without my spear I’m in big trouble. The crowd was divided between looking onto the fight, horrified and in silence, and chanting voraciously for the tsornian to finish Dreskar off. They wanted bloodshed. That was what they came to the arena for. Seeing its opponent’s vulnerability, the tsornian charged once again. Again, Dreskar dodged out its way, but this time by less than an inch. Out of all of the arena fighters, Dreskar was one of the quickest, and he often used this to his advantage. But being quick won’t win me this fight if I don’t have a weapon. He needed his spear back. He let the tsornian approach him, his spear coming closer to his reach. The tsornian stopped in front of him. It’s either trying to lull me into a false sense of security, or it’s afraid I’m luring it into a trap. However, he had no secret weapon to use against the Tsornian. Combatants could only take one weapon into the arena with them, and it had to be approved beforehand. He leapt towards the spear, and tried to rip it out of the tsornians arm, but it was stuck fast. The creatures other claw came at him, and he managed to dodge the attack, but its claw caught the shaft of the spear, and broke it in two, the base remaining in the tsornians arm. Dreskar snatched his now significantly shorter spear out of the sand, and drew back, analysing his options. Now I can’t rely on staying out of its reach and dodging away when it gets too close. I can’t attack unless I’m right next to it. The tsornian’s scaled tail whipped round, almost knocking Dreskar to the ground. However, he managed to jump over it, and stab his spear into it as it came past. Again, Dreskar was carried by his spear, but this time he did not let go. Clinging on tightly, he started to work his way up the tail, and onto the tsornian’s back. He used his spear as a handhold, and as he past it, he wrenched it out of the tsornian’s tail and thrust it straight back into its back. The beast let out a cry of pain, but the shriek was drowned out by the crowd’s deafening noise. To his delight, it soon dawned on Dreskar that on the creatures back, he was out of its reach; its arms could not bend backwards and no matter how vigorously it shook, Dreskar would not slacken his grip. He twisted the spear around, feeling the spearhead dig through the creature’s body. It was evident from the amount of blood seeping from its back and soaking his white garment, and the noise the Tsornian made when the spear had entered its body, that he had pierced something important. He could feel the tsornian’s body grow weaker underneath him, and he pitied it. It doesn’t want to fight me. It was captured from the wild and brought here, just so that it could be slaughtered in front of all of these people. In that moment, he was disgusted by the jeering crowd, but also by himself. I’m more a part of this than any of them. I’ll give you a quick death, it’s the best I can do. He clambered further up the tsornian’s back, and swiftly finished it off with a final stab into the back of its skull. It dropped to the floor, dead. He had won.

Dreskar wrenched his spear out of the tsornian’s skull, and only now did his ears become attuned to the roar of the crowd around him. He took a quick bow, and with his head held high, exited the arena. He did not want to be amongst these people for any longer than he had to be.

As he exited the arena, he was greeted by a man, who reluctantly tossed him a small pouch of coins. Dreskar opened the pouch, and counted ten iron shonos. Elated, he strapped the pouch to his waist, the white cloth of his tunic soaked in the thick blood of the tsornian.

  “Don’t tell me you wanted the tsornian to win,” said Dreskar, noting the bitterness of the other man.

  “You don’t have to pay tsornians. At least I didn’t bet on you to lose.”

  “You didn’t? I’m flattered.”

  “Whether I like it or not, you’re an annoyingly good fighter. You’re through to the next round.”

  “When is it?”

  “Three days’ time, at sunrise. You’ll be fighting whoever wins tomorrows fight.” Dreskar nodded, before leaving. He was competing in the Gresvensgal Flaming Fist tournament, which attracted some of the best fighters locally and from all across the Peninsula. The tournament’s name originated from the first victor, who became triumphant by setting his arm on fire and beating his opponent to death. Dreskar was one of the favourites to win, and his performance against the tsornian supported his ranking. This year there was forty-eight entrants, but as Dreskar had not been paired up with another fighter, he had been pitted against a tsornian. That had been his third fight, and now there were only fifteen entrants remaining, and there would be twelve by the time he next fought. But he did not have to worry about that now. Now he could relax, for the time being anyway.

            The sky was entirely clouded over as Dreskar emerged from the underground, bathing the city of Gresvensgal in a gloomy light. The city walls were so high that they blocked out most of the sun, so even on the brightest of days Gresvensgal looked dull.  The monotonous grey colour scheme did not help improve the city’s appeal. But in truth, Gresvensgal was closer to a fort than a city, and it had been deemed impregnable by the city’s rulers. Dreskar did not believe this, however. Everything has a weakness. He had changed out of his bloody fighter’s garbs and into more casual clothes, and he had left his spear in his locker back at the arena, alongside his other weapons. The regulators forbid the possession of weapons around the city, but Dreskar had a small dirk strapped to the inside of his leg. It’s too dangerous to travel without one, especially now. There was always the chance that another combatant would try and take Dreskar out of the tournament early.

            He headed to The Burnt Fly, an inn where he had for two years rented a room for himself. As he entered, he glanced around for familiar faces. Almost immediately, he saw two men he knew, Jett and Hachi, and sat down beside them. Tonight, he could easily afford a warm meal, drinks, and a bed. As an accomplished fighter, Dreskar was rarely short of money, but it had not always been so. He could remember many cold nights living on the streets, constantly trying to find the warmest and driest places to stay that would not get him killed. It had all changed when he had been caught up in a fight against another homeless man, and he recognised that he possessed a natural flair for combat. The next day he had signed up for a fourteen-to-eighteen years age restricted tournament, and he became the champion almost effortlessly. Many saw the teenager fights as barbaric and cruel, but for Dreskar it had provided a much-needed lifeline.

  “You fought damn well,” Jett said, greeting him. “When you lost your spear I thought you were as good as dead, but you pulled it around. Let me buy you a drink.” Dreskar was reluctant, but Jett insisted. “It’s the least I can do; I made a small fortune today betting on you.”

  Dreskar courteously accepted, and Jett stood up, and stumbled towards the bar. Jett’s state of mind was hardly surprising, Dreskar could not remember a single time he had seen him sober.

  “Sounds like a terrific performance,” Hachi said, raising a flagon of beer to his lips.

  “You didn’t make it?”

  “I couldn’t get in. It was packed full. You know, you’re the first person since Halgor the Hunter to slay a tsornian by yourself in the arena. People are saying that you might win this thing, you know.”

  “I can’t let myself get overconfident, that’s when I’ll make mistakes, which could get me killed.”

  “Indeed. Who’s your next fight against, then?”

  “Whoever wins tomorrow morning’s fight. It’ll either be Falio of Solomsburg, or Jorren, who I’ve fought against before. One of the strongest men I’ve ever fought, but certainly not the quickest.”

  Hachi smirked. “Jorren calls himself the Skullcrusher, does he not?”

  “That’s right. But I don’t intend on letting that huge obsidian hammer of his come anywhere close to my head.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a serving woman approaching them. “Food, anyone?”

  “What’s cooking?” Dreskar asked.

  “Lamb and potato stew. Killed the lamb myself, yesterday.”

  “We’ll have three bowls.” Dreskar paid her and the woman left, just as Jett arrived back, slamming down a flagon of beer down on the table in front of Dreskar, so hard that some of the liquid jumped into the air and onto the wooden table.

  Jett raised his cup. “Here’s to Dreskar, the greatest fighter the peninsula has ever seen.” The three of them clashed their drinks together and drank deeply, and they continued to drink late into the night, only stopping when Jett passed out, so Dreskar and Hachi together hauled him into a bed upstairs, and then they too decided to retire for the night. 

Crooked Pass from Stormsrock by Mark Harris

This is the first chapter of Stormsrock, the fantasy novel I'm working on. It focuses on Aerith, a member of a mountain clan called the Red Ravens. This is the character that I've written the most for and who's storyline has advanced the furthest (along with Sakun, a character you'll meet soon), so I thought it would be a good place to start. Aerith's story is one of the darker, more bloody stories compared to the other four main characters, with key themes of love, revenge, and power.

Crooked Pass

Black crows glided around the rocky peaks of Crooked Pass, high in the Aphralon Mountains. The falling rays of the sun struggled to pass through the thick blanket of dark clouds. A group of clansmen were gathered around a crackling fire, drinking and laughing, as a large bird was being twisted around a spit, fat dripping from its wings and into the flames. From out of their midst a flag rose, a crimson raven painted in blood on off-white cloth.

            A fair distance away from the camp, a young man sat on the side of the cliff. The rock he was sitting on was overlooking a thin, twisting road with rocky cliffs on either side.  His name was Aerith. He was sipping from a silver flask, but it was not alcoholic. He was on watch duty, and he needed full control over his senses. Aerith breathed in deeply, absorbing the cool night air. His eyes gazed down upon the road, trying to see if anyone or anything was nearby. A lone figure, a creature, anything. He brushed his long, ebony, hair away from his eyes. I need to get that cut; it’s getting in the way, he thought. His ears were carefully poised, ready to pick up any unwelcome noises. There were the regular distant calls of animals and beasts, and the din back at camp, but he needed to hear beyond that, if he was to hear anyone approaching before they were close enough to stick a knife in his gut. He ran a finger gently across the blade of his axe. The edge was sharp, sharp enough, at least. It was a short, one handed weapon made of steel, with strips of leather wrapped around the handle for grip. It was a crude, simple weapon, but that was all that was needed for a fight. Weapons strewn with decorations and encrusted with gemstones were nice to behold, but served no purpose. A weapons only purpose is to kill, he reflected.

Aerith would have liked to be with the others around the fire, but in a way he preferred to be here, in solitude, with what seemed to be the whole world beneath him. But he could not pretend to enjoy the gripping cold. It always seems to be getting colder nowadays. He was garbed in thick cloth and animal skins, but the hairs on his arms and legs still stood on end whenever the icy wind blew across the peaks. Although he generally disregarded all sound from the camp, there was one voice that he paid rapt attention to. She was a girl a couple of years younger than himself, with flowing auburn hair, and a voice that made his heart sing. Her name was Ysabelle. She smiled at him whenever he passed, or whenever she caught him looking in her direction, but she was not his. She belonged to another man, called Turek. Turek was muscular and fierce, with black braids of hair hanging heavily from the crown of his head. He was the leader of their camp, and his authority was indisputable. He was renowned for his ferocity and prowess in battle. In their last skirmish, against another of the mountain tribes, the Earth Men, he had killed five of them, decapitating two. After the Earth Men had retreated, he had brought the two severed heads to Ysabelle, who was clearly repulsed, but could not object to him. If she did, she would be left behind to fend for herself, or worse, killed. He had a feeling that Ysabelle did not even like Turek at all. At least, he hoped not. Suddenly, Aerith heard footsteps behind him, and he turned quickly to see who was there, axe in hand. When he saw it was a friendly face, he relaxed, and rested his weapon back on the ground, alongside his shield.

  “Here,” the incomer said, handing him a leg of the cooked bird. The man’s name was Pathre. Pathre had joined the tribe less than a month after he did, and he was closer to him than anyone else. They often hunted and took watch together. “I thought you might be hungry.”

  He took the leg gratefully, murmuring a word of thanks. Pathre slumped down beside him. “I can see why you like it here. You can see all the way to the sea.”

  “You can,” he paused, before shifting slightly in his seat and asking a question he had been contemplating all evening. “Do you ever wonder what would have become of us if we didn’t join the Ravens?”

  Pathre laughed, “And what, become a beggar in the cold streets of Kilnsguard? Or a common thief? No, I much prefer to be up here, with the rest of you lot. Freedom, companionship, and excitement. What more could you possibly want?”

  “Nothing, I guess.”

  “Exactly. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than where I am right now. Fancy a game of tactus? I need to beat you for once.”

  “I shouldn’t, I’m on watch.”

  Ignoring his friend’s refusal, Pathre dealt the cards out. “Who’s going to know? And you can keep watch at the same time.”

  Aerith smirked, picking up his hand. “Go on then, it doesn’t exactly take long to beat you.”

            Pathre played more proficiently than he usually did, but nonetheless he was no match for Aerith, and the match was over in less than fifteen minutes. “You cheated. There’s no way you could have known that I had a galamak on the table.”

  “Why else would you have played your avalanche the turn before?” Aerith grinned at Pathre’s disdain.

  “You’re too good,” Pathre concluded, shaking his head. They sat and talked for a short while, but soon a voice called Pathre’s name from the camp. Pathre stood up, and said a brief farewell. And with that, he was gone, and Aerith was once again alone. As the night went on, the voices grew quieter and quieter, until they were completely silent. The noise was replaced by faint groans and snores, and Aerith was the only one awake. You just need to stay awake until they wake up, then you can rest. But even as the thought ran through his head, his eyelids were getting heavier, and it was getting harder and harder to fight off sleep.

Aerith awoke to the creeping light of the morning sun, and the distinct sound of a carriage trundling along the pass below. He cursed himself for falling asleep, but with a glance at camp, he realized that nobody would have noticed, as they were as soundly asleep as he had been a few minutes ago. He rushed over to the camp to rouse them, and alert them of the carriage’s presence. He knelt beside Turek, whose arms were tightly wrapped around Ysabelle, who had a faint look of discomfort etched across her face. Aerith felt a pang of jealousy for a second, but placed it aside, and gently shook Turek into consciousness.

  “What is it?” he growled angrily, his eyes still closed.

  “There’s a carriage on the pass, we don’t have long if we’re going to intercept it.”

  With this news, Turek leapt to his feet, and roared, “Up with you all! Get your gear ready, we’re dropping in on a carriage on the pass!” The rest of them struggled to climb upright as quickly as possible, before grabbing their weapons, a haphazard collection of swords, axes, hammers, spears and bows of all shapes and sizes. A few of them strapped crumpled helmets and beaten chest plates to themselves before nodding at Turek, showing they were ready to follow his orders.

  “As soon as I give the signal, I want bowmen to take down those horses. Everyone else get down to the road as quickly as you can, before they realise what’s going on. Capture everyone you can, and kill anyone you can’t.” He paused a few seconds, waiting for the right moment. “Now!” he yelled. A handful of arrows rained down upon the two horses pulling the carriage, and they let out a cry of pain as the barbed arrowheads buried themselves inside their flesh. Crimson blood trickled down their hides, and they collapsed to the floor. There was the scrambling as the Ravens, twenty or so of them, clambered down the rocks, finding the perfect balance between haste and care. The cliffs were steep, and a small mistake would send them plummeting towards their deaths, but many of the clansmen had lived in the mountains their entire lives, and were proficient at keeping their balance and finding footholds where there seemed to be none. It took less than a minute for the last man to reach the ground, by which time three frightened looking young men had pulled out weapons, and stood outside the carriage, glancing from left to right, trying to keep all of their enemies in their field of vision. There was no point in running away. They would be cut or shot down as they ran. The Ravens were soon upon them. Pathre was at the front of the charge, and was soon battling with one of the men. Their swords clashed three or four times before Pathre found an opening and slashed a deep cut in the man’s hip. The man knelt to the ground, dropping his sword, as blood ran down his legs, and onto the dusty ground. Another Raven thrust his spear into another man’s throat, and blood gushed from the man’s neck, as he fell to the floor, never to rise again. The third man lasted a little longer than the first two, swinging his blade from side to side, parrying and dodging blows from left and right. But he was massively outnumbered, and it was not long before he was slain. Aerith was surprised he did not just surrender, seeing the fate of his comrades. When the defenders were either dead or incapacitated, Turek wrenched open the door of the carriage, to see a finely-dressed woman sat bolt upright inside, sweat pouring down her face.

  “Didn’t anybody tell you not to travel these roads? Tie her up. And him, too,” he commanded, indicating the man Pathre had cut. They did so, and soon Turek was interrogating the two of them. “So who might you be?” he said, with mock politeness, but with an unmistakable undertone of menace.

  The woman held her head high, and answered with as much dignity as possible, “I am Estelia Manescroft, daughter of Lord Manescroft, steward of Kilnsguard.” The man beside her gave her a horrified glance, shocked that she had given away her identity so freely.

  “Aha! It looks like we’ve found ourselves a keeper!” Turek laughed. He turned to the man beside her. “And what’s your name?”

  The man mumbled something incomprehensible. Turek glared at him, and the man repeated, more clearly, “Destrum.”

  “Well, Destrum, I would like you to go back to Kilnsguard, and inform the steward that we have taken his lovely daughter hostage. Tell him we want a thousand golden coins in exchange for her life, and we can do the exchange at this exact spot, in three days’ time, as the sun sets. If he brings anyone with him, we’ll kill his daughter without a moment’s hesitation. You got that?” Destrum nodded weakly. His wound had almost stopped bleeding, but his linen shirt was soaked through with blood.

 “They’ll never believe him,” Estelia said. Aerith was astonished at the woman’s stupidity.

 “Might be you’re right,” said Turek. “Chop off some off her hair, and give it to me.”

  One of the newer Ravens leapt forward, eager to earn Turek’s respect. He took a dagger from his belt, and taking a handful of Estelia’s hair, sawed through it. Estelia looked outraged, but remained silent. She had been lucky, however. Aerith had seen hostages have fingers or worse cut off for proof of their capture.

 “Untie him, and send him on his way.”

  Destrum was passed Estelia’s locks of hair, and untied. Dazed, he stood upright, and started walking hurriedly in the direction that they had come from, obviously pleased to have escaped with his life.

The Prologue to Stormsrock by Mark Harris

So, this is the prologue for the fantasy novel I'm currently working on, Stormsrock. I've been working on it off and on for almost two years now, but hopefully I'll have it completed soon enough. Over the next few weeks I plan to post the first chapter from each of my five point-of-view characters. I don't want to say too much about it at this point as this is the very start of the novel, so just have a read and see what you think. 

Prologue – A Message From The North

The woman shivered violently. She had never known a cold like this one. The blizzard buffeted her body from every direction, chilling her down to her very bones. All she could see was white, pure, unadulterated white. She would not survive the hour; but she had come to accept her impending death, except for one matter. She had to tell someone about what she had seen. The message was nestled in her innermost pocket, the message that had to be delivered. Only she could tell them what had happened, and they had to be warned. But who can I tell, and how? She thought. As far as she knew there was nothing living within miles of where she stood. Her weary legs struggled to hold her weight as she stumbled forward, and she fell, crumpling into the knee deep drifts of snow, which embraced her almost tenderly. Her fingers, painted blue by the cold, trembled as she tried to wipe away the tears from her face, but the tears had frozen solid against her cheeks. The cold winds beat at her endlessly, each gust like a thousand tiny needles piercing into her flesh.

            With the last of her strength, she pushed herself back onto her feet. She did not know why. Perhaps a small part of her still believed that if she pushed on just a mile longer the blizzard would subside, and she would find a cave, draped with bearskin carpets aside a crackling log fire. But even that would not save her. She no longer even knew which way she was going, but she was moving so slowly now it hardly mattered. Confusion raged through her mind, but the one thing she still knew was that she had to send her message, no matter what. Shivering more violently than ever, her breathing grew forced, shallow and slow, juxtaposing with her racing heartbeat. Her eyes began to droop and she had to fight hard to resist the temptation to give in, and collapse into the snow once more. If she fell again, she would not rise. The snows and the cold would take her, and the discovery of her frozen corpse, if it ever was found, would take decades, perhaps even longer. “Fighting it is pointless”, she mumbled quietly to herself, the words weak and incomprehensible. “Nothing can save you know, you might as well get it over with and die.” But for now, she endured.

            She should never have come this far north. As far as she knew, she was the last one left. Each of her five companions was dead, one killed by disease, but the other four by the cold. It was the most dangerous foe she had ever faced; undefeatable, inescapable, unrelenting, and lethal. The worst part of it was that it was her idea to come searching this far, for the stone. His stone. But what they had found instead had been far more terrifying. But the cold would be the end of her, and all the hopes she had of warning anybody of what she had seen. They have to know, she thought. If they did not prepare, every inhabitant of Stormsrock would be in danger of their lives. Thousands had died fighting against him last time, and now he had risen once more, he would become more powerful than ever. He had to be stopped before that happened. But she had failed. They would not know the danger until it was breathing down their necks.

Then she saw it; a white bird. Larger than a raven, it turned its intelligent eyes towards her, beckoning her forward. How the bird had got there, she did not know. It took her almost a minute to reach into her pocket and pull out the letter. It was soaked through, but it was still legible. The bird hopped closer to her, cocking its head to one side, and with two beats of its wings it landed onto her numb shoulder. Somehow it knew what she wanted. Its beak jabbed forward, clamping the letter tightly. Slowly, so slowly, she inched her mouth to its ear, and whispered into it a name, a name that had not been spoken for a very long time. Part of her told her that the bird was a delusion, a fantasy of her dying, frozen brain. Another part assured her that the bird would not know what she wanted it to do; it was just a bird, after all. But it was too much of a coincidence that it had come to her now, and taken the letter from her hand. It’s the only chance I have. The bird even seemed to nod slightly in recognition of the name, dipping its head almost reverently, if only for a split second. Then it took flight, somehow prevailing against the fierce winds, almost instantly merging into the blizzard, out of her sight. The sides of the woman’s mouth rose ever so slightly, as she knelt down into the snow. Perhaps they would be prepared for the oncoming storm. Perhaps her message would save thousands of lives. Whether or not the bird would ever reach its destination, she would never know. But it was out of her hands now.

She was still smiling as her eyes closed shut for the last time.

About Us

Who we are and what we want to achieve

Mark

Hi, I’m Mark Harris and I predominantly write fiction, but I may also try my hand at some poetry now and again. I’ve written a 70,000 word adventure sci-fi novel targeted for young teens called ‘The Vortex’, and currently I’m halfway through a satirical fantasy novel named ‘Stormsrock’. Don’t expect that to be finished anytime soon though. I’ve also written a handful of short stories.

               

Unsurprisingly, I love reading, and I’m open to reading all forms of literature, across all genres, from Homer to Shakespeare to Rowling. I particularly enjoy reading fantasy stories in my free time, and have found inspiration for my current project through writers such as Brandon Sanderson, Joe Abercrombie, Andrzej Sapkowski, Patrick Rothfuss, George RR Martin and of course Tolkien.

               

I’m a first year student at the University of Nottingham, living on campus, studying English with Creative Writing. Other than reading and writing, I like to play piano, bass guitar, ultimate frisbee, video games and go for cycle rides. I’m excited to get this blog running and I hope you can expect great things from it!

Steven

My name is Steven William Hardy; I enjoy the Arts, with a particular focus on writing and acting. I am willing to try my hand at a variety of genres, but especially enjoy the fast page turning action associated with modern teenage fiction and fantasy. My favourite writers range from J.R.R Tolkien and J.K Rowling, to Angela Carter and C.S Lewis.

I enjoy acting, which has led me to consider writing plays and screenplays, something I hope to explore during my time at University. Poetry is a skill I am yet to fully devote myself too; however, I hope that through this blog I can share some rough pieces with you. I have a particular love for how a book becomes a script and a script a film and so on; this stems from a love of literature and of film. There are many people who inspire me; from writers to actors/actresses to musicians to comedians and poets alike.

To contribute a unique gift to someone whether it be through writing, acting or any of the Arts is a profound goal, which I hope to achieve. To make someone laugh, smile, even cry, but fundamentally allow them to relate to the work I create, is a thing of beauty to me.  I write a range of material from comedy all the way to dark literature, but I still have a lot to learn and work on. I hope that through this blog, you can see some of the creative potential ‘floating’ around as we try to redirect it and entertain you!

Ben

Hi, my name’s Ben Garry, and I’ve loved creative writing for as long as I can remember, but it’s very hard to put my finger on what it is that I love about it. Why do I do it? It’s a way to express myself, yes, but often I don’t begin writing something with a particular point to make or aspect to emphasise. I think that more often than not, I write simply to create stories. I’m a big fan of stories. We cannot escape from stories. Our culture is built on stories. They saturate daily life and we all tell them without even thinking about it.

I suppose that what I really love are stories that take you somewhere else: another place or time. Fantasy, science-fiction, myths, legends, that sort of thing. Some people mock this type of fiction for being escapist, but I think that escapism is one of its great strengths. If an author can make their world so believable that you think you’re there, then I reckon they’ve done a good job.

Thus, my inspiration comes from a variety of sources, old and new. On the one hand, I can’t get enough of the ancient stories: Beowulf, the Aeneid, the two Eddas….but on the other hand, more modern authors such as Cormac McCarthy, Tolkien, Terry Brooks and William Blake have all made an impact on my writing. I also have to admit that I’m a bit of a comic geek, and the modest Marvel collection staring at me from my bottom shelf cannot go unmentioned.

In terms of my own writing, I like to experiment a little bit. Normal prose is fun, but I like to play around with what you can do with it, as well as experimenting with different poetic forms, from various rhyme schemes to Old English alliterative verse. I like a bit of everything really. That’s me.

Our Aim

We’re three English students at the University of Nottingham, and our aim is simply to create a platform where we, and, in the future, other students, can share works of creative writing. We feel that a blog of this kind can only be enriched by having a variety of authors; we all have different inspiration, different ways of writing and different views on life, which hopefully will come together in a rich, diverse online space.

Over the coming months, we hope to provide readers with a wide spread of prose, poetry and plays from a variety of different genres. We know that, just as writers all have different styles, readers all have different tastes, and we like to think that, no matter what your preferences, there will be something on this blog that you can truly enjoy. Another possible benefit would be that you may read something a bit different and find that you like it. Perhaps you don’t read poetry, or haven’t really seen fantasy before; it would be awesome if you could find something new to enjoy through this blog.

So stick with us, keep reading, and hopefully you’ll find something you love on this blog over the coming months, because there’s no point in creative writing if no one enjoys it.