Oftentimes when I write something, it is just because it kind of popped into my head. I know some writers refer to this as the manifestation of 'the muse,' but who knows? What I know is that writing is not something that is 100% structure or 100% creativity - you need to find a balance that works best for you in the moment, and throughout the continuation of a thought that comes and goes with the fleeting nature of a whim.
I've always wanted to write my own fantasy adventure - I've sat down and started more than one. What I end up getting stuck on is plot; I can draft up characters, give them an initial goal and then lose my train of thought when it comes to the question, "what next?" So instead of planning it all out, when it hit me this time, I just sat down and wrote. This scene is what popped out, and what I've been using as a basis for world-building. Let me know what you think - I always enjoy feedback!
Fantasy Adventure / Scene
TITLE: TBD (First Step to Darkness)
From where he lay upon his back - waiting for his breathing to steady - Joran watched the stars in the sky and wondered at their magnificence. Father always told him to be wary of the night, but look toward the heavens in troubling times.
"Son, those are angels in the dark," he would grumble, his voice dragging the words across one another like pebbles underfoot. "They help those who know how to heed them. One day, they'll be all you have left in this world."
He was a god-fearing man, Joran's father. Mostly due to his own evils - but he always believed angels would protect his family when the devil came calling. Even to his last breath, he didn't pray to a god above, but to the angels in the vast reaches of space.
For all the good it did him, it's a wonder Joran even looks to the skies at all anymore.
As close as he was to the village, there were few travelers on the road. Those that passed him by did so with an open sneer - avoiding his gaze and rushing to some unknown destination. His travels had left Joran battered, bloody and ragged from head to toe, and his fall had set his pack loose - tumbling his meager belongings all over the crooked path.
He didn't blame them - people rarely spared travelers a second glance these days. Borders were becoming chokepoints for bandits and 'tithes' for safe-passage, kings were beset with eagerness for glory, land and power - and war was on the horizon. Stopping to help a stranger was to invite disaster - and Joran was left to pick himself up without so much as a helping hand.
But despite the dangers of the road, there were far fewer travelers here than Joran had been led to expect. Inraya was meant to be a bustling village - a hub for weary travelers and merchants alike, its name synonymous with hospitality and solace.
As the sun relented against the horizon, yielding to the coming night, the streetlights remained dark, and the streets sputtered to an eerie, disturbing silence. Joran spared a second glance at the skies, offering up a mental prayer to whatever might be resting in the cosmos above, and rushed towards a sign reading 'The Red Banshee."
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