The days drag longer and longer. My life has become an endless cycle of swinging blades in the blazing sun, training for a future I find no joy in the thought of. Having the skill and wielding my father’s blades is an honor. The whistling of the pure metal through the air excites the blood of my ancestors, but it pales in comparison to the sweet sounds of a clear voice.
With each slice, I dream of a slide from one low note to a high one. With each clashing block, the reverberating power of opposing harmonies, beautiful in their contradictory unity. And at the climax of the fight, my opponent dripping with sweat and wreathed in fiery frustration, I dream passionately of a belting vibrato shaking my throat and awaking the ghosts of ancient bards, a masterpiece of sound, a sculpture of liquid light destined to die of silence, but precious in that moment.
I return home, to more practice, my father’s rough shouting falling on the deaf ears of one who wishes to be far away. The fighting comes easy with no passion, contrasting so harshly with the desperate struggle of emotion that a single lyric can rip from me.
Finally, when the grating has stopped and I am left alone to choose my path, I turn to Lyrthelion’s shrine. It stands humbly in the grove just outside of town, a rarely trodden path leading to my sanctuary. The first moment you step foot in it, you can already feel that something holy resides here.
The only man made thing that can describe the true awe one feels upon entering this place is the cathedral at Mel'Dor, but not even that masterpiece comes close to this. Arching trees line the pathway, reaching for one another like the lovers Alarik and Maren. Soft light streams through the wide leaves, creating living stained glass windows and dappled corridors. Wind rustles them like murmuring priests, watching over the singer’s respite. Tiny flowers of every color imaginable and delicate blades of grass cover the ground, creating a joyous carpet for the storytellers and history keepers to rest upon.
Traveling artists leave gifts for our musical deity here, like relics of some ancient beloved saint. A poem of devotion, a ballad of some hero’s exploits lovingly written, petals of the Lion Rose scattered about like a painting. Sometimes bards and skalds sleep in this grove, serenading the odd patron with hymns of Lyrthelion’s greatness. And always, the centerpiece of this place of worship, the altar. Deep purple candles glow gently here, casting a holy light on all who enter. I smile at the simple cherrywood altar, the only extravagant piece for our deity. A marble bowl flecked with gold sits in the center, filled with a glistening translucent liquid, swirling golden in its palace. I guard it. This altar is my duty, my great passion. All my joy and energy are protected in this space, a welcome safety from the harshness of my everyday life. Here I find a purpose for my grueling training, a beauty in my violent skills. I protect it all, and I love it dearly. My only wish is to one day find a master, a fellow follower of Lyrthelion, to teach me how to sing like a bard.
I have no idea what is going on. Was I read reading about an assassin in training? A female hitman? Or a crazed psychopath?
Then the story jumps to a house and then a Lyrthelion’s shrine? What is a Lyrthelion’s shrine? For that matter, why is a father so rigorous with training, what ever training it is supposed to be used for?
There was so much jumping around and inconsistently, it was very hard to follow.
Hi SoullessGinger,
Mailice here with a short review! 
Let's start with the first section right away:
Wow. I had to read it twice because I found there were so many things rushing at the reader at once that I lost my grip. But it's a really great beginning. If one sits down there again and reads it carefully, one clearly notices the interesting word choices and things you want to present to the reader. I especially like how you swing from one sentence to another, presenting something new. It sounds poetic and philosophical. I imagine a samurai training and reciting this to himself like a mantra.
With each clashing block, the reverberating power of opposing harmonies, beautiful in their contradictory unity.
If you enter from the west side, the grove becomes a cathedral.
What does the grove look like when you enter it from the east side?Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening/Night(whichever one it is in your part of the world),
Hi! I'm here to leave a quick review!!
First Impression: Well this seems like a pretty decent little chapter one here. Definitely seems like it would make for a fun story based on what I've seen so far. Anyways, a bit more detail down below.
Anyway let's get right to it,
The days drag longer and longer. My life has become an endless cycle of swinging blades in the blazing sun, training for a future I find no joy in the thought of. Having the skill and wielding my father’s blades is an honor, and the whistling of the pure metal through the air excites the blood of my ancestors surging through these veins, but it pales in comparison to the sweet sounds of a clear voice. With each slice, I dream of a slide from one low note to a high one. With each clashing block, the reverberating power of opposing harmonies, beautiful in their contradictory unity. And at the climax of the fight, my opponent dripping with sweat and wreathed in fiery frustration, I dream passionately of a belting vibrato shaking my throat and awaking the ghosts of ancient bards, a masterpiece of sound, a sculpture of liquid light destined to die of silence, but precious in that moment.
I return home, to more practice, my father’s rough shouting falling on the deaf ears of one who wishes to be far away. The fighting comes easy with no passion, contrasting so harshly with the desperate struggle of emotion that a single lyric can rip from me.
Finally, when the grating has stopped and I am left alone to choose my path, I turn to Lyrthelion’s shrine. It stands humbly in the grove just outside of town, a rarely trodden path leading to my sanctuary. If you enter from the west side, the grove becomes a cathedral. Arching trees line the pathway, reaching for one another like the lovers Alarik and Maren. Soft light streams through the wide leaves, creating living stained glass windows and dappled corridors. Wind rustles them like murmuring priests, watching over the singer’s respite. Tiny flowers of every color imaginable and delicate blades of grass cover the ground, creating a joyous carpet for the storytellers and history keepers to rest upon.
Traveling artists leave gifts for our musical deity here, like relics of some ancient beloved saint. A poem of devotion, a ballad of some hero’s exploits lovingly written, petals of the Lion Rose scattered about like a painting. Sometimes bards and skalds sleep in this grove, serenading the odd patron with hymns of Lyrthelion’s greatness. And always, the centerpiece of this place of worship, the altar. Deep purple candles glow gently here, casting a holy light on all who enter. I smile at the simple cherrywood altar, the only extravagant piece for our deity. A marble bowl flecked with gold sits in the center, filled with a glistening translucent liquid, swirling golden in its palace. I guard it. This altar is my duty, my great passion. All my joy and energy are protected in this space, a welcome safety from the harshness of my everyday life. Here I find a purpose for my grueling training, a beauty in my violent skills. I protect it all, and I love it dearly. My only wish is to one day find a master, a fellow follower of Lyrthelion, to teach me how to sing like a bard.
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