Young Writers Society

i'm back!

Two new short extracts I've written, with the same characters from my last work and a few new ones! Please leave some feedback (be as constructive as needed) about how to edit them, how to improve it; most importantly, please let me know if you like the characters, because if you absolutely hate one, i want to know, so tell me what i can do to improve them :)

Laughing, Tenebris stomped on the man’s head, striding away from the last of the small group he took down. He conjured strands of glowing necrotic energy in his hands, playing with the strands between fingers as he patiently awaited the pair’s return. A smile broke across his lips when he heard quick, heavy footsteps drawing closer and closer towards him, and eventually revealed the two paladins, approaching close together and both equally worn of their breath. Tyr’s eyes grew in shock, brow furrowing when his gaze trailed to Tenebris; he could feel the hate burning up inside him from where he sat, almost seeing each thought that crossed his mind.

“Don’t even try and open your mouths. I already know what you’re going to say,” he rose up from his seat, toying with his dagger, “such sacrilege! Oh, how terrible! He strikes once again, killing such innocents. Monster.” They remained silent, even when Tenebris reached out for his face, brushing blood all over his cheek. It took strong will, and he almost wanted to applaud him for remaining so stern, and he instead backed away. A searing heat burned up at his throat, and Tenebris looked down to see the familiar sight of his rival’s sword, glowing white on his tan skin.

“There it is. The feisty, petulant attitude returns, more like the man I know and love.”

“What in the hells are you doing here? Taking out some spite? If you’re going to do so, you find me.” He hissed, forcing his blade closer to to his neck. Tenebris laughed nervously, a sudden rush of heat rising in his chest.

“There’ll be more to come, I assure you, just… gathering my thoughts.”

The paladin beside him knelt down to check the dead, gazing quickly at their faces and placing a gentle hand on the youngest’s chest with a glowing amulet in the other. The boy couldn’t have been more than fifteen, still clad in the chainmail given to those at the beginning of their training, and his long tabard was still perfectly clean. Tutting, the rogue shooed him away, looking him up and down with disdain on his face. “You’re the one they always talk about. The hero. Are you not a bit old to be slamming that massive thing about?”

“I shall fight until my very bones break, and I will always find a way to serve him.”

“Oh, look at you. What a charming poster boy. He has the face for it too, seems to have taken the years kindly. Unlike you, my friend.”

Tyr frowned, scratching the stubble on his chin mindlessly before glaring towards Tenebris foully. Both of them had noticed a slow decline of the standard of how he presented himself, and in a few short years he appeared a decade older.

With hesitation, he finally replied, forcing the sword ever so slightly closer, “Vanity gets you nowhere.”

“But neither does languishing in the same old pain and hurt, thinking over old, haunting memories until all your tears are spent. I’ve seen you. Don’t lie because he’s here. I have seen how you cry, how you weep over your own failures and contemplate this existence of yours. My friend, you are slowly digging your own grave through every disturbed moment breath lives within you.” The rogue susurrated. Tibout stepped to his feet, staring into him diligently and waiting for something to break out between the two. He saw a small grimace spread across Tyr’s mouth, and heard a tiny curse escape his lips. His whole body moved in a nervous, twitch-like movement, though the steady blade remained.

“Draw, bloody fool! To save your soul!” Smiling, Tenebris did as he said, pulling his greatsword from its sheath slowly to eek out his opponent’s nervy anticipation.

“Gladly.” He met Tibout’s mace without a thought, noticing the man had not even bothered to channel a prayer through his weapon yet. The rogue shoved him aside, trying to thrust into his shoulder to no avail, and put his focus towards Tyr in front of him, who waited for an attack. He aggressively lashed out with his larger blade, the swing narrowly avoided and returned with three, quick jabs to what should’ve been his stomach before he slid to the side. Their blades clashed, and his strength slightly faltered as a blinding ray of light shot through him, burning hotter than fire inside of him; Tenebris snarled at Tibout, holding himself from keeling over completely before he lunged forward to decapitate the man entirely. To his dismay, he was interrupted before he could feel the heavenly slice through thick flesh and muscle by the other, his eyes now alight with an upmost hatred and anger.

“Keep your hands off him.” Tyr hissed, knocking away his sword as if it were the weight of a thousand blades. A shallow laugh escaped him, and a beam of happiness lit up inside when he kicked him in the ribs with force. He rasped quietly, straightening out his back and posture to bring only himself courage; a dagger soon came close to his belly, almost plunging deep into the rogue if not for a last minute twist of the wrist. He was too slow to react, and very much off guard enough for Tenebris to headbutt him down to the ground.

“Your strength falters, dear paladin,” he smiled heartily to himself, taking great pleasure in the sight of him kneeling defeated, “it falters greatly. You grow weaker, I can tell. Something eats away at you from the inside, whether it be the burden of living a life like yours or simply the burden of all you remember. Do not fail again.” Tenebris moved his blade away from his neck, gesturing for him to rise on subtly shaking legs.

more of these two XD i promise there'll be some more characters in my next posts, because they do exist 

He had no gauge of his whereabouts, and found himself wandering instead, bathed in nothing but moonlight and the power of a million stars. The path he walked was relatively untrodden, every surrounding flower starting to bloom, some already opened to the world and its lush green grass; out of nothing but inclination, the warlock knelt to his feet, running his fingers through each bud and petal, and closing his eyes in concentration. More sprouted under his touch, and he took pleasure in their vibrant smell, the shining colours of each blossom different from the rest. He took a few blades of grass carefully from the ground, holding them gently in his open palm. Eventually his eyes locked on Tyr, his shining armour hard to miss, glinting with the starry sky; he muttered a prayer, voice so hushed he could barely make out words from the hubbub.

“Lend me your strength, lord. Lend me what you can so I may never falter, in life and battle, lest I fail you. He nears, and if I must give my life for the cause, I will. For valour, now and always, my lord Alexander.” Stepping quietly, he made many more flowers from his palms, each one hooked with each other in a beautiful loop. Noticing his presence, Tyr rose to his feet, and was met with the gentle touch of Gheythas’ nimble fingers against his temples, laying the crown of flowers over his head. It fit him, if not being a slight loose, and the warlock let out a hearty laugh, trying to settle the blossoms as wild, random strands of hair spread around it.

“There. Beautiful.” The paladin smiled, a childish glint flashing for a moment inside his eyes before fading into a quiet stoicism once again. His gaze once again trailed to the moon, though he couldn’t seem to focus himself to do the same. Gheythas could only stare to his face, every silent thought inside of him cooped inside that he could never hear, held within. “Why do you pray and fight, Tyr Aeron?”

“That is a question I hope to live long enough to answer. Now, I fight because it is the only thing I know how to do, and pray for I know it is the only thing that will bring me strength. But one day, perhaps, the real answer shall reveal itself.” He smiled, bowing with the precision of a knight, in perfect form from where his feet stood to the hands behind his back.

“I do know one thing, however. My trust and heart go only to you, my liege.” Tyr proclaimed, looking up at the warlock with a calm face. His eyes shone in the light, the blue painted around the rims with the chill light of the moon. With a gentle grin, Gheythas took his outstretched hand, their palms joining with little difficulty. The paladin kissed the hand on top of his own, and came to stand, confident in his stature as he saw a flush of red spread over his companion’s cheeks.

“Let’s go. The others are waiting.” Gheythas let go of his soft grip, though their eyes were still locked together, each staring in to the other’s mind, trying to tell their thoughts with just a glance. He did know Tyr quite well after the week they had spent together; but many secrets were still kept inside him, for the paladin only. The way his steady glance looked upon the quiet fields of crops and grass below them, the small scars ripped across his thin face, the reasons his lived such a life, it was buried far too deep inside for him to pry. But his company was enough.

“The meadows remind you of back then, don’t they? Where as children we used to play games of pretend, of warriors and queens, fighting against dragons.”

His eyes steadied on the warlock’s tranquil face, and he steadily nodded, smiling as the happy memories came back before him, “yes. I remember it all kindly, both when I looked in on your antics and the rare times I joined in. And I remember you. Always the dogged character, the chancellor or the scholar.”

His horns caught the light as he perked up, an infernal red glistening along with the stars.

“Thirteen years, Tyr. I want to go back there, spend every moment in such blissful unawareness instead of finding answers to such a confusing game. It was so simple.” A silence ran out between the two, a silence of acknowledgment and secret longing that hung like the clouds around the moon and sun.

“Maybe it still can be. don’t lose hope, Gheyth. Don’t even try to, for it always remains.” He muttered, voice raspy under the weight of the future ahead.

In his moment of deep thought, a little, childish laugh broke his concentration, and he looked down to see his spell book nabbed from his belt.

“Hey!” The exclamation was sudden, and Tyr took the noise erupting from his throat as a sign to dart, and so he did, with a surprising nimbleness