shayhiri
March 2nd, 2005, 07:20 PM
1. What kind of descriptions do you prefer and why? "Haiku" ones, "Tolkien" ones... ?
2. English is my second language, so if you could just take a "native speaker" look at the descriptions below, I'd be extremely grateful. (They're all beginnings of gamebook duels, hence the Present Simple and Continuous.)
***
The first stars twinkle in the empty skies past the faded sunset. The moon is somewhere there, a barely visible spectral apparition. A soft glow hovers above the endless marshlands and mires that sprawl away to the horizon in the deepening dusk.
The evening wind quietly whispers in the reeds and slinks through the long springy grass around the patch of solid land that awaits the duel. The sparse warped trees are clutching the sky with their crooked claws of dead boughs. Voymir raises the long sword in front of his face, then points its tip down and composedly bows at you above the hilt. You nod back with a nonchalant smile.
The Watcher waves the fan.
Forgriff’s blade instantly flies up, transforming into several crossing arcs and then simply vanishing in the twilight with a sinister whizz. Voymir slowly sets off towards you, seemingly unaware of his lethal aura.
***
The dormant sea is stirring in the reverie of the predawn twilight and whispering along the wet sand. The sullen cliffs soaked with damp cool seem loath to part with the night. The seagulls are already strolling about, ruffled up and grim.
A stray crab darts off aslant among the washed-up jellyfish entangled in brownish seaweed, bumps against your boot and takes off high above the waves aided by your well-aimed kick. А gull circling nearby snatches it in mid-air and silently flees the rest, which swoop on it with ugly squawks.
Voymir gives a polite cough. You turn round and somewhat horrified find out that the Watcher is holding an open red fan.
***
The very first glance down persuades you of the necessity of avoiding a second one. It is high indeed. You turn your gaze away from the noisy, agitated crowd that fills up the Central Square and discover the astounding vista – the entire unfamiliar city, as far as the outskirts and the small villages in the fertile vicinity, slouching off in the golden afternoon light. Faraway birds are roaming the azure. Then a few rather unpleasant persistent reflections start playing in your peripheral vision and you reluctantly turn round to face the enormous shining knight standing in his full glory and pointing his gigantic sword of murderous light toward your chest.
You are perched on top of the renowned Arena of the Warrior-King, more than a hundred feet above ground level, upon the blade of the stone sword that lies in the hands of the kneeling ancient statue. A file of narrow steps starting from the crowded square at the foot girdles about the body of the incredible rocky colossus and rises to the seats of the special spectators on the chest of the statue, at the same level as the Arena – and then to the arena itself. The stone bridge suspended above the abyss is less than ten feet wide and slopes down towards the edges barely allowing two people to pass each other. The grandiose fists at its ends fix its length at some fifty feet.
You look up at the head of the statue, meeting the all-seeing gaze of the Warrior-King penetrating the centuries, then you lower your eyes towards the chest where a red fan opens. Bris raises his sword to his right shoulder and waves of incessant cheers rise from below. You mirror his stance. The knight steps towards you.
***
The albatrosses are soaring with the wind high in the chill skies, unreachable and mysterious. The forlorn icy ocean surrounds you on all sides with its grey-green lifeless waters swarming with pale flotsam. The horizon is near, pressed by the evenfall cloud banks held in a dead lock by the dully shimmering jaw of the iceberg line.
The waves silently leap upon the rocky snowclad beach under your feet crushed by enormous boulders. Falcon is waiting with an inscrutable expression. By an ominous irony, the sole colored spot in this nightmarish world signals death.
The Watcher lowers back his arm.
***
2. English is my second language, so if you could just take a "native speaker" look at the descriptions below, I'd be extremely grateful. (They're all beginnings of gamebook duels, hence the Present Simple and Continuous.)
***
The first stars twinkle in the empty skies past the faded sunset. The moon is somewhere there, a barely visible spectral apparition. A soft glow hovers above the endless marshlands and mires that sprawl away to the horizon in the deepening dusk.
The evening wind quietly whispers in the reeds and slinks through the long springy grass around the patch of solid land that awaits the duel. The sparse warped trees are clutching the sky with their crooked claws of dead boughs. Voymir raises the long sword in front of his face, then points its tip down and composedly bows at you above the hilt. You nod back with a nonchalant smile.
The Watcher waves the fan.
Forgriff’s blade instantly flies up, transforming into several crossing arcs and then simply vanishing in the twilight with a sinister whizz. Voymir slowly sets off towards you, seemingly unaware of his lethal aura.
***
The dormant sea is stirring in the reverie of the predawn twilight and whispering along the wet sand. The sullen cliffs soaked with damp cool seem loath to part with the night. The seagulls are already strolling about, ruffled up and grim.
A stray crab darts off aslant among the washed-up jellyfish entangled in brownish seaweed, bumps against your boot and takes off high above the waves aided by your well-aimed kick. А gull circling nearby snatches it in mid-air and silently flees the rest, which swoop on it with ugly squawks.
Voymir gives a polite cough. You turn round and somewhat horrified find out that the Watcher is holding an open red fan.
***
The very first glance down persuades you of the necessity of avoiding a second one. It is high indeed. You turn your gaze away from the noisy, agitated crowd that fills up the Central Square and discover the astounding vista – the entire unfamiliar city, as far as the outskirts and the small villages in the fertile vicinity, slouching off in the golden afternoon light. Faraway birds are roaming the azure. Then a few rather unpleasant persistent reflections start playing in your peripheral vision and you reluctantly turn round to face the enormous shining knight standing in his full glory and pointing his gigantic sword of murderous light toward your chest.
You are perched on top of the renowned Arena of the Warrior-King, more than a hundred feet above ground level, upon the blade of the stone sword that lies in the hands of the kneeling ancient statue. A file of narrow steps starting from the crowded square at the foot girdles about the body of the incredible rocky colossus and rises to the seats of the special spectators on the chest of the statue, at the same level as the Arena – and then to the arena itself. The stone bridge suspended above the abyss is less than ten feet wide and slopes down towards the edges barely allowing two people to pass each other. The grandiose fists at its ends fix its length at some fifty feet.
You look up at the head of the statue, meeting the all-seeing gaze of the Warrior-King penetrating the centuries, then you lower your eyes towards the chest where a red fan opens. Bris raises his sword to his right shoulder and waves of incessant cheers rise from below. You mirror his stance. The knight steps towards you.
***
The albatrosses are soaring with the wind high in the chill skies, unreachable and mysterious. The forlorn icy ocean surrounds you on all sides with its grey-green lifeless waters swarming with pale flotsam. The horizon is near, pressed by the evenfall cloud banks held in a dead lock by the dully shimmering jaw of the iceberg line.
The waves silently leap upon the rocky snowclad beach under your feet crushed by enormous boulders. Falcon is waiting with an inscrutable expression. By an ominous irony, the sole colored spot in this nightmarish world signals death.
The Watcher lowers back his arm.
***