Critique - Doormakers' Fall intro

[rperkins]

Hello all. I'm a first time author trying to find out from experienced fantasy readers whether this book idea I've been working on in my spare time holds any appeal. This forum seems like a great environment for feedback like this.

The following is a brief synopsis:

The Doormakers' Fall

For over four hundred seasonturns, the Doormaker Council has maintained peace and prosperity for the people of the Fertile Plains with their command of the elements themselves. And the hardy frontierspeople of Guardian Village have been content to hold these powerful wizards at arm's length, secure in the foothills of the Barrier Mountains far to the north. But now a mysterious prophecy from the nomadic tribes that wander the Great Desert threatens to change everything...

And this is an excerpt from the opening scene:

Chapter 1: Reunion

“In the dark of the moon, the child will be born to bear the mark of the ancients. When the Makers’ Art fails men’s grasp, the get of all tribes will overreach them. As the lodestone is drawn to the pole, his path will end at the beginning. None before him shall know the ancient gate, yet within him lies the key to its power. Like the fire that creates even as it destroys, his choice will save or doom all mankind.”

Prophecy of the Crystal Shadows

Devon was bored. He preferred to keep himself too busy to think, but life in Guardian Village didn’t always give him that option. Between seasons like this, he always found himself wondering what life was like in the cities to the south. Exciting events were always unfolding there, no doubt. But not here in this sleepy rural village clinging to the shoulders of the Barrier Mountains.
The late summer air was starting to turn crisp. Fall came suddenly and with little warning, and old Geoff’s surefooted herd was visible on the lower slopes to the north, driven down from the higher grazing valleys by an early frost. He would need ranch hands soon to help him thin the herd for the coming winter.
Geoff was a stingy old rancher who would just as soon give away blood as golds, but he was a good rancher for all that. He knew from hard experience that keeping the oldest goats through the winter would weaken his young kids and milk producing dams so much that he risked losing the best of the herd before spring thaw. So every fall, he hired local boys like Devon for as little gold as possible to help him get the oldest of the flock to market. Most of them were sold live. A few were turned into meat, hide, hoof, horn, and whatever else the renderers could get out of them.
Devon didn’t enjoy the thinning, but it kept him busy and conserved his summer golds during the lean times between the end of the summer and the beginning of the fall. But Geoff would put that chore off until the weather forced his hand, another two or three quints at least. Devon was stuck with little to do and no way to avoid spending his hard earned money.
In the summer Devon was a guide for the rambles, touring caravans full of wealthy landowners and powerful mystics. The landowners came in search of diversion from idle days in the Fertile Plains, and the mystics came in search of respite from the sand storms in the Great Desert. They paid well, and at only fourteen seasonturns Devon was already one of the most skilled guides in the Barriers.
Autumn brought the wagon trains full of traders to barter grains, spices, crystal, and glass for Guardian Village’s goats, metal ore, grapes, sourpears, wine and cider. During the flurry of the Harvest Bazaar, traders always required errand runners, messengers, and delivery hands.
In the long winter, Guardian Village was mostly isolated, so Devon spent golds then, augmenting them with what he could get for hauling firewood and clearing paths for the council.
The spring was little better. Planting or pruning in the orchards earned him a meager income. The spring melt also opened the metal works where Devon could pan in the raceways or dig in the tunnels if he was desperate enough. Mine workers made a choice Devon didn’t relish, between a quick death in a cave-in or a flash flood, and a slow lingering death from raceway foot or tunnel lung.
“Wool gathering again I see!” A familiar ruddy faced figure strode up the gravel-strewn path into the market square, to Devon’s enthusiastic surprise.
“Fronek! But…” Devon sputtered incoherently for an eternity before breaking into a sly grin. “You’re early!”
“Now is that any way to treat an old campaigner? Bah! Mind your manners or I won’t be telling your favorite stories through the long dark winter! Now quit sitting there like a lump! Come give an old man a hand with his gear!” With that he unceremoniously dropped his rucksack to the ground and continued up the road toward Mabel’s Inn. He left Devon to scramble off his perch and heave the bag made of ancient creaking leather to his shoulder. Unaware that he was leaving his boredom behind him for good in a slowly settling cloud of road dust, Devon followed in Fronek’s lengthening shadow.

[kmtolan]

Originally Posted by rperkins

Devon was bored. He preferred to keep himself too busy to think, but life in Guardian Village didn’t always give him that option. Between seasons like this, he always found himself wondering what life was like in the cities to the south. Exciting events were always unfolding there, no doubt. But not here in this sleepy rural village clinging to the shoulders of the Barrier Mountains.
The late summer air was starting to turn crisp. Fall came suddenly and with little warning, and old Geoff’s surefooted herd was visible on the lower slopes to the north, driven down from the higher grazing valleys by an early frost. He would need ranch hands soon to help him thin the herd for the coming winter.

And this is where I feel that most editors/agents will drop your manuscript and head on to the next one in the stack. Why? First, you have no hook. Nothing to drag the reader in. It ain't just Devon that's bored here. You have to grab your reader by the throat in a matter of moments.

Second, in the space of one paragraph, before we even have an inkling who Devon is, what he looks like, or anything of interest - it appears as if you jump us into the next season. Might want to change the wording a bit.

Geoff was a stingy old rancher who would just as soon give away blood as golds, but he was a good rancher for all that. He knew from hard experience that keeping the oldest goats through the winter would weaken his young kids and milk producing dams so much that he risked losing the best of the herd before spring thaw. So every fall, he hired local boys like Devon for as little gold as possible to help him get the oldest of the flock to market. Most of them were sold live. A few were turned into meat, hide, hoof, horn, and whatever else the renderers could get out of them.

You're narrating - we're not in Devon's head. My thought is that you need to find yourself a POV (preferably Devon) and stay there. Also note - no idea what Devon looks like.

Devon didn’t enjoy the thinning, but it kept him busy and conserved his summer golds during the lean times between the end of the summer and the beginning of the fall. But Geoff would put that chore off until the weather forced his hand, another two or three quints at least. Devon was stuck with little to do and no way to avoid spending his hard earned money.
In the summer Devon was a guide for the rambles, touring caravans full of wealthy landowners and powerful mystics. The landowners came in search of diversion from idle days in the Fertile Plains, and the mystics came in search of respite from the sand storms in the Great Desert. They paid well, and at only fourteen seasonturns Devon was already one of the most skilled guides in the Barriers.
Autumn brought the wagon trains full of traders to barter grains, spices, crystal, and glass for Guardian Village’s goats, metal ore, grapes, sourpears, wine and cider. During the flurry of the Harvest Bazaar, traders always required errand runners, messengers, and delivery hands.
In the long winter, Guardian Village was mostly isolated, so Devon spent golds then, augmenting them with what he could get for hauling firewood and clearing paths for the council.
The spring was little better. Planting or pruning in the orchards earned him a meager income. The spring melt also opened the metal works where Devon could pan in the raceways or dig in the tunnels if he was desperate enough. Mine workers made a choice Devon didn’t relish, between a quick death in a cave-in or a flash flood, and a slow lingering death from raceway foot or tunnel lung.

Up to this point we have nothing but you narrating. All "telling" and no "showing". And nothing of interest has happened either. We also don't have a description of Devon. Or age.

“Wool gathering again I see!” A familiar ruddy faced figure strode up the gravel-strewn path into the market square, to Devon’s enthusiastic surprise.
“Fronek! But…” Devon sputtered incoherently for an eternity before breaking into a sly grin. “You’re early!”
“Now is that any way to treat an old campaigner? Bah! Mind your manners or I won’t be telling your favorite stories through the long dark winter! Now quit sitting there like a lump! Come give an old man a hand with his gear!” With that he unceremoniously dropped his rucksack to the ground and continued up the road toward Mabel’s Inn. He left Devon to scramble off his perch and heave the bag made of ancient creaking leather to his shoulder. Unaware that he was leaving his boredom behind him for good in a slowly settling cloud of road dust, Devon followed in Fronek’s lengthening shadow.

And what does Fronek look like? Also, you need a paragraph after the dialog me-thinks.

So, in summary, you're trying to launch what might be a good story here, but the rocket sort of dies on the launch pad. You need a hook...desperately. You also need some quality time with your characters so we can see them better. A hook isn't hard...just run ahead of this to the first place where Devon is about to get in serious trouble - and that trouble has something to do with the premise of your novel (Getting attacked by random bandits don't cut it). Start your story there, and then "show" us through dialog with other characters (or internalized thought) the background detail you feel you need. Think of it, if this story starts off like...

Wiping away a blood-spattered shock of black hair, Devon stared at the horror that rose above him. It had no head...no feet, but the mark of its icy claws burned across his forehead. I'm dead, he realized. "What...what are you?"

See what I mean?

Kerry

[rperkins]

So in summary, bin it and start again... Kerry's opinion duly noted. Any other opinions?

Kerry,
I hadn't even realized that I never described Devon's appearance in the opening scenes. Amazing what you overlook when you're too close to the story yourself. Of course, staying completely in Devon's head as you suggest would make it difficult to describe how he looks without making him seem narcissistic. I'll have think about that a bit more.

Given the size limits I only posted a single scene here. I have tried to stay in a single character's POV in each scene, and to limit the overall number of POV's in the story. But I've felt the need to balance that with some world building. Sounds like it was too much. The opening scenes are a bit slow. I've been thinking about cutting them down substantially in re-writes and then referring to the critical information through cut-scenes or dialog later on. But I thought I'd get more of the story arc on paper first (err... on electronic paper anyway).

I'm going to post a second reply with a scene from chapter 4. Tell me if you think this one is any better at the telling rather than showing.

[rperkins]

Devon dreamed. It was the old dream again, and it was not a good one.
He was a child, sitting on the floor in a small room, playing with an assortment of strange carved toys. In the dream, they were always familiar to him, like the cherished playthings of youth, though that would not be the case when he woke.
The room was empty, the walls dark and shadowy. The light was wavering and indistinct. It pulsed and throbbed like a fragile living thing. It came from everywhere and nowhere. There were no windows or sconces. Then suddenly Devon realized that what light existed in this place came from him.
There was a heavy wooden door in the wall to his right. It was banded with dark iron and set in a frame of polished stone. He knew, in the way that one knows such things in dreams, that the door was locked to him, never meant to be opened.
On the wall opposite the door, there was an enormous frame, draped in rough white canvas. Behind the canvas the frame was ornately decorated with strange icons and symbols. The frame held a mirror, its depths empty and dark like the room built to hold it. But the mirror, like the room, was hidden and must never be revealed.
He took up the blue block, a foaming curl that was cool to the touch. It crashed and rolled in his head, terrifying and awe inspiring. It held such power, yet it was only a carved block cupped in the palm of his hand. The instant this thought formed in his mind, the block began slipping, seeping between his fingers to fall on the dusty marble floor. It shattered as it fell, into a million pieces that could never be reassembled. Yet when he blinked, the block was laying whole and unbroken at his knee. Reeling from the sudden silence, he did not want to play anymore.
Yet he was compelled. He took up the pale white block, a writhing funnel shape. It whistled and howled in his head, numbing and harrowing. As with the blue block, it stayed dormant in his hand only a moment. Then it whirled up into the room to fill the space above his head, expanding until it was everything and nothing. But when he looked down, the white block was whole and untouched with the others. And again he was left shuddering inside, desperately wanting out of the strange room.
But with shaking hands, he continued. He took up the brown block, a tiny pebble or a rough hewn boulder, he could never be sure. It rumbled and groaned in his head, unstoppable and relentless. Before his eyes, it crumbled into rich black soil, which dried to dust and blew away. Yet afterward, he could see the brown block whole on the floor as though he had never touched it. Now his mind was galvanized by fear. His brain gibbered and clawed at the walls of his skull in its frantic need to escape what was coming.
But inexorably, his hands sought the last block, the angry red carving of twining forked tongues. As he took up the last toy, he was engulfed in searing agony. It crackled and snapped through him, all consuming and insatiable. The block flickered and flared, racing up his arm and filling him with a savage hunger.
Horrified, he saw an answering red glow from behind the canvas and knew that the mirror was no longer empty. Though his mind screamed against it, he was on his feet, crossing the floor step by agonizing step. His bare feet left smoking scorch marks on the marble. He railed against it, but his defiant screams were lost in the roaring inferno that assailed his thoughts.
At his back, a soft white light separated the edge of the iron shod door from its stone frame. Tumblers turned, protesting from centuries of disuse, and the door swung ponderously open. But Devon knew it would be too late. It was always too late.
With halting steps, he had reached the mirror. At his touch, the ancient canvas shivered and fell to the floor in tattered shreds. The lightest touch of his feet set them ablaze. The icons on the frame rippled and chased each other around the mirror. Within the mirror that should reflect nothing, a baleful light was gathering. As he thrust his face closer to the inky surface, Devon at last saw what the mirror held.
Ascending from the depths and swimming ever closer to the surface, Devon saw his own face. He felt himself falling and grabbed the mirror frame. The flames from his hands licked hungrily at the icons and sent them swirling dizzyingly.
In the depths of the glass, he saw himself twisted by flame, consumed by flame, no, composed of flame. The ornate door at his back was nearly open now, and he struggled with all his will to turn and face it. But just before he could wrench himself away, hands of incredible strength wrapped around the frame from within the mirror, imprisoning him.
He was unable to look away as those incandescent eyes locked with his. The face in the mirror stared back at him, and he choked on its smoky breath. The haunted visage hinted at endless torment, frustrated rage and soul crushing despair.
“Come. You know there can be no escape for us now.”
His hands were torn loose from the frame, and then Devon was falling headlong into the mirror.
He woke when he hit the floor, having tumbled from his bed. It was still the dark of the night. Already, the details of the dream were receding from his mind like spilled water drying in the sun. A sense of visceral terror remained, along with an image of burning eyes, and the specter’s last phrase.
Cold sweat was drying on his skin, leaving an unpleasant tacky feeling. He shook his head, trying to dispel the icy dread that gripped him. The dream had not tormented him for several 'turns, and he could not fathom why it had returned to plague him tonight.
As he crawled back into his tangled blankets, he habitually rubbed the small golden charm dangling from the leather thong around his neck. But it did not reassure him. When he finally got back to sleep, he spent the rest of the night defending a wagon train of priceless treasures from unending hordes of imagined bandits.

[kmtolan]

Originally Posted by rperkins

I'm going to post a second reply with a scene from chapter 4. Tell me if you think this one is any better at the telling rather than showing.

Much much better. The narrative here is mixed with his internal thoughts as he deals with this dream. Now I get to see how he thinks and note that he can get just as frightened as me. I can empathize with a character like that - which is what you're looking for. One thing about opening chapters, you are caught between a real rock (a hook) and a hard place (world building). You really have to watch how you spoon feed your background information in - I try and shoot for giving only the information necessary to support the scenes and otherwise spread things out as much as possible. You'd be surprised at how little you need to get things started.

Lots of ways to describe a character while perched in their heads. Look at my quick "hook" and you'll see how easy it was simply to say that the character had black hair. You can use that technique - salting description with the action. The trick is not to jam it all together to make it obvious to the reader and get them thinking that the only reason for the action is to describe the character.

Good luck with this!

Kerry

[TheGhost]

Shrug. I didn't see anything too objectionable in the first excerpt, except that it was a bit too much of an info dump. I never mind a bit of scene-setting.

Here's my advice: write the entire story.