u/Gullible_Ad5191

In startrek TNG everyone is really smart despite having AI at their fingertips.

Scientifically conducted survey: How much pocket lint do each of you have in there?

crit [3355]: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1v2laqv/comment/oztfnev/?context=3

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An ongoing hi fantasy grand adventure story with a mystery/investigation plot. Savage nit-picking and criticism encouraged. I want to improve.

previous parts:

Part 1

Part 2

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Hender slowed as they approached the outskirts. "There," he said, pointing.

Mara’s cottage stood alone near the treeline, its thatched roof slumped with age, its shutters sealed tight. A small garden patch lay overgrown, the soil dry at the edges as though neglected for seasons rather than weeks. The house did not look abandoned; only paused, waiting for someone who would never return.

Hender stopped several paces short of the door. "No one has crossed that threshold since the morning she vanished. The village would sooner pretend the house is occupied than confront what happened inside it."

Astred studied him. The priest’s hands had begun to tremble. This was as far as he would go. On the one hand, Hender seemed to be the one man who was conscious of the strange spell befalling the village; on the other, Astred could not help but wonder if Hender's hesitation to confront the issue himself was part and parcel.

"Wait here," Astred said gently.

The priest exhaled, relieved and ashamed all at once. "Yes. I will… be here."

Astred circled the cottage before touching the door. Up close, he could see that nothing had been disturbed; no footprints from the villagers, no attempts to peer inside. But behind the cottage, something interrupted the stillness.

Grass pressed flat.

A faint trail of it, curving away from the back step toward the forest. He crouched, fingertips brushing the impression.

Bare footprints. Small. Unhurried.

As though Mara had walked away in quiet acceptance.

When he straightened, he let the air settle around him. And there, at the edge of perception, a tremor of sound brushed the back of his mind.

Not a melody. Not quite. More like the memory of a note.

A soft, patient hum, felt rather than heard.

Father Hender stiffened where he stood, watching Astred with dread. "You sense it, don’t you?" He called across the yard, "The song never forces itself; It waits for someone to listen."

Astred turned toward the forest, following the gentle curvature of the footprints. The treeline loomed close; trunks tall and still, branches knitted tight enough to darken the ground.

As he stepped beneath the trees, the village fell away in an instant. The air cooled, as though the sun had been filtered through an unseen veil. Leaves hung motionless overhead.

Symbols were carved into the trunks. At first he mistook them for natural grooves, but as he moved deeper he saw the deliberate shape of them: arcs crossing jagged lines, repeating motifs, broken circles. Old markings, softened by rain and time but unmistakably intentional.

A warning. Or a ward.

Or both.

“Father Hender?”

The priest had followed only as far as the first few trunks. He lingered near the edge of the trees, one hand braced against an ash, his face pale beneath its weathered lines. “Yes?”

“Have you seen these markings before?”

Hender took a reluctant step closer. Then another. He peered at the nearest carving without touching it. “No,” he said at first.

Astred waited.

The priest’s mouth tightened. “Or… not exactly. Children used to scratch circles into fence posts and doorframes. Charms, they called them. My mother hated it. Said it was old nonsense. But those were little things. A figure in a ring. Nothing like this.”

Astred looked back at the tree.

The larger symbol cut into the trunk was all arcs and angled strokes, worn smooth by years of weather. In the lower grooves, where rain had not quite washed it clean, something glimmered. A faint iridescence visible only to those conscious of Arcane energies. Blue and green, oil over water, beautiful in precisely the way poisonous things often are.

Astred did not touch it. Instead, he took the scrap of parchment from his pack and flattened it carefully against the bark. The charcoal stub in his hand left his fingers black as he rubbed over the carved lines. Slowly the shape appeared on the parchment: curved stroke, broken slash, hook, partial circle.

“What are you doing?” Hender asked.

“Preserving what I see.”

“That sounds very monastic.”

Astred gave him a brief, nervous glance. “That was not intended as a flaw, I hope.”

For the first time since they had left the chapel, Hender almost smiled. It vanished quickly.

Astred finished the rubbing and stepped back. Now that he knew to look, he could see more symbols ahead. One marked a birch. Another cut across the side of an old beech where the bark had grown over half the lines, as if the tree itself had tried to swallow them. They did not form a straight trail, but they did form a pattern. Each could be seen from the last if one stood in the right place.

A path, then.

Or a boundary.

The faint note in the back of his mind stirred again.

He stiffened.

It was not louder exactly. It had no volume. But it had become easier to notice, like a candle flame glimpsed after sunset. A single patient tone, neither inviting nor demanding, simply present.

“You hear it,” Hender said.

“A little.”

“We should go back.”

Astred wished, with sudden and aching sincerity, that the priest had not said something so sensible. Going back sounded profoundly appealing. But Mara’s footprints had come this way. And something in these symbols had waited long enough for bark to heal around it.

Astred crouched near the base of the first oak, where moss had grown thick beneath the larger carving. Something half-hidden there had caught his eye: a shallower mark, older than the one above it. He brushed away the moss with his sleeve.

A crude figure emerged.

A small body. A hollow head. Limbs stretched too long. Around it, a circle.

The simplicity of it made Astred’s throat tighten. It looked like something a child might draw, if that child had dreamed of a person trapped inside the moon.

Hender leaned down beside him, joints protesting. “That,” he whispered. “That is more like what I remember.”

“The children’s charm?”

“Perhaps. Though I cannot remember anyone teaching it. It was just… something children knew.”

“Do they still draw it?”

Hender was silent.

Astred looked at him.

“I don’t know,” the priest admitted. “I should know, shouldn’t I?”

Astred examined the little ringed figure. Unlike the larger symbol above it, there was no residue in its grooves. The bark had scarred around the cut, old but clean.

He copied it onto the same parchment beneath the first mark. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he reached down and drew it in the dirt: first the figure, awkward and elongated; then the circle around it.

Astred had intended only to contemplate the meaning of drawing these symbols. But the moment his finger closed the circle, the forest breathed. The wind rose from nowhere. Leaves shivered overhead. Branches creaked though the air had been still a heartbeat before. Father Hender lurched backward. A whisper moved between the trees.

“It was meant to keep them out.”

Astred turned so quickly his shield knocked against a trunk with a hollow clack.

No one stood behind him.

The forest offered only trees, shadow, moss, and the pale trembling of leaves.

Hender’s lips moved around a prayer. His voice failed to carry it.

Astred’s own fear rose, sharp and embarrassing. He had left the monastery hoping to serve humanity. He had imagined plague beds, hungry children, perhaps an argument with a rude tax collector if fate required courage of a more administrative kind. He had not imagined addressing disembodied whispers in a forest.

Still, the whisper had spoken.

And a question, once given, became a tool.

“Who are you?” Astred asked.

The trees stilled.

For a moment he thought there would be no answer. Then the air moved across his cheek, cold as water from a deep well.

“We were forgotten.”

Astred swallowed. “Who did this to you?”

A long pause followed. Somewhere deeper in the trees, the bluish glow flickered and dimmed, then returned.

“The ones who sing.”

“Merciful light!” Hender exclaimed.

Astred looked at the broken circle in the dirt, then at the residue-darkened carving above it. The logic began to arrange itself, slow and unwelcome.

The larger symbols were not simply old. They had been altered, or overlaid, or infected. The residue clung to them like a second script written in slime. But the little figure in the circle, the charm Hender almost remembered, was clean. Older. Simpler.

Not a call.

A ward.

Astred knelt again.

“What are you doing?” Hender hissed.

“Repairing it.”

“You know how?”

“No.”

That answer did not seem to comfort the priest, which was fair.

Astred set his finger to the broken line and redrew the circle carefully. He moved slowly, not because he believed the dirt required artistry, but because haste felt disrespectful. If this was a ward, then it had guarded something for a long time. If it was a prison, then at least it deserved an honest hand closing the door.

The circle joined.

The wind died.

It did not fade naturally. It ceased. The leaves froze in place. The branches stopped their restless creaking. Even the pressure that had gathered behind Astred’s eyes withdrew, as though some unseen presence had stepped back from the threshold of his thoughts.

The ground beneath the symbol hardened. The little figure sat fully enclosed once more.

Then came a whisper, fainter than before.

“…you remember.”

Hender released a breath that had clearly been waiting for permission to leave his body. “That was either holy or cursed, and I am presently too frightened to distinguish between the two.”

Astred almost laughed. It would have been entirely inappropriate, so he did not. But the urge steadied him.

“When the circle was completed,” he said, “the forest calmed.”

“Yes, I noticed the deeply reassuring forest magic.”

“It held something back.”

“Or in.”

Astred glanced at him.

Hender’s face tightened. “Forgive me. But if we are being honest, that is also possible.”

It was. Astred disliked that very much.

He rose and faced the restored mark.

“You said you were forgotten,” he called softly. “I have remembered.”

Nothing answered.

The forest remained so still that even the silence seemed to have weight.

Then a breeze touched the hem of his robe.

“…not enough.”

The words were nearly gone before Astred understood them. Not enough. The ward, the copied mark, the acknowledgment—none of it completed whatever debt lay here.

“What must be remembered?” he asked.

For several breaths there was only the sound of Father Hender trying not to breathe too loudly.

Then, fragile as ash:

“The first who heard… and the first who stayed.”

The whisper faded.

The note in Astred’s mind faded with it, though not completely. Nothing here seemed to leave cleanly.

Hender repeated the words under his breath. “The first who heard. The first who stayed.”

Astred looked toward the deeper forest. The bluish light still waited between the trunks. It would be easy, in one sense, to go toward it. That was what stories expected: the brave fool following danger until it became visible enough to strike.

But the whisper had not told him to continue. It had given him a name without a name. A beginning. A witness. Someone who had heard the song before Mara. Someone who had stayed when others went.

“That means this has happened before,” Astred said.

Hender’s eyes remained fixed on the light. “Or is always happening.”

“Yes.”

“That is not a comfort.”

“No.” Astred folded the parchment with the copied symbols and tucked it into his robe. “But it is a direction.”

Hender finally looked at him. “You want to return.”

“I want to understand what we are walking into before we obediently walk into it.”

The priest’s expression shifted. Beneath the fear, there was relief so naked it was almost painful to see.

“The chapel records,” Hender said.

“And anyone old enough to remember stories their parents tried to dismiss. But records first.”

“Why records first?”

Astred glanced back toward Redbrook, hidden beyond the trees. “Because people here forget. Paper may not.”

They left the restored ward behind them. The walk back to Redbrook felt shorter. Father Hender said nothing until the first roofs of Redbrook showed between the trunks.

By then, the village had already resumed its ordinary posture. Smoke rose from chimneys. A woman drew water from the well with a practised lean of her shoulders. Two children chased a chicken through the lane, laughing with the grave triumph of hunters pursuing a stag. A man sat outside his door, scraping dried mud from the sole of a boot with the tip of a blunt knife. No one seemed to notice that their priest had returned pale and shaken beside a stranger with dirt on his sleeve and charcoal on his fingers.

Astred disliked the thought as soon as it came to him. Yet he could not quite dismiss it. Mara was missing. Hender had spoken her name with real fear in his voice. Astred had followed her path into the woods, heard a presence whisper through the trees, and watched a broken ward still the forest when repaired. To him, Mara’s absence had become vast: a cottage, a trail, a voice, a warning, a question opening under the world.

To Redbrook, she was nothing at all.

That was the part Astred could not set down. Whatever touched Redbrook had not merely removed Mara; it had removed the gaping hole itself that her absense should have left behind. The villagers could laugh, draw water, scrape mud from their boots, and go peacefully to their beds because nothing in them knew enough to mourn her. Astred wondered, with a discomfort he did not yet have the theology to answer, whether joy remained joy when it depended upon a wound no one was allowed to feel.

This is Part 2 of the first chapter or a grand fantasy tale.

Part 1 here if you are curious: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1tp23ez/712the_veil_between_worlds_opening_paragraphs/

I found this to be the hardest part to know how to write. Character leaves home for adventure and then instantly stumbles into his first quest. It sounds stupid and cliché but also seemed necessary for pacing. Let me know how it comes across and whether you can give it a pass.

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The village did not greet him so much as tolerate his arrival.

The cottages were small, close together, and undeniably lived-in. Smoke drifted from chimneys. A few chickens wandered across the road with the self-importance of creatures who owned the place. Doors remained open until he came near them, then eased shut with no particular urgency. Conversations thinned as he passed and resumed behind him, softer than before.

No one stared at him, but no one greeted him either. A man looked up from mending a wheel, met Astred’s eye, and immediately found a fascinating flaw in the axle. A child pointed at his robe before her mother lowered the hand with practiced gentleness. A woman with a basket glanced his way, hesitated, and then pretended she hadn’t seen him at all.

Astred decided that a village had every right to be wary of strangers, especially badly equipped ones.

All right. First tasks.

He looked around, attempting to appear like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Practical concerns quickly piled up in his mind:

Food. He had none. Breakfast had been a long time ago.

Money. He certainly had none; monasteries were generous with wisdom, not coin.

Shelter. He had a ragged grey dormitory blanket, built for drafts beneath monastery doors, not nights beneath open sky.

A worrying pattern was beginning to form.

His stomach sank. None of the monastery books had covered this part; and the irony wasn’t lost on him that he’d come hoping to help others when, by all appearances, he was the one most in need of guidance.

The chapel looked older than the village around it, as though it had settled into the earth long before Redbrook ever found a reason to gather here. A squat stone nave, timber ribs blackened by time, a bell tower leaning slightly as if listening to the wind. Above the door hung a carved wooden sunburst, its old gold paint faded to dull ochre, its rays cracked at the tips.

Astred paused on the threshold, drawing a slow breath before stepping inside.

The air was cool. Still. Rows of wooden pews stretched into the dimness, their polish worn thin by generations of backsides. A few candles guttered weakly on the altar, their flames shivering at the slightest draft. An elderly priest knelt behind the altar, spine slightly bowed, white hair thin as ash. He did not stir when Astred entered.

Astred cleared his throat softly. "Father…?"

The priest flinched. It was small; barely more than a breath; but unmistakable. He turned slowly, eyes sunken from too many sleepless nights. His robes hung from him like they, too, were tired.

"You’re… not from Redbrook," he said, voice roughened by disuse. "I can see it in the way you stand. A stranger carries his weight differently."

"I suppose I do," Astred admitted. He tried for a reassuring smile, though he wasn’t sure it convinced either of them. "I’ve only just left my monastery. I’m looking for… a beginning, I think. A place I might be of use."

A faint, weary amusement touched the priest’s eyes. "A beginning," he echoed. "Strange choice, coming here for one."

He lowered himself onto the nearest pew, his joints protesting with a soft crackle. After a moment’s hesitation, he gestured for Astred to join him.

"My name is Hender. I’ve tended this chapel for forty years." His voice softened. "Redbrook has seen hardship before. Thin harvests, a winter fever, the odd ruffian who thinks a small village is easy prey. But this…"

He shook his head, staring at his clasped hands.

"This is different."

Astred waited, letting the silence stretch. Hender seemed grateful for the patience; he drew a slow breath and continued.

"People are vanishing," he whispered. "Not running away. Not taken. Vanishing. And the worst of it is: no one will speak of it. Doors lock at sunset, shutters close tight, and every morning the village pretends all is well."

Astred frowned. "They ignore it? Why?"

"That is the puzzle." Hender leaned back, eyes bleak. "Even those who’ve lost loved ones behave as though nothing is missing. They do not mourn. They do not ask questions. It is as if each disappearance smooths itself over, like a stone dropped into mud."

Astred swallowed. "And the faithful?"

Hender let out a thin, humorless breath. "The faithful are no better. My chapel has grown emptier each morning. At first, I thought it was fear. But fear makes people grasp onto faith, not abandon it."

His fingers tightened around each other. "Now it is… indifference. As though prayer has lost its meaning."

Astred glanced around the empty nave again, its silence now oppressive. "But the missing people can't be found anywhere in the village? Have they been seen leaving?"

The priest’s jaw tensed.

"There was a woman," he said at length. "Mara. A widow. Gentle soul. She came to morning prayer two weeks ago, as she always did. She knelt at the altar. Whispered her devotions." He paused, breath catching. "And then she stood."

His voice lowered, barely audible.

"She smiled."

Astred waited. Something in Hender's intonation; he did not mean kindly.

“It was not her smile. Not truly. It sat on her face like something placed there by careful hands. And then she spoke, clear as a bell.”

His throat worked as he swallowed.

"She said, 'I heard it. I heard the song. There’s nothing to fear anymore.'"

A chill prickled across Astred’s skin.

"What did you do?" he asked quietly.

"What could I do?" Hender whispered. "She walked out. Straight out the chapel doors without looking at anyone, and she never returned. No one has seen her since."

He looked suddenly very small, very old.

"And the village?" Astred ventured.

"The village pretends she still lives in her little house by the forest's edge," the priest said, voice trembling. "They speak as though she’s simply feeling unwell, or tending to chores, or visiting distant kin. They have rewritten her absence into something harmless."

He rubbed his temples, hands shaking slightly.

"And sometimes," he added, barely above a breath, "late at night… I think someone watches the chapel. I cannot prove it. I cannot explain it. But the air changes, and the shadows feel… attentive."

Father Hender did not follow Astred immediately. After the long and painful retelling in the chapel, he lingered at the threshold as though the door itself held him upright. The morning light cut across his worn features, hollowing his eyes.

"Mara’s home is by the northern treeline," he said quietly. "I can take you there… but I will not go inside. Some silences in this village feel deliberate."

Astred nodded. "Show me what you can. I’ll manage the rest."

The walk through Redbrook felt different now. The same cottages leaned close to the road, the same smoke lifted from the chimneys, the same villagers went about their errands. But Hender’s story had put a shadow under everything. Their reserve no longer seemed like simple caution, and the silence between houses no longer felt accidental. It felt kept.

Hender slowed as they approached the outskirts. "There," he said, pointing.

Mara’s cottage stood alone near the treeline, its thatched roof slumped with age, its shutters sealed tight. A small garden patch lay overgrown, the soil dry at the edges as though neglected for seasons rather than weeks. The house did not look abandoned; only paused, waiting for someone who would never return.

Hender stopped several paces short of the door. "No one has crossed that threshold since the morning she vanished. The village would sooner pretend the house is occupied than confront what happened inside it."

Astred studied him. The priest’s hands had begun to tremble. This was as far as he would go. On the one hand, Hender seemed to be the one man who was conscious of the strange spell befalling the village; on the other, Astred could not help but wonder if Hender's hesitation to confront the issue himself was part and parcel.

"Wait here," Astred said gently.

The priest exhaled, relieved and ashamed all at once. "Yes. I will… be here."

------

Crit: [1679] https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1uhgeyx/1679_chapter_1_untitled_industrial_fantasy/

This is Part 2 of the first chapter or a grand fantasy tale.

Part 1 here if you are curious: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1tp23ez/712the_veil_between_worlds_opening_paragraphs/

I found this to be the hardest part to know how to write. Character leaves home for adventure and then instantly stumbles into his first quest. It sounds stupid and cliché but also seemed necessary for pacing. Let me know how it comes across and whether you can give it a pass.

-----

The village did not greet him so much as tolerate his arrival.

The cottages were small, close together, and undeniably lived-in. Smoke drifted from chimneys. A few chickens wandered across the road with the self-importance of creatures who owned the place.

No one stared at him, but no one greeted him either. A woman with a basket glanced his way, hesitated, and then pretended she hadn't seen him at all.

Astred tried to take this as a good sign.

All right. First tasks.

He looked around, attempting to appear like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Practical concerns quickly piled up in his mind:

Food. He had none. Breakfast had been a long time ago.

Money. He had significantly less than none; monasteries were generous with wisdom, not coin.

Shelter. He had a blanket that was, on its best days, blanket-shaped.

A worrying pattern was beginning to form.

His stomach sank. None of the monastery books had covered this part; and the irony wasn’t lost on him that he’d come hoping to help others when, by all appearances, he was the one most in need of guidance.

The chapel looked older than the village around it, as though it had settled into the earth long before Redbrook ever found a reason to gather here. A squat stone nave, timber ribs blackened by time, a bell tower leaning slightly as if listening to the wind. A sun-carved emblem; once bright, now weather-soft and splintered; hung over the door like a memory no one tended anymore.

Astred paused on the threshold, drawing a slow breath before stepping inside.

The air was cool. Still. Rows of wooden pews stretched into the dimness, their polish worn thin by generations of hands. A few candles guttered weakly on the altar, their flames shivering at every draft. The silence was not peace; it had a shape, a weight, as though the room were holding itself rigid, afraid to exhale.

An elderly priest knelt behind the altar, spine slightly bowed, white hair thin as ash. He did not stir when Astred entered.

The chapel felt empty in a way that made Astred’s pulse quicken. He stood there for a moment, uncertain. This was supposed to be his first step into the world; meet people, offer help, earn trust. Yet the man before him looked as though the world had already taken too much.

Astred cleared his throat softly. "Father…?"

The priest flinched. It was small; barely more than a breath; but unmistakable. He turned slowly, eyes sunken from too many sleepless nights. His robes hung from him like they, too, were tired.

"You’re… not from Redbrook," he said, voice roughened by disuse. "I can see it in the way you stand. A stranger carries his weight differently."

"I suppose I do," Astred admitted. He tried for a reassuring smile, though he wasn’t sure it convinced either of them. "I’ve only just left my monastery. I’m looking for… a beginning, I think. A place I might be of use."

A faint, weary amusement touched the priest’s eyes. "A beginning," he echoed. "Strange choice, coming here for one."

He lowered himself onto the nearest pew, his joints protesting with a soft crackle. After a moment’s hesitation, he gestured for Astred to join him.

"My name is Hender. I’ve tended this chapel for forty years." His voice softened. "Redbrook has seen hardship before. Thin harvests, a winter fever, the odd ruffian who thinks a small village is easy prey. But this…"

He shook his head, staring at his clasped hands.

"This is different."

Astred waited, letting the silence stretch. Hender seemed grateful for the patience; he drew a slow breath and continued.

"People are vanishing," he whispered. "Not running away. Not taken. Vanishing. And the worst of it is: no one will speak of it. Doors lock at sunset, shutters close tight, and every morning the village pretends all is well."

Astred frowned. "They ignore it? Why?"

"That is the puzzle." Hender leaned back, eyes bleak. "Even those who’ve lost loved ones behave as though nothing is missing. They do not mourn. They do not ask questions. It is as if each disappearance smooths itself over, like a stone dropped into mud."

Astred swallowed. "And the faithful?"

Hender let out a thin, humorless breath. "The faithful are no better. My chapel has grown emptier each morning. At first, I thought it was fear. But fear makes people grasp onto faith, not abandon it."

His fingers tightened around each other. "Now it is… indifference. As though prayer has lost its meaning."

Astred glanced around the empty nave again, its silence now oppressive. "But the missing people can't be found anywhere in the village? Have they been seen leaving?"

The priest’s jaw tensed.

"There was a woman," he said at length. "Mara. A widow. Gentle soul. She came to morning prayer two weeks ago, as she always did. She knelt at the altar. Whispered her devotions." He paused, breath catching. "And then she stood."

His voice lowered, barely audible.

"She smiled."

Astred waited. Something in Hender's intonation; he did not mean kindly.

"It was not her smile," the priest murmured. "Her face held it, but the warmth wasn’t there. It was empty, as though she were simply wearing the shape of it. And she spoke. Clear as a bell."

His throat worked as he swallowed.

"She said, 'I heard it. I heard the song. There’s nothing to fear anymore.'"

A chill prickled across Astred’s skin.

"What did you do?" he asked quietly.

"What could I do?" Hender whispered. "She walked out. Straight out the chapel doors without looking at anyone, and she never returned. No one has seen her since."

He looked suddenly very small, very old.

"And the village?" Astred ventured.

"The village pretends she still lives in her little house by the bridge," the priest said, voice trembling. "They speak as though she’s simply feeling unwell, or tending to chores, or visiting distant kin. They have rewritten her absence into something harmless."

He rubbed his temples, hands shaking slightly.

"And sometimes," he added, barely above a breath, "late at night… I think someone watches the chapel. I cannot prove it. I cannot explain it. But the air changes, and the shadows feel… attentive."

Father Hender did not follow Astred immediately. After the long and painful retelling in the chapel, he lingered at the threshold as though the door itself held him upright. The morning light cut across his worn features, hollowing his eyes.

"Mara’s home is by the northern bridge," he said quietly. "I can take you there… but I will not go inside. Some silences in this village feel deliberate."

Astred nodded. "Show me what you can. I’ll manage the rest."

The walk through Redbrook was now unsettling given the light of Hender's added context. Villagers moved about their errands with the soft, vacant cordiality of sleepwalkers. They offered faint nods to Father Hender, mild glances to Astred, and then turned away as though a stranger’s presence was too heavy a burden to acknowledge. Every door was shut. Every window had curtains drawn. Even the breeze seemed reluctant to disturb the quiet.

Hender slowed as they approached the outskirts. "There," he said, pointing.

------

Crit [1,417]: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1tvgway/comment/ophbad1/?context=3

The start of my epic fantasy novel. Obviously it is important that people feel compelled to read past the first sentence, paragraph, page, etc. Hopefully there is also some kind of thread that people want to know the conclusion of. Please let me know whether it meets these criteria. Be as harsh and nit-picky as you like; I want to improve.

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Astred had imagined that leaving would feel grander.

He had imagined this moment a hundred times in the quiet hours of the scriptorium; striding out with purpose, the wind catching his robe heroically, the monks watching, forced to acknowledge his conviction in action. Instead, no one had come to see him off, and the only thing catching his robe was a bramble. So Astred sheepishly hustled through the gate with his head down, unsure if the cough he heard behind him was a monk surprised to see him leave, or just someone about their daily chores.

His makeshift shield; a rectangular slab of old fence pickets, lashed together with twine and stubborn optimism; rattled on his back like a bundle of kindling. The wooden cudgel he carried was the closest thing he could find to a proper mace. These were the implements that a world faring cleric needed; or at least this was implied by the illustrations in the monastery's library books.

He paused to adjust his coarse brown robe, which was collecting burrs at a concerning rate. His breath fogged in the morning air as he risked a glance down into the valley. He knew there had to be a village somewhere down there; every monk understood that the monastery’s trade had to pass through some kind of foothill settlement; but he had never seen it himself. The idea of it had always filled his imagination with warmth: friendly faces, bustling paths, hearthfire, real conversation. A place where life happened out in the open instead of behind stone walls.

The nearest village lay below.

Perfectly ordinary.

Perfectly full of possibility.

Surely full of people in dire need of Astred's service.

He turned back toward the monastery perched near the summit. Its pale stone walls looked calm, solemn, unchanged. No one stood watching. No one had tried to stop him; of course monks were not prisoners. But when he’d announced that he meant to descend the mountain and “serve humanity,” the silence that followed had been so complete that even the candles seemed to burn more carefully.

The Head Abbot had not mocked him. That would have been easier to bear. He had only looked at Astred with the grave pity of a man watching humility take its first step toward pride.

“A kind heart is not the same as a harmless one, Astred.”

Astred had felt every monk in the hall listening.

“Suffering teaches people to answer one another,” the Head Abbot continued. “To resolve their quarrels. To provide for their own hunger. To become, by necessity, more than frightened souls waiting for rescue. Even here, among your brothers, we do not mend every hurt for them. We let them struggle toward wisdom.”

His gaze had settled on Astred.

“Would you go into the world and take that labour from them? Would you teach villages to wait for your hand, your judgment, your strength? Or do you already imagine something grander? Astred the reformer. Astred the righteous. Astred standing against lords and guilds and all the tangled powers of the world, certain that his own virtue will remain clean where theirs has not?

Now, standing halfway down the trail, he felt the weight of that moment settling in. The monastery had been his entire world since he was ten years old. A place of quiet halls, prayerful routines, and stacks of well-thumbed books he could vanish into for days. He didn’t remember his parents’ faces. He didn’t remember his birth village. He remembered monks. Warm hands on his shoulders during meditation. Evenings spent copying manuscripts beside his favorite elder. His real family lived behind those walls.

But none of them believed what he believed.

He tightened his grip on the crude cudgel.

>"Meaning comes from service," he murmured—half reciting, half reassuring himself. "Not seclusion."

The wind answered with a soft sigh, as though it had heard this debate before.

Astred forced his feet to move. One careful step. Then another. His shield creaked. His robe caught on another thorn. He tugged it free and attempted to look dignified about it.

The valley village grew closer with each hesitant stride. Smoke rising from chimneys. A few distant figures moving between cottages. Someone’s laundry flapping lazily in the breeze. So normal. So alive.

-------

Crit [1158]: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1tot7zs/comment/oo57s4x/?context=3

The first couple pages of an epic fantasy novel. Obviously I want to be sure that people feel compelled to read past the first sentence, paragraph, page, etc and that it contains a hook that will make the reader want to know where this story is going. Please be nit-picky because I want to improve.

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Astred had imagined that leaving would feel grander.

He had imagined this moment a hundred times in the quiet hours of the scriptorium; striding out with purpose, the wind catching his robe heroically, the monks watching, forced to acknowledge his conviction in action. Instead, no one had come to see him off, and the only thing catching his robe was a bramble. So Astred sheepishly hustled through the gate with his head down, unsure if the cough he heard behind him was a monk surprised to see him leave, or just someone about their daily chores.

His makeshift shield; a rectangular slab of old fence pickets, lashed together with twine and stubborn optimism; rattled on his back like a bundle of kindling. The wooden cudgel he carried was the closest thing he could find to a proper mace. These were the implements that a world faring cleric needed; or at least this was implied by the illustrations in the monastery's library books.

He paused to adjust his coarse brown robe, which was collecting burrs at a concerning rate. His breath fogged in the morning air as he risked a glance down into the valley. He knew there had to be a village somewhere down there; every monk understood that the monastery’s trade had to pass through some kind of foothill settlement; but he had never seen it himself. The idea of it had always filled his imagination with warmth: friendly faces, bustling paths, hearthfire, real conversation. A place where life happened out in the open instead of behind stone walls.

The nearest village lay below.

Perfectly ordinary.

Perfectly full of possibility.

Surely full of people in dire need of Astred's service.

He turned back toward the monastery perched near the summit. Its pale stone walls looked calm, solemn, unchanged. No one stood watching. No one had tried to stop him; of course monks were not prisoners. But when he’d announced that he meant to descend the mountain and “serve humanity,” the silence that followed had been so complete that even the candles seemed to burn more carefully.

The Head Abbot had not mocked him. That would have been easier to bear. He had only looked at Astred with the grave pity of a man watching humility take its first step toward pride.

“A kind heart is not the same as a harmless one, Astred.”

Astred had felt every monk in the hall listening.

“Suffering teaches people to answer one another,” the Head Abbot continued. “To resolve their quarrels. To provide for their own hunger. To become, by necessity, more than frightened souls waiting for rescue. Even here, among your brothers, we do not mend every hurt for them. We let them struggle toward wisdom.”

His gaze had settled on Astred.

“Would you go into the world and take that labour from them? Would you teach villages to wait for your hand, your judgment, your strength? Or do you already imagine something grander? Astred the reformer. Astred the righteous. Astred standing against lords and guilds and all the tangled powers of the world, certain that his own virtue will remain clean where theirs has not?

Now, standing halfway down the trail, he felt the weight of that moment settling in. The monastery had been his entire world since he was ten years old. A place of quiet halls, prayerful routines, and stacks of well-thumbed books he could vanish into for days. He didn’t remember his parents’ faces. He didn’t remember his birth village. He remembered monks. Warm hands on his shoulders during meditation. Evenings spent copying manuscripts beside his favorite elder. His real family lived behind those walls.

But none of them believed what he believed.

He tightened his grip on the crude cudgel.

"Meaning comes from service," he murmured—half reciting, half reassuring himself. "Not seclusion."

The wind answered with a soft sigh, as though it had heard this debate before.

Astred forced his feet to move. One careful step. Then another. His shield creaked. His robe caught on another thorn. He tugged it free and attempted to look dignified about it.

The valley village grew closer with each hesitant stride. Smoke rising from chimneys. A few distant figures moving between cottages. Someone’s laundry flapping lazily in the breeze. So normal. So alive.

--------

Crit: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1tllv8l/comment/onjp88s/?context=3

I reached the end game on normal difficulty and was feeling a bit bored. I was thinking of moving my base to the radioactive biome just for something to do. Then I was wondering if it is more fun to build from scratch or to repurpose a specific POI. What makes base building fun? What do you recommend?

I have a kick-arse idea for a fantasy concept. But besides the point, I want to open the saga in a way that hooks the reader to continue past the first sentence, paragraph, page, etc. I'm not sure if it's better the explain up front what I'm going for with the character, or let reddit judge for itself. I want to improve and to write something humanity deems worth reading so be savage and picky; just don't tell me to quit.

--------

Astred had imagined that leaving would feel grander.

He had imagined this moment a hundred times in the quiet hours of the scriptorium; striding out with purpose, the wind catching his robe heroically, the monks watching, forced to acknowledge his conviction in action. Instead, no one had come to see him off, and the only thing catching his robe was a bramble. So Astred sheepishly hustled through the gate with his head down, unsure if the cough he heard behind him was a monk surprised to see him leave, or just someone about their daily chores.

His makeshift shield; a rectangular slab of old fence pickets, lashed together with twine and stubborn optimism; rattled on his back like a bundle of kindling. The wooden cudgel he carried was the closest thing he could find to a proper mace. These were the implements that a world faring cleric needed; or at least this was implied by the illustrations in the monastery's library books.

He paused to adjust his coarse brown robe, which was collecting burrs at a concerning rate. His breath fogged in the morning air as he risked a glance down into the valley. He knew there had to be a village somewhere down there; every monk understood that the monastery’s trade had to pass through some kind of foothill settlement; but he had never seen it himself. The idea of it had always filled his imagination with warmth: friendly faces, bustling paths, hearthfire, real conversation. A place where life happened out in the open instead of behind stone walls.

The nearest village lay below.

Perfectly ordinary.

Perfectly full of possibility.

Surely full of people in dire need of Astred's service.

He turned back toward the monastery perched near the summit. Its pale stone walls looked calm, solemn, unchanged. No one stood watching. No one had tried to stop him; of course monks were not prisoners. But when he’d announced he wished to descend the mountain to "serve humanity," the silence that followed had been so thick... let's just say 'silence speaks louder than words' and the learned know when best to speak the language.

The Head Abbot had folded his hands, spoken gently, and said only: "If you believe you must go, then go. Return only once you find the world differs from your naïve preconceptions."

--------

crit: https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1oydfrp/comment/np4rkis/

I reinstalled the game and gave it a playthrough recently. I went strength build with the intention to branch into intelligence for traps and turrets. I found the game to be a steep curve at the start. You need to put points in cooking and actively search for the grill and pot or you will just starve. The pipe shotgun is so terrible it's obsolete from day one. I died and gave up on my first few attempts. But eventually I managed to get a playthrough going.

Eventually I found a level 5 pump shotgun for sale from the burnt lands trader and loaded it with armour piercing slugs. After that it was trivially easy to loot a bunch of schools and book stores until I maxed out shotgun crafting and made a level 6 combat shotgun. At that point, even level 5 POIs are trivially easy. At hoard night I don't even bother powering up traps and turrets because you get more XP shooting them. One slug will drill through two or three of them as they single file across my bridge. Probably the most fun I had was the time I underestimated how much ammo I needed to clear a POI and started trying to conserve ammo by using my steel sledge-hammer.

I want to like the game but I just got bored once I reached the end game. Is it worth trying a different difficulty setting or changing other settings? Is there something in the endgame that I'm missing? Are there mods that I should be installing?

What do you call an octopus with no legs?