u/TurtleThingGuy

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I'm new to writing and was wondering if this introduction to the character The Scourge is effective or not. I want it to be clear that this character is narcissistic and a manipulator, but I also want it to be psychologically consistent with how he handles intimidating Ophelia, who is also a narcissist. The link provided is an excerpt and not the whole story, context is provided at the top. General Critique and character analysis would be much appreciated and thank you for your time :).

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Xv7X1cU-qQG\_zRVE10NuZRt86bNrsrCPtWg-qXLehfk/edit?usp=drivesdk

Feedback is very appreciated! Thank you!

I'm new to writing and was wondering if anyone could critique this monolouge. Feedback would be much appreciated of course.

Context: Ophelia is a mage who's living in a human ruled convoy. Outside the safety of the convoy there is intense wind storms and freezing temperatures in this area. War between the mage countries and human country began around 20 years ago, immediately spurring racial tensions and elimination on both sides. The Scourge, a genocidal military, has recently been added the convoy as a police force. Nick, Ophelias best friend, ratted her out to the Scourge upon learning she's a mage and she's now being confronted at the edge of the convoy.

Sorry for the info dump!

The wind blows softly, jingling the talismans on the five men. Ophelia turns elegantly. The stances of the men are lazy and unbothered, juxtaposed by their intent. They are covered in thick leather with steel armour adorning it, meticulously carved to catch the light of their lanterns. They do not look up into the darkness, only focused on Ophelia. One voice, raspily from the center of the crowd, speaks.

“It's a calm night tonight isn't it?”

Ophelia only stares him down. She balls her fist, the tension crawling up her arm, traveling to her legs where the anger stiffens her like a board.

The Scourge waits patiently before making an addition. “Hard to hide on nights like these. The stars are too bright.” he says, stepping forward into the median between her and his officers.

Ophelia still doesn't speak.

“Surely you agree?” he says. He paces around her lazily before he approaches Nick, tears drying on his cheeks. “Ah yes. Living proof.” He says solemnly, turning to face her once again.

Her brow is brought down to her eyes, pulled in by the wrinkling on the bridge and side of her nose. Absolute disgust overcoming her normally calm features.

“The poor boy. You'd surely agree with that?” he says, raising his voice slightly, “That you have attempted your manipulations so that he may be your worshiper?” He nears, ever closer. “Now. Now he feels pain. Pain for you. Pain that is in service to you.”

Ophelia flicks her eyes away, just for a moment, his image putting strain on her mind. His sharp breath slips through his nostrils.

“Mm” he interjects with confirmation. He grabs her by the jaw, squishing her cheeks into her teeth. He towers over her, his neckline at the level of her forehead. Ophelia pulls back immediately.

He releases her, stepping away with a smirk. “You know what I believe?” he concludes, “You'd rather die standing than live on your knees.” he waits for an answer before continuing.

“While I lead to salvation, you call it tyranny, simply because it is I who said it.” he boasts. He awaits an answer with patience, the corners of his mouth twinge with disappointment- mournful.

Ophelia doesn’t dare to give him anything, no more than she already had. Every shake of anger should-- no had to be subdued. She felt a lump rising in her throat, like an itch that had to be scratched. This is what she had to focus on, lest she gives in to his conquest.

The Scourge steps back, folding his arms behind him as his stomach lurches forward. He commands an officer, not daring to take his eyes off Ophelia. “Please, one of you shoo the boy away.” he says dismissively. One of the men shuffles to guide Nick away. He only desires to look forward, not daring to look back. Their footsteps patter away into the distance, softening until negligible.

The Scourge breathes out sharply, like a weight lifted off his chest. “Now we’re a little more free.” he says, stepping forward. “I remember you dear. Yes, you were one of the first cities, completely unprepared. Why, you scuttled off quickly didn’t you.” he jabs.

Ophelia stares, expressionless.

He continues, sighing, “I remember that day, seeing you- little you, standing over the body of my comrade. His throat sliced open, blood spurting out of the pipe implanted deep into his neck.” He leans forward, hands behind his back as he lunges. “How did it feel?” he adds, “To kill a man?”

Ophelia's jaw tightens, her hands become cold and clammy. This reaction naturally came as a surprise to her; it was her disconnection from this event she prided herself on and yet, something tinged shame in the back of her mind.

His eyes flicked to the depression in her cheek. “I’ve never killed a man myself. Animals, certainly. Butchered with my blade.” He leans back, like an old man reminiscing, his arms crossed with casual conviction. “Why do I still use a blade, you may ask?” He looks to the sky, “Well, I believe I like the intimacy of it. These automatic rifles, stamped out in echoing chambers, are so impersonal. They make it too… efficient. Easy. The hot blade, the dripping of fat… The blade asks something of you, a machine just… answers--” he steps forward, “Do you imagine me as an animal?”

She felt herself recoil, her stomach doing backflips as she listened. She could finally place the thought at the back of her mind. He was right.

The Scourge unclips his sword from his belt. It had been repeatedly melted and cooled at the hilt and backside of the blade, where lightning would arc through it. He holds it up with reverence. He gestures to three marks on his blade. To the immediate right of the marks there was an empty patch before it continued on.

“Do you recognize them?” he asks gingerly.

Her breath unsteadies. She bends forward slightly, a fraction of a millimeter. It is nausea building in her throat, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

His mouth twinges at the corners. “Perhaps I need to help you,” he adds quickly, annoyance lingering on his hot breath, annoyed with the pedantics. “With the first, it was quick. She'd accepted it with honor. The second made an attempt to defy me, dying without dignity.” He paused, slowing. “Then there was the third one, the smallest in the room. So small I almost missed him. Something tells me he knew he was the smallest, like someone had never let him forget it.” He tilts the blade, letting the light pour over it, settling into the recesses. “He wasn't like the others. He stared at me with no agency and, to be honest, I was unsettled.” he says, running his finger over the tally. “It felt as if he stared past me, like a beast hung over my shoulder.” Realization widens his eyes. “He was watching you.” His volume builds with revelation. “He was waiting for you to decide what he could feel, because he…” he stops, catching his breath for a moment. He returns quieter, softer. “You must have hated that, didn't you?” He gets closer to her, peering over quivering lips and dew clung to her lashes. His breath hot against her face, he spoke for only her to hear, “He tried to speak. He didn't finish it. He tried to say your name.” He gets even closer. “He was afraid… but he had no fear for me. He wanted your permission because he was scared of you-- Because you looked at him like he was an animal.”

Ophelia swallows hard, she curls forward in on herself, like an upside down “J.” She spoke softly, choking on her own words, something she'd never allow. “You- you're wrong.” She knew it was bad when she had to lie outright, how she couldn’t bend the truth.

He smiles, stepping away slightly. His volume building as he drops the sword to his side. “Now you understand why you must be quelled. I would never look at my fellow species like you do, it’s what makes us superior.” From his back a small orange ball raises with mechanical whirring. A small piston beside it goes up and down, with each depression raising it further. Then, one after another, each ball on the men ignites. The fire immediately dies low, giving away to soft sparks that become stronger with each pulse. They begin arcing between them, lightning cracking behind him. The copper ball emits purple and blue flashes, missed with the bat of an eye. Suddenly, it strikes the floor angrily with vengeance. The lightning begins to catch the spire of his helmet, arcing wildly until its intended path becomes clear. A halo, circling his head of thorny, angry lightning. It heats the metal of his helmet to a bright yellow glow. The lightning trails down from the spire to his sword, forming semi circles around the backbone of the blade. The water in the air turns to vapor around the blade, the lightning arcing through each droplet of steam wildly through the air. He widens his stance, straightening himself almost 15 centimeters taller. He yells over the crescendo, “There is no place on this earth for beasts so cruel, beasts who strike fear into even their own kind!” he says, his smile widening until it curls into his cheeks. The saliva on his teeth glows purple, reflecting the power he adorns. He raises the blade with one arm to his shoulder level, where the tip points directly at her forehead. His other hand joins the handle, raising it higher above his head.

I've come across a very weird issue that I can't quite crack. Whenever a character says something that is supposed to be an emotional or pivotal impact it doesn't feel like it's landing. I'll give an example scene that I'm working on so y'all can kinda see where my issues lie (hopefully). I'm very new to writing and still struggle with formatting/syntax-ing dialouge, so hopefully that isn't too distracting. Feedback is much appreciated so thank you!

Context: Ophelia is a secret mage who'd been ratted out by her friend Nick. At the top of the hill at the edge of their campsite she's confronted by the genocidal military who are/have crusaded the magic countries.

The wind blows softly, jingling the talismans on the five men. Ophelia turns her head, staring into the dark slits of their helmets. Her body follows, lagging behind only a second. The stances of the men are lazy and unbothered, juxtaposed by their intent. They are covered in thick leather with steel armour adorning it, meticulously carved to catch the light of their lanterns. They do not look up into the darkness, only focused on Ophelia. One voice, raspily from the center of the crowd, speaks.

“It's a calm night tonight isn't it?”

Ophelia only stares him down. She balls her fist, the tension crawling up her arm, traveling to her legs where the anger stiffens her like a board.

The Scourge waits patiently before making an addition. “Hard to hide on nights like these. The stars are too bright.” he says, stepping forward into the median between her and his officers.

Ophelia still doesn't speak.

“Surely you agree?” he says. He paces around her lazily before he approaches Nick, tears drying on his cheeks. “Ah yes. Living proof.” He says solemnly, turning to face her once again.

“The poor boy. You'd surely agree with that?” he says, raising his voice slightly, “That you have attempted your manipulations so that he may be your worshiper?” He nears, ever closer. “Now. Now he feels pain. Pain for you. Pain that is in service to you.” Ophelia flicks her eyes away. His sharp breath slips through his nostrils. “Mm” he interjects with confirmation. He grabs her by the jaw, squishing her cheeks into her teeth. He towers over her, his neckline at the level of her forehead. Ophelia pulls back immediately.

He releases her, stepping away with a smirk.

“You know what I believe?” he concludes, “You'd rather die standing than live on your knees.” he waits for an answer before continuing.

“While I lead to salvation, you call it tyranny, simply because it is I who said it.” He chuckles to himself, watching her.

He awaits an answer with patience, the corners of his mouth twinge with disappointment- mournful. The Scourge commands an officer, not daring to take his eyes off Ophelia.

“Please, one of you shoo the boy away.” he says dismissively. He wafts through her discomfort, like sailing a boat around the sea of her conscience. Waves high and crescendoing, attempting to shake him from reaching the shore. One of the men shuffles to guide Nick away. He only desires to look forward, not daring to look back. Their footsteps patter away into the distance, softening until negligible.

The Scourge breathes out sharply, like a weight lifted off his chest. “Now we’re a little more free.” he says, stepping forward. “I remember you dear. Yes, you were one of the first cities, completely unprepared. Why, you scuttled off quickly didn’t you.” he jabs. Ophelia stares, expressionless. He continues, “I remember that day, seeing you- little you, standing over the body of my comrade. His throat sliced open, blood spurting out of the pipe implanted deep into his neck.” He leans forward, hands behind his back as he lunges. “How did it feel?” he adds, “To kill a man?” He waits for a response. He could feel it lingering in the air; it was his job, his purpose, to catch it. “I’ve never killed a man myself. Animals, certainly. Butchered with my blade.” He leans back, like an old man reminiscing, his arms crossed with casual conviction. “Why do I still use a blade, you may ask?” He looks to the sky, “Well, I believe I like the intimacy of it. These automatic rifles, stamped out in echoing chambers, are so impersonal. They make it too… efficient. Easy. The hot blade, the dripping of fat… The blade asks something of you, a machine just… answers.”

The Scourge unclips his sword from his belt. It had been repeatedly melted and cooled at the hilt and backside of the blade, where lightning would arc through it. He holds it up with reverence. He gestures to three marks on his blade. To the immediate right of the marks there was an empty patch before it continued on.

“Do you recognize them?” he asks gingerly. Ophelia swallows. His mouth twinges at the corners. “Perhaps I need to help you,” he adds quickly, annoyance lingering on his hot breath. “With the first, it was quick. She'd accepted it with honor. The second made an attempt to defy me, dying without dignity.” He paused. “Then there was the third one, the smallest in the room. So small I almost missed him. Something tells me he knew he was the smallest, like someone had never let him forget it.” He tilts the blade, letting the light pour over it, settling into the recesses. “He wasn't like the others. He stared at me with no agency and, to be honest, I was unsettled.” he says, running his finger over the tally. “It felt as if he stared past me, like a beast hung over my shoulder.” He pauses, realization widens his eyes. “He was watching you.” His volume builds with revelation. “He was waiting for you to decide what he could feel, because he…” he stops, catching his breath for a moment. He returns quieter, softer. “You must have hated that, didn't you?” He gets closer to her, peering over quivering lips and dew clung to her lashes. His breath hot against her face, he spoke for only her to hear, “He tried to speak. He didn't finish it. He tried to say your name.” He gets even closer. “He was afraid… but he had no fear for me. He wanted your permission because… because he was scared of you.” Ophelia swallows hard, the dew collecting and running down her cheek.

She spoke softly, choking on her own words, something she'd never allow. “You- you're wrong.”

He smiles, stepping away slightly. His volume building as he drops the sword to his side. “Now you understand why you must be quelled. You're even monstrous to your own species.” From his back a small orange ball raises with mechanical whirring. A small piston beside it goes up and down, with each depression raising it further. Then, one after another, each ball on the men ignites. The fire immediately dies low, giving away to soft sparks that become stronger with each pulse. They begin arcing between , lightning cracking behind him. The copper ball emits purple and blue flashes, missed with the bat of an eye. Suddenly, it strikes the floor angrily with vengeance, vaporizing the wet grass around them. The lightning begins to catch the spire of his helmet, arcing wildly until its intended path becomes clear. A halo, circling his head, of thorny, angry lightning. It heats the metal of his helmet to a bright yellow glow. The lightning trails down from the spire to his sword, forming semi circles around the backbone of the blade. The water in the air turns to vapor around the blade, the lightning arcing through each droplet of steam wildly through the air. He widens his stance, straightening himself almost 15 centimeters taller. He yells over the crescend, “There is no place on this earth for beasts so cruel, beasts who strike fear into even their own kind!” he says, his smile widening until it curls into his cheeks. The saliva on his teeth glows purple, reflecting the power he adorns. He raises the blade with one arm to his shoulder level, where the tip points directly at her forehead. His other hand joins the handle, raising it higher above his head. …

I'm new to writing and decided to write what I find really cool which is dark fantasy mixed with apocalypse. Anyway, from the more experienced and better writers here, how do I extend my scenes without adding too much unnecessary fluff? I think the concepts and psychology behind my dialog is good but it doesn't feel like it lands because of how short it is. Help would be very appreciated! I've provided an unfinished scene below to put an example of what I'm talking about. Thanks!

Context: The Scourge are a genocidal military focused on eradicating mages. Ophelias friend, Nick, ratted to the scourge that she was a mage after her found out.

The wind blows softly, jingling the talismans on the five men. Ophelia turns elegantly. The stances of the men are lazy and unbothered, juxtaposed by their intent. They are covered in thick leather with steel armour adorning it, meticulously carved to catch the light of their lanterns. They do not look up into the darkness, only focused on Ophelia. One voice, raspily from the center of the crowd, speaks.

The Scourge: “It's a calm night tonight isn't it?”

Ophelia only stares him down. She balls her fist, the tension crawling up her arm, traveling to her legs where the anger stiffens her like a board.

The Scourge waits patiently before making an addition

The Scourge: “The stars, they are like little eyes, peering at you…”

Ophelia still doesn't speak.

The Scourge: “Surely you agree?”

He paces around her lazily before he approaches Nick, tears drying on his cheeks.

The Scourge: “Ah yes. Living proof.”

He slowly turns to face her once again.

The Scourge: “The poor boy. You'd surely agree with that?” “That you have attempted your manipulations so that he may be your worshiper?”

He nears, ever closer.

The Scourge: “Now he feels pain. Pain for you. Pain that is in service to you.”

Ophelia flicks her eyes away. His sharp breath slips through his nostrils.

The Scourge: “Mm.”

He grabs her by the jaw, squishing her cheeks into her teeth. He towers over her, his neckline at the level of her forehead. Ophelia pulls back immediately.

He releases her, stepping away with a smirk.

The Scourge: “You know what I believe? You'd rather die standing than live on your knees.” “While I lead to salvation, you call it tyranny simply because it is I who said it.” He chuckles to himself, smiling warmly.

He awaits an answer with patience, the corners of his mouth twinge with disappointment- mournful.

The Scourge commands an officer, not daring to take his eyes off Ophelia.

The Scourge: “Please, one of you shoo the boy away.”

He waits patiently. One of the men shuffles to guide Nick away. Nick only desires, can only, look forward. Their footsteps patter away into the distance, softening until negligible.

The Scourge breathes out sharply.

The Scourge: “Now we’re a little more free.” he steps forward, closer.

The Scourge: “I remember you dear. Yes, you were one of the first cities, completely unprepared. Why, you scuttled off quickly didn’t you.”

Ophelia stares, expressionless.

The Scourge: “I remember that day, seeing you, little you, standing over the body of my comrade. His throat sliced open, blood spurting out of the pipe implanted like a fountain.”

The Scourge: “How did it feel? To kill a man.”

He waits for a response. He could feel it lingering in the air; it was his job, his purpose, to catch it.

The Scourge: “I’ve never killed a man myself. Animals, certainly.” He sits back in his stance, like an old man in his rocking chair. His arms crossed with casual conviction.

The Scourge: “Why do I still use a blade, you may ask? Well, I believe I like the intimacy of it. These “light-machine guns” make it too… efficient. Easy. An affinity we both share. The hot blade, the dripping of fat… The blade asks something of you, a machine just… answers.”

The Scourge unclips his sword from his belt. It had been repeatedly melted and cooled at the hilt, as well as the backside of the blade, where lightning would arc through it. He holds it up with reverence. He gestures to three marks on his blade.

The Scourge: “Do you recognize them?”

Ophelia swallows.

The Scourges mouth twinges at the corners.

The Scourge: “Perhaps I need to help you.