A prologue for my story, please read and criticize constructively, thanks!

[Showatt]

Hello! I'm a new member to this forum but I've been reading some of the stories people have come up with, especially in the writer's workshop section.
I've always wanted to be a writer, i've just got out of high school and have been attending grammar courses and workshops for about three month. This is a little prologue I wrote for my novel, and if it's okay I would like some feedback on how it is. I hope the length is not too long....
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Prologue

A large idled temple sat quietly upon a great mossy maroon cliff towering over an enormous ancient-looking city. the long steep flight of tarnished white stone stair, sprung from a majestic fortress at the bottom of the cliff and glittered faintly in the setting sun, much like a curvy silver thread laid on a mound of red sand, was leading towards the temple gate.

The flock of blackbirds loitering in the little courtyard before the gate fled as a sallow old man in white robe strode passed the doorway and into the temple. An ivory emblem of a wheel of fire encircling a seven-ended star was pinned on his chest, and its centre was engraved with three gold lines written in elegant writings:

High Council of Travancore.
The Heart of Sarmantor
Morad Ice Schubert

His expression was impassive, and a curious gleam of sapphire blue in his pallid palms flickered as he walked. Morad's face was full of lines and shadows when illuminated by the bowls of crackling blue flames, dangling on the columns of stone pillar in the long marble atrium.

His irises were so pale they almost looked non-existence, and as he pushed open the rosewood door at the end of the atrium, his ghostly reflection on the marble floor was glowing white. As he vanished from the entrance and the rosewood door snapped close behind him, a spacious golden hall lit with a massive chandelier hung from the ceiling came into view.

Rows of mahogany benches next to him were lined up perfectly as he glided towards the angelic statue at the end of the temple hall. Around him were seven panels of coloured windows. Each of them illustrated man and woman dressed in noble attires, each of them held tightly a weapon in their hands, their expression glum and saint-like.

He slowed down his pace and looked from left to right, his lips curled into a smile when he noticed the bulky man crouching before the statue of an angelic woman, with six pairs of wings that stretched out like two massive palms. She was staring into her hands like she was holding something precious, the words on podium beneath her feet read:

The Archangel of Sara,

Mother of Otan, Giver of all life

It was then followed by a short monument, which the kneeling man was reading carefully with a pair of dark wary eyes and whispering aloud with a loutish voice: 'Archangel of Sara, mother of Otan, the giver of all life. May her smile bring strength to the good and courage to the weak. Regrets to the sinful and shame to the fiends. May-'

'May her wings shelter Otan and all its inhabitants, protect all that's noble and innocent in times of darkness. May her presence shepherd the misguided and the lost, back to the path of righteousness.' Morad interrupted. The kneeling man jolted.

It was plain that he so absorbed by the passages on the monument he did not notice the rosewood door opening, nor the white robed chancellor approaching. He did however, seem to recognize the voice. 'Chancellor Morad...That's close enough, thank you.' He said, shaking his head, inclining Morad to stop. ' I did not expect to see a man of your status here. What brings you all the way from Travancore to Barkwell?'

'It's been too long... Captain Francis...my friend! I have merely come to pay you a visit. Your division is stationed here, is it not?' Morad greeted. Although the wrinkles on his face were numberless and deep, out of the two his appearance was still the better one. Yet there were deep shadows around his eyes and on his forehead, like he had been deprived of sleep.

'Friend...' Francis scoffed, 'When was the last time the two of us spoke? When was the last time you replied my letters and invited me to your home? I'm surprised you even remembered my name! Now that you're a chancellor, you don't seem to be needing friends anymore.'

'My, there's no such thing. How could I possibly forget our friendship during the Alyion War? How many times have you saved my skins in the midst of battles? How many times have you offered your support when Travancore was endangered by the underlings of Carr-'

'And yet your council refused to help me when Clayon Crusade requires your assistance!' Said Francis angrily.

'Alas... you take it far too personally. ' Morad replied lightly. ' The High Council isn't run by one man, but seven. My opinion matters very little unless there are others who agrees with me. Sadly that wasn't the case when your request was being reviewed...' He then heaved a great sigh and turned around dramatically.

'But to think you would abandon our friendship, no longer referring me using the old nicknames because of something I have no control over...I'm disappointed, Francis. I enjoyed my unofficial title a lot more than my meaningless name...everything should have a meaning, do you agree, Scar?'

'Chancellor Morad,' Francis said curtly. 'Jester Glendark has made tremendous progress in reclaiming the kingdom of Naoscar from the armies of Navaras. Right now three of his divisions are marching towards Avalon, and they met very little resistances along their way. The latest issue of Paladin's Pilgrimage will give you all the details, if you desire them. And make no mistake, Chancellor, the old rumors were true. Carr was destroyed by Inron Melchior on the slope of Dragonfall, twenty years ago. Why else would he not defend the cities he had conquered during the Alyion War? '

with both hands tucked inside his long white sleeves Morad threw Francis a quick and insincere smile. 'You assumed too much. I have studied the history of Otan for nearly all my life now. if the Grimforts can be taken so easily why has the Aithion War lasted two thousand years? If the lord of Navaras can be destroyed so effortlessly, why has Alyion War occurred after the Reminiscence? You see, '

he paused and stared at the ceiling with an expression filled with irony, his voice exaggerated.

'War is endless, and it is inevitable as long as we continue to live, unable to understand each other. War is full of sorrows, full of suffering and full of meanings, like unspoken words that can be only told through blood and fist. Otan has endured almost three millenniums of warfare, and they all meant something. Sadly, not a person realized it in time. Not even I did.'

Captain Francis glared at the chancellor heatedly, his body shaking with fury.

'Then what do you wish to do, just sit around and read all day, trying to get some meaning out of things that are accidental? Since when have you become such a fatalist? We need to fight for freedom, we need to fight for changes! ' Francis growled, pacing back and forth in front of the statue of Sara, while Morad smiled amusingly, looking thoroughly entertained by Francis' reaction.

'There are things you cannot change, and there are things you cannot avoid. ' Morad whispered in a low voice, yet his word echoed in the hall like a giant church bell. ' Tell me, Francis , my old friend. Tell me, what can change the fate of a man? '

'Only a man can change the fate of a man.' Francis answered proudly. 'This is Jester's message to the people of Otan, who stood idly by and let the dark lord takes over, and for those fools who are willing to believe those idiotic prophecies written on those emerald tablets. Fools just like you, apparently.'

'Alas...It seems you have become much more perspective than ever before.' Mused Morad. ' What gave it away? I'm sure I have not yet mentioned the emerald tablets within this hall.'

'There are things you cannot change? Things you cannot avoid? You sounded exactly like those scum from the order of Sacred fire! Open your eyes, old man. The prophecies are a bunch of stories with no purpose other than to entertain. The rise of two chosen ones and the revival of the old alliance? The elvish folks had shunned us for over five hundred years! My six years old son tells shorter tales than this. And just how many times has the idea of chosen ones saving the world being used by bards and swindlers already? Put it out of your mind, Morad. If there is such thing as a true prophecy, then Jester IS the chosen one!' Francis bellowed.

'This is really too bad… If only you would try to use your head a bit more, you could have figured out the meaning behind my questions. 'the wizard said disappointingly, a crackling sound was buzzing in his sleeves, and the air around them suddenly became very cold. 'Let me ask you once more, Francis Degensis, What, can change the fate of a man?'

'Your questions are pointless. Why won’t you stand with us? We’ve known each other for decades, and fought together on many occasions.' Francis stood closer, adding a little more pleading in his voice and breathed out a stream of white fog. ' Won’t you join us, for old time's sake? What are you really afraid to lose, Ice?'

'I’m not afraid to lose anything except for one thing, Francis.' Ice smirked, but it wasn't a pleasant smile. It was a cruel and mirthless smile, his smooth face twisted and the wrinkles on his face never looked more senile and more evil than ever before.

'Power.' He murmured with such ferocity the word sent a chill down Francis' spine.

As realization slowly sank in, Francis glowered at the silver wizard with a spreading dread. His heart was crushing against his ribcage, beating violently as he body began to shiver from the cold. Finally noticing the dropping temperature, Francis realized the shadow on Morad's face was not deprivation after all, but something far more sinister.

'Morad Schubert...What have you done?'

'What can change the fate of a man? Now, I shall give you my answer…only power, can change the fate of a man. No one can escape death, Francis. We are all doomed to die, just as you will in a few moment's time. But with power, one can influence elements, destroy lives, manipulate minds, and with enough power, it is not impossible for one to even thwart death!'

Slowly backing away, the Chancellor continued to smile, all his previous facades of merits were gone from his face. 'You are foolish to think the dark lord can be destroyed. A fool that couldn’t grasp the true meaning behind these wars, these sufferings... and the answer, my... it is so simple. There is no end to greed, shadows and lust for power. Just as no light can cast away all darkness, those who fight in the name of justice and light, can never truly prevail. And you shall witness now, what one can gain from the darkness itself…Power!'

Francis charged forward without another word, his hand swept his long black cloak aside and pulled out a red rapier from the scabbard underneath. His movement was brutal and fast, but the chancellor was even quicker. Catching the rapier with his bare hand, Morad frowned as the captain struggled to draw back his sword.

'I have come to bid you farewell, Old Friend.' Said Morad indifferently. Something in his palm was shinning, something cobalt, and in an instant the blade he gripped in his hand had began to sizzle like it was on fire.
'Good bye, Francis Degenesis. Give Xioreed my regards.'

Francis shivered violently and tried to let go of the handle, snarling from the effort, but it was too late. The frost on the blade had became thick with smoke, and it was traveling down to the rapier guard, fast. Francis's hand had become immovable in a matter of seconds and soon it was covered in rime. His entire body was trembling harshly, and he could feel the blood in his vein froze under the wordless spell.

'Ice…' Francis uttered the old nickname of chancellor Morad slowly for the last time, as his heart beat continued to fade, and every inch of his body was now paler than snow. A few minute later, there was no life left in Francis eyes, and still standing, with mouth slightly opened he was dead before he could pronounce Morad's full name.

But the chancellor did not stop with murdering his; his spell was spreading from the frozen corpse of captain Francis to the surrounding space. The iciness was creeping across the marble floor, which was no longer reflective. The rows of benches were smoking from the freeze and eventually everything within the temple hall had became thick with ice.

Morad finally let go of the blade, revealing a glowing blue crystal imbued in the centre of his palm. And with little effort he smashed Francis' fragile body into pieces with his fist and strode away, kicked open the frozen rosewood door and out of the long dark atrium into the setting sun.

Two other men dressed in similar attire were approaching Morad in the little courtyard in front of the temple. One of them was a short man with combed, slick greenish hair and lime colored eyes, whose features were slightly rounder and bore the same darkness underneath chancellor Morad's eyes.

'Is it done?' Morad asked quietly, and the green-haired man nodded back.

'You can smell it in the air, Morad. Witness the work of Beethovan, the Fury of Sarmantor.' He said proudly with a bass like voice, and gestured the tall man behind him, whose hair and eyes were the colour deep crimson like the dark fires of hell.

The shadows on his features were the most distinguishing out of the three and his eyes were two burning stones, glowing in the darkness. One can easily tell he was perhaps the most powerful, for the courtyard had begin to heat up in his presence, and the green grass and wild yellow flowers beneath his feet were reduced to ash almost instantly.

'Blaze never dies alone.' Beethovan muttered gravely 'To Avalon.' he said,

After a quick nod the three of them climbed the stairs down towards the white fortress at the bottom, leaving behind nothing but a trail of dead bodies along their way as they made their way through the smoldering city. And all the while a faint murmur could be heard atop the distant screams and cries of the citizen of Barkwell: 'May her presence shepherd the misguided and the lost, back to the path of righteousness.'


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This is only the prologue, I've wanted someone to read and tell me how it is in terms of storytelling, but no one in my family reads english. Is what's happening in the story easy to grasp? Is the scenery I've describe vivid enough? Is it boring? Do my characters feel real to you ? Is it a good prologue? does it has potential?Also, Some ways I can improve my writings...

Thanks for reading and your help is much appreciated. Please don't hold back, be savage, but keep it constructive so I know how I can improve.

[hectorberlioz]

I feel that, firstly, the names of the characters are a bit muddly. "Schubert" is German Composer, and seeing that name in there hinders rather than helps my imagining of the story. I also think you have a jumble of names that do not necessarily match eachother. Again, this hinders the story rather than helps it. Yes, they are cool-sounding names, but what good is that when they get in the way rather than help?

My two cents

[Varnafindë]

There's even "Beethovan".
Using composers' names may be ok if there's a reason for it, but I find no obvious such reason here.

Somehow I also find the tone a little too pompous - don't know whether that shows you how to improve it, though ...