"Rat city"-teoksen inspiroimana

[Pinegulf]

Tässä on alku. Valitan kirvoitusvihreitä. Jaa mikskö englanniksi, no koska mielestäni siihen saa enempi tunnelmaa.

Thus it was dark times and an eternal fog hung over the moor like a heavy curtain of despair. Crittering of small pray and grunts of hunters echoed occasionally in the gloom. One highpiched sqeek marked end for another hopeless creature and the sea of lost souls was filled a little more. Barely noticable pathway cut through the traitorous swamps. The trail was old and now narrow. Once it had been a highway of proud people and hundreds of caravans had passed upon it, but now – a mocery of it`s former glory. At the end, or perhaps at the beginnig, lay a great city. Nearly sixhundred years had it challenged the surrounding watery land and merciles winds and sea. It was fighting a loosing battle. For only ruined buildings and crumbled arcways remained. All manner of foul creatures resided in the dank cold caves which run deep into the earth.

A creature from past walked the paht: it had no bisness here. A wanderer. He was no great hero, no champion of ligh, not even a follewer of law, but a bitter one, silent and grim walking to his doom. Still he`s step didn`t falter. He had certain profoundnes imprinted upon him. This man was no victim like so many other who had strayed here drawn by gold and grand deeds. Their bones now resided in the litterpiles. Gnawed clean. With no-one to mourn them. No song were song to speed their way to the blessed iles.

He came at last to the vergers of the city. Wall had lost it`s battle some fifty years ago and there lay great holes in the rampart, still the gate remained intact as if it somehow stubbornly refuced to be forgotten and die. Knowning that no carpenter would come to it`s salvation. No one would pass through it and live, for it was bound with terrible pacts and dark runes, which ate it from inside. For decades it had battlet and it was tired and yet it still clinged to old pact. Wanderer knew all too well, that there was nothing to do for the old-one. No salvation, no hope, only bitter and unfitting end of doom and torment.

Man came atlast to the gates. He crossed old bridge to halfway. Circling a big hole made a boulder, which was still visble down in the moat. He hesitated for a moment and thought. Steel war drawn faster than eye could notice. Four foul creatures -Pitiful creations of Moulder, who were ascaped or let loose. Knowing only pain of existence- stood behind the wanderer and one half sqeeked and half barked on barely noticable oldworlder: ”Giive?”, It pleaded. No response. ”Pleese?”- Stanger stood like a statue a blade in his hand. Not some fancy piece, but a practical and deadly, yet finely curved and made with pride and skill. ”If you no give we take!”, followed the threat. Wery slowly the man drew hood from his head and moved cloak so that it no longer resricted movement.

Man wore same markings as his blade; six-pointed star and marking for Isha. He was no weak manling. Mutants advanced. And again begun the rite of ancients; battle for ones lives. The one which was fought over time and time again. Ending at the death of last living one. First and the fastest of mutants was impled through chest before it could realise what was happening. Stunned by the speed of the stanger the second didn`t have mutch more change. Third –boss- was however toughere and meaner and fell over the opponent and bloody wrestling took place.

The last and weakest one of the band waited and watched as a dark figure rose as the struggle ended. Hand shot though fog and grabbed the foolish creature from throath. It sqeeked in fear and desperation. Momentary blow of wind cleared fog enough to see; pointy eyes and years. The wery same which marked end for so many others. Elf blutly showed the bastard to it`s doom in moat. Long miserable sqeek was ended mercifully quickly by stonewall. As if nothing he advanced to the gate, igmoring the fresh bite-marks on he`s left arm. He was allready dead, one more certain doom meant nothing.


Noniih, kannattaako jatkaa vai keskitytäänkö jo olemassa olevasta fluffista riitelyyn?


-Pinegulf

[Dru Perim]

Valitan kirvoitusvihreitä. Jaa mikskö englanniksi, no koska mielestäni siihen saa enempi tunnelmaa.

Sanojen oikeinkirjoitusmuodot kannattaisi aina tarkistaa kieliohjelmalla - kirjoitti sitten äidinkielellään tai vieraalla kielellä. Pienet lapsukset (kuten yhden kirjaimen virheet) pilaavat nimittäin varmasti sen tunnelman. Lisäksi se on kohteliasta lukijaa kohtaan, joka uhraa omaa aikaansa tekstin lukemiseen.

Käyttämäsi sanasto on laajaa ja vivahteikasta ja pyrkii luomaan hyvin mainostamaasi tunnelmaa, mutta muuten englanninkieli ei valitettavasti toimi. Kielenkäytöstä johtuvat rakenteelliset ja ilmaisulliset ongelmat häiritsevät tekstiä liiaksi.

Toisaalta, ihan hyvin tekstisi kilpailee monen tällä foorumilla kirjoitetun suomenkielisen tarinan kanssa.

(Ylipäätään englanniksi hyvin proosaa kirjoittavia ei-englanninkielisiä kirjailijoita ei ole montaa. Yksi parhaista lienee edelleen 1800-luvun lopulla ja tämän vuosisadan alussa vaikuttanut puolalaissyntyinen Joseph Konrad (Korzeniowski). Lainaankin häntä tähän lopuksi: "Get up and try again.")


- Dru Perim

[Icingdeath]

Muuten hyvä tarina, mutta mielestäni sinun ei kannattaisi alkaa kirjoittamaan vieraalla kielellä mikäli et ole siinä todella hyvä. Tekstisi on yleisesti ottaen kyllä hyvää, mutta useat kirjoitusvirheet ja väärät muodot pistävät silmään kuin AA-kerhon jäsen saksalaisilla olut festivaaleilla. Kyllä äidinkielellämmekin voi luoda tunnelmaa. Jos et usko, voit lukaista muutamien foorumin taitavien veteraani kirjoilijoiden tarinoita.

Haluaisin nähdä jatkoa tarinallesi, mutta mieluiten ensi kerralla ihan suomenkielisenä.

[High king Godric]

Hyvä tarina ja jatkoa vaan heti kun inspiraatiota löytyy tarpeeksi. Kirjoitusvirheet vähän kiusasivat mutta ne voi korjata tulevia lukijoita varten. Jatkoa odotan, mutta älä pidä niin kovaa kiirettä ettet ehdi virheiden varalta tarkistamaan.