Doran, chapter 1

The first chapter of a potential novel that I've been working on. It's not very long (or very good), but it's a working progress.

The train hurtled along the lonely track, the grey blur of the city going by on both sides. A young man, in his early twenties at most, sat alone, looking lonelier than the empty seats that filled the carriage. Only a handful of people shared the second carriage from the rear, being one of the quiet hours of the morning. The sun was yet to come up and the sky was completely overcast, lending the scene a gloomy pre-dawn look. The young man seemed to be completely at home in these environs, as if his life was just like the morning, dark and grey, a day waiting to for the sun to come up. He slouched low in his seat; eyes hidden beneath a fringe of black hair, wearing a black jacket pulled close, blue jeans, arms folded across his chest and head down. The other passengers all politely ignored each other, minding their own business at this questionable hour. The young man sighed and shifted his weight, straightening up, and began to gaze at the world passing him by. His gaze seemed focused; there wasn't a hint of fatigue in his face. All of a sudden, the city scene gave way to open air. The city rose up on either side with a deep chasm in between. Far, far below, a river met the sides of its concrete cage with a raging ferocity, the recent, heavy rainfall swelling it until it threatened to flow into the city itself. Hasty barriers had been erected in attempt to control its flow, ragged concrete barriers that halted the white water and spray. These gave the edges of the river a ragged look, breaking and disturbing the torrent rather than directing it. There hadn't been any heavy rain in several days, and as such the river would soon be under control again.

A great screeching noise broke the comfortable indifference of the interior, at then the carriage began to tilt noticeably. The young man turned in his seat to look at the carriage behind, and saw it abruptly drop from sight. He gave out a cry of warning, when suddenly the next carriage followed its companion, tilting backwards until it was vertical. The passenger closest to the man, a businessman of some kind, fell screaming down, smashing through the rear window and into the carriage below. The young man scrambled around in his seat so that he was now on his kneeling of the back of his chair. Both ends of the train had an open glass windshield that allowed the driver a complete view of his surrounds. The businessman hit the glass with the crash, continuing straight through, no doubt dead before he hit the river with a splash. The next person to fall would not be so lucky, and the young man knew this. He quickly surveyed the rest of the carriage. The other passengers, like him, had been sitting in seats. They had been mostly unharmed, now either standing in their seats clutching at handholds, absolutely terrified. Standing up carefully, he called out to the other passengers. After catching their attention, he signalled for them to start climbing up to the carriage above, which was still largely on the bridge. Most seemed to understand, and they began either scrambling up or helping those who had been injured or could not make the climb alone. One passenger reached a man who was lying still on the back of a few seats, and after checking his pulse shook his head in dismay. He then picked up the body and began carrying it out of the train. The young man was about to start climbing himself, when he heard a cry from the carriage below. He looked down to see someone in the carriage below, scrambling up towards him. The young man looked back up the train, and saw that he wasn't the only one to hear the cry, many of the other passengers looking either at the figure or at him. One cried out that the figure was bleeding and began to climb down, but was stopped by a hand from another passenger. The words "It's too far. He's a goner" drifted through the carriage. The passengers all looked down once more, a few making quick crosses on their chests. One passenger however, the man carrying at the body was still watching the young man. The young man looked back down, and saw the figure slip and almost fall. He looked back up and saw the man with the body mouthing something. "Don't do it" he was saying, "don't you dare. It's too late".The young man took one last look at all the passengers, who were now all gazing his direction. Had they seen the businessman? Did they see him die? Did they know how much worse it was going to be for the poor person down there? The young man made up his mind, and began to climb.

All his life, Doran had caught this same train, every day at the exact same time. It was a ritual, a routine, the reason for it was long lost, but still he clutched it. All his life, Doran had looked for a purpose, something to do with his life, a reason to be. He had started writing fiction, yearning to contribute to the cornucopia of fantasy novels that thrilled him so. He had spent his life looking to be the heroes of those novels, the knights in shining armour, come to slay the dragon that threatened their kingdom. Now that the moment was upon him, he found himself wandering if to do this was his purpose, he wondered if he would still maintain the compulsion to catch the train after this. Would he even live to see the sunrise? He shook the questions away as he climbed down towards the still struggling figure. As he got closer, he saw the blood, saw the bodies that littered the last carriage. There had been several more people in the last carriage than there had been in his, and it seemed the figure was the sole survivor. Doran reached the space between the carriages, sharp edges of the broken window tearing at his jacket and clothes. He half climbed, half fell through to land firmly on the back of the nearest seat. The figure was only a few feet away now, resting in a seat diagonal from his position. Resting shortly, the Doran examined the figure closely, taking in the long dark hair and fair skin, splattered with blood. The young woman was bleeding from a few minor cuts on her left arm, and her most serious injury was a dark bruise on her right temple. He called to her, asked if she was alright. She turned to him, noticing him for the first time, and slowly nodded her head. Finding that the woman was largely unhurt bolstered Doran's spirits. He climbed across the carriage to her, and taking her hand, began to help her back up the carriage.

A few minutes later, the two reached the rest of the passengers, who were resting in the third carriage. Waiting for them, Doran realised when a cheer rose up upon their arrival. One passenger led the woman away to tend to her injuries while the rest crowded around the young man, congratulating him and shaking his hand. Among them was the man who had carried the body, a priest of some kind Doran realised after some scrutiny. The priest shook his hand slowly and respectfully. Doran smiled, and kept smiling to himself even after the crowd had begun to dissipate. The priest was smiling too, somewhat sadly however, as he began to lead the passengers out of the carriage, single-file, to the rescue workers outside. Doran stayed behind with the priest, ushering people out of the train, until only he, the priest and the woman he'd helped were left. Doran went to help the woman out of the train, when the priest stopped him. "Doran, my friend, I wish to talk to you." The priest started, "You too Eliza". The woman, Eliza, looked at him oddly at the mention of her name. The priest continued, "Doran, you did something today that not many people would do, that many people including myself saw as a reckless act. You endangered your own life for the sake of another, despite the odds placed against you. Just know, that I regret my cowardice, and I ask that you both forgive me." Doran and Eliza looked at each other, and smiled. Eliza replied first "I forgive you."
The priest smiled at her, and then turned to Doran. Doran began to speak, but suddenly the train lurched backwards, dropping the third carriage over the bridge. The force of the jolt caused the last two carriages to drop away from the train altogether taking the rear half of the next carriage with them. This made Doran's carriage the last in line, hanging diagonally over the edge, sliding slowly towards the river. Unfortunately for Doran, the jolt had been unexpected. He lost his footing and slid down the carriage, picking up speed. He hit the torn section of the floor at a startling speed, and just as he flew out into open air, two pairs of hands seized his. Hanging from the end of a wrecked train, out over a raging torrent a hundred feet below. Looking up, Doran saw that as he fell, the priest and Eliza had ahead of him. However, they had been able to get a hold of some of the seats and grab him as he slid past. The strain on both the priest's and Eliza's faces made it clear how this was going to end. A quiet assurance drifted over Doran, as he looked up at his saviours. The priest saw the look in his eyes and his expression changed, softened. Doran turned to Eliza, and spoke calmly "Eliza, the train is sliding, you need to get off." Eliza looked shocked at this advice, and tears in her eyes shook her head. Doran turned to the priest "Priest, look after her." The sun rose, casting warmth over the scene. Doran closed his eyes, and when he opened them he was smiling. He spoke softly to the priest, "I forgive you."

I'm aware there are probably heaps of grammatical/spelling errors and such, but I'm a pretty lazy spellchecker. That said, I think I got most of them...

Doran looks like a goner... but this is the first chapter of something longer? Intriguing.

I can see how hard you've worked to make the opening scene evocative. I'm terrible at detailed descriptions of scenes myself, so I appreciated this one. Especially the water, and the mention of the heavy rainfall. I always like details like that, because they give a sense of continuity to the setting. (I did wonder if that flooding contributed to the bridge giving way. Will we find out a bit more about what happened?)

Would you like me to pick up on any errors, or can you catch those?

Well, for suggestions...

Since Doran gets a name, anyway, why not use it right from the start, to avoid repeating "the young man" that often?

I also wonder why nobody told the priest "don't risk your life, and that of anyone you might fall on, for a dead body", while people were of the opinion "don't help that injured person, it's too dangerous".
Or why everyone stayed in the third carriage, which was still connected to two hanging down into a deep hole. (Maybe it's just because I've seen that Jurassic Park movie with the hinged trailer too often...)

Now, this might be a little odd, but a few things about structure, less about grammar:

Less is more. The less text a paragraph has in it, the easier it is for the reader. A large amount of smaller paragraphs gives the feeling of action and movement, whereas long paragraphs give the image of stillness. For me, at least, it's a bit hard to read large paragraphs.

If this is your style and you feel it's the most comfortable for you, hey, go for it! But I'd like to refer you to writers like Steven Brust and his Dragaera books. Brust likes to poke fun at Alexandre Dumas and his writing style -- if I remember correctly, Brust used an entire page to describe the way flowers were planted around the Imperial Palace...

Again, more about structure: it's easier on a reader's eyes if you end a paragraph every time a single actor speaks. It'll also make the story look longer while making it less heavy!

Now then, please, keep the text coming. I want to know more about Dolan through this story.

Addendum: Do you happen to have an Elfwood Library account? You can get loads of feedback from there, just as long as you're prepared to go and give feedback to others -- first.

Hey Wyldsong, I have an Elfwood too, or I did, years ago. I bet some of my old stuff is up there if I could find it. Scary thought.

Anyway, Fel. Too much description, too fast. It's unnatural, it disrupts the flow of the text. Especially in the first paragraph; you *don't need* to tell your reader the minute details of the scene. They'll pick it up; some of what they see when they read might be wrong, but it'll be more complete, and draw them in more, if you just tell them the important bits and let them fill in what feels right. If you tell them different later on, they'll adapt their mental image to suit the new information.

Like using two sentences about how empty the train is and how only a few people shared the carriage; it's more than we need to be told. Fiction writing isn't about describing perfectly, it's about telling what needs to be told for the story.

Also, "A few minutes later, the two reached the rest of the passengers, who were resting in the third carriage" strikes an odd note with me; it's describing a scene that has the potential to be brilliantly tense, and it's thrown off in a sentence.

Besides that, it's pretty nice. I like trains :P

Firstly, this is the first chapter of a longer saga which I may eventually get around to writing...

As for you suggestions, I was smiling to myself while reading them, because everything you've pointed out is part of the story (except for Snog's and Ves', that's my bad). I don't want to spoil the story, but the extra detail in areas and missing scenes are important to the story.

Also, Mutt, if I could get a folder for this stuff, that'd be awesome, because I'm probably going to be switching between stories often. It'd be cool if I could group them all together. Thanks.

You forgot to answer the question if you'd like help with grammar and such. :)

Oh, well, I could probably use it. As I said, I'm a pretty lazy spellchecker, but I think I manage to catch misspelt words and such. I guess it would probably be handy if you just notice anything, but I don't want anyone to go out of their way to do so. Thanks.

Okeydokey, Fel, I've made this a folder for you. You can start new pages using the "Start new Discussion" button. Any other changes you need, gimme a shout.

Thanks Mutt.

Okay, the Prologue over and done with, I've just finished the first chapter of part one: The Departure. There are three parts to this novel, which I've named The Wanderer, The Departure, The Journey, and The Arrival.

The dirt road cut a path through a great forest, dense treelines on either side, the heavy mist looming all about. A carraige rumbled across loose stones, and eerie singing filling the air with its melancholy melody. Two black stallions pulled the carraige, shaking their heads in unease. The hooded driver swayed with the carraige's movement, features hidden in shadow. Inside the carraige, a young man sat, writing in an old leather-bound journal. His quill moving intricatly as he scribed his most recent life experiences into its worn yet strangely unaged pages. The swaying of the carraige seemed not to impair neither his scripting nor his stillness. Aside from the delicate flowing of his hand, he was otherwise motionless, his coat strapped tightly around him and his black hair hanging loosely. HIs closed the journal, and admired the cursive signature written in gold on the back cover.

Doran Wright.

He sighed, and glanced around himself. Aside from the singing, it was very quiet. He felt a shiver crawl up his spine, and his eyes widened. His hand shifted to a flintlock pistol strapped to his right leg, barely touching its ebony grip. Inlaid with gold and ivory, it was a stunning example of craftmanship, and the new clockwork system that was the man's own innovation allowed for rapid fire of the round bullets that served as ammunition. The pistol bore similarities to the sword at his left, its hilt black detailed with gold and bone, the blade glinting in the wane moonlight. Blue eyes scanned the natural wall to his right.

The singing faded. "Its nothing powerful" came a woman's voice, "it should leave us alone."

Doran relaxed, his hand retracting from his weapon. The singing resumed, a gentle song of warding, to keep the spirits at bay. It was soothing, and Doran soon found himself drifting off. Taking his tricorne, tan brown like his longcoat, from a hook on the carraige wall, he placed it over his eyes, and dozed off.

Many hours later, Doran awoke suddenly from a nightmare, dreams of falling from a hieght and of raging torrents fading away. He soon relaxed, the sound of the carraiges wooden wheels on cobblestone and the early morning sun making their presence known to him. He straightened his hat, and wiped the sleep from his eyes. The carraige pulled up to a wooden building with a stable to one side.

The Stonewall Inn was emblazened in capital letters on a sign swinging gently above a great oak door, open and welcoming. Pulling his coat down, Doran stepped from the carraige and addressed the driver.

"Rather uneventful trip, I don't understand what all the fuss is about."

The driver pulled away the hood, revealing once dark hair, now bleached from exposure to the sun, and tanned skin.

"All the same," said the driver, "I don't care much for this region. Much too bleak for my liking."

Doran glanced around at the dark wooden structures that made up the city of Stonewall, named for the impressive stone fortifications that surrounded it. The sky was overcast, and a little of the fog still hung in the air. The city did indeed appeak bleak, sullen even. The citizens in the streets walked brusquely, heads bowed. They avoided the gazes of the others, valuing their privacy and personal space.

Doran shook his head.

"I'd have to agree, of course. Its definitly fear, and no wonder. Here on the edge of Wightwood, caution would be warranted. Still, I'm not sure I could live like this."

"Hopefully, you won't have to" replied the driver. "This place is the best lead we have, and I just want to get on with the job."

Turning away from the street, Doran entered the Inn, leaving the woman to lead the horses into the stables and tend to the cart.

The interior of the Inn was dark and gloomy, the oil lamps suspended from the walls doing little to light the taproom. Doran walked up to the Innkeeper, a big brute of a man with a large, waxed and well-groomed handlebar moustache and organised seperate lodgings for both himself and his driver. The moustache nodded, passing two keys over the bar. In turn, Doran passed over several glinting coins. The moustache took the coins and moved away without a word.

Doran took the keys, and threw one to the driver who had just entered the Inn. She caught it deftly and sat down at a spare table.

Arriving at his room, Doran walked straight over to the window and pushed it open. The room he was in was plain, but comfortable enough, with a single bed and lavatory. Doran stood at the window, Gazing out at the city for several hours, until there was a knock at the door.

Doran opened the door, his driver striding in.

"Nothing!" she said, "Absolutely nothing! These people are useless, too sorrowful to be useful. Won't even acknowledge me, let alone make conversation."

"I take it that you didn't learn anything?" Doran enquired.

"Learn anything?!" she said in a raised voice, "Aren't you listening to me? They're hopeless! There isn't a single bleedin' person down there who's willing to raise their head for even a second to help themselves, let alone a fellow human being!"

"So you did learn something..." Doran bowed his head in thought.

The driver stood there, gaping at him. "What! You're not listening, are you? They might as well be ghosts down there!" The driver froze, surpised at her statement. "Ghosts..." she whispered.

Doran lifted his gaze, "Not ghosts, but definitly not themselves. I don't even think they're aware of it themselves. The Innkeeper may have been subdued, but was still able to perform his duty." Doran turned towards his window, the fog thickening outside. Even the daylight failed to warm the town, its rays subdued by the grey clouds that loitered in the city streets.

"I think we've found our lead."