Welcome to Gaia! ::

Well, I wrote this for a RP character backstory. I was only planning on a couple of paragraphs, but it kept getting longer sweatdrop Anyway, I hate pretty much everything I write, but some people think I have talent, so if you guys could read a bit of it and tell me what you (honestly) think then that'd be great heart


When I was a child, I saw my home burn. The night was dark and the summer was dry, and the smoke brought tears to my eyes. I was carried to safety by an elder, a wise man who in his youth was the protector of a vast land. I was a fresh initiate then, and full of fear - and the elder could sense that, and he soothed my cries as best he could. He spoke to me of the fire of the hearth, bringer of warmth and safety, and of the fire of the heart, the passion of the spirit. He told me of the balance of the elements, and how the flames cleared the way for new life. He told me that man can never control the powers of the world; how we but borrow them for a short while before we ourselves are given to them. He told me many things that night, as I wept, of birth and death, of the past and of the future. I remember it today, in vivid detail, and I remember the following days almost as clearly.

The forest was deadly silent afterwards, for a while, and the thick smell of smoke clung to everything. Heavy rains had doused the blaze, and we travelled once more to meet with our brother druids. The fires had taken a heavy toll; whole villages consumed, countless souls extinguished. Many of our council were killed, their bodies joining the ash that the rains mixed into the earth. After that day, life became much different.

My birth, I was told, occured at midnight on the first day of the harvest. Before I had seen the cruelty of the world, I believed the stars were always right and the fireside stories were always true. When the druids came for me, my parents gave me up to their care - we were the holiest priests, the rulers of our isolated domain. From the age of 7, I was trained by many among the council, taught the ways of the spirits and the powers of the world around us. When the forest was burned there were less of us, old men and young boys who could not stay to call the storm.

We spent the next years watching over a kind of rebirth. My brothers, the other two boys who had escaped, and the few elders, who withered away over time and rejoined the earth and their brothers once more. And in my twentieth year, there were three of us. The woods were strong once more, stronger and more beautiful than before if such a thing is possible. We were the protectors of the woods, and the people who had escaped destruction and came to live among the fresh young trees once more. And in that year, a threat emerged.

A group of foreigners, outsiders, had settled at the edge of the woods. Their hunting parties penetrated deep into our lands, slaughtering the beasts of the wilds and threatening our people. Their loggers tore into the flesh of the forest, destroying old growth and new growth alike. In council, my brothers and myself sought to protect, our holy duty.

We borrowed the powers of nature. We called upon the wolves and the bears of the deep woods to be our soldiers. We called upon the trees and the plants to prevent any escape. We called upon the flame, the destroyer. The enemy, the human town, was destroyed, it's threat defeated. We left no survivors, or so we believed.

There must have been one, one of these outsiders, these humans, I later realised. A week passed, and they returned. Men, many men, wearing metal armour and wielding blades of steel. They entered the forest, and though we expended all energies we were unable to defeat them. My brothers were killed. I was not granted this blessing. I was captured, beaten, and taken back to their lands to stand trial for my crimes.

In these lands, I was an oddity. A savage. A murderer. I cried out for my death but it was not granted to me. The judge wanted to teach me, I believe, of the benefit of civilisation. In that teaching, he showed me the cruelty of mercy. He sentenced me not to death, but to life - to be enjoyed behind the walls of a great prison. I reside in that prison now, and many years are promised to me yet - years of longing for revenge, a longing that grows inside me like a flame, cut away from the balances of nature that keep it in check. And one day that flame will break free, and all those who have destroyed my home and my people and my heart will be consumed.

In this prison, I am seperated from the world, torn from natures great cloth. I am a body with no soul, for my soul remains in my home, with the souls of my dead brothers. But the sun shines through my cell's high window; and in the deep cracks between it's flagstones I have found a glimmer of myself once more. With my hands and the blessing of the spirits I have borne a shoot, and from that shoot has grown a leaf, and in time, perhaps, it will bloom. And perhaps there is some hope left, after all.

You're a fine writer. I've seen a lot of sloppily-done Web stories in my time, and this is definitely not such a thing.

But seriously, try to get out of the "I hate my writing" mindset. I used to do the same thing not too long ago, and it didn't work for me at all. Try giving your work the benefit of the doubt instead of telling yourself that it's bad. But if you have a gut feeling that something's not right about it, probe that feeling until you find exactly what it is that's bugging you, then go about fixing it. Good criticism analyzes the work. Bad criticism beats up on the author.

*steps off soapbox xd *

Just one nitpick: I agree with Mitra that this composition, although quite good, is a bit showy at points. I'd suggest doing away with a little of the sophisticated narration and replacing it with some more raw emotion on the part of the main character. But hey, it's your story, not mine, so do what you want with it.