Here's the pic that inspired it:
The reddit submission isnt loading.
idk why. probably because the post is too long. i'll edit the post to just include the text.
actully it's not letting me edit so I'll just post here
***
Though the freezing cold of the snowy air seared his skin, faith warmed Brother Timmy’s slow-beating heart.
Up the hill, against the blizzard, Timmy followed his kin. Fellows of the Order Despondent, brothers faithful of the Blackpill Cult. As they ascended the steep incline with spears in hand, their hooded robes of dark linen fluttered in the gust. A whip’s cracks echoed in the whistling wind, followed by the moans of newly captured slaves.
“Faster!” shouted Bishop Lee Cheg through his blood-stained skull mask. As he stood atop the wooden sled, the Bishop brought the whip back and flung its steel-hooked tail at one of the slaves who pulled it. Crimson droplets poured down the whimpering slaves’ backs, leaving behind trails of red upon the snow’s blinding white.
Brother Francis sighed, shaking his head with his gaze drawn downward. “Too many. Too many lives were lost.”
“What’s too many?” Brother Gregor stretched out a bony hand, pointing to the sled. “Do you not see the head of the Megachad, brother incel? Nor the wretched curs who pull it on our behalf?”
Timmy took a glance at the sled. The Megachad’s head, four times his size and ten times his mass, bore heavy upon the sled’s feeble frame. Indeed, no less than seven brothers had been slain by the Megachad’s brutish hand before a bolt of lightning, summoned by the Bishop in the foul tongue of black magic, struck the Megachad down upon the spine and rendered it immobile. It was thereafter when the killing blow had been struck.
Brother Francis nodded his head. The violet scar across his nose briefly showed through the shadow which covered his face. “Indeed. But I also see our fallen brothers in my dreams each night. I hear their screams in silence.”
“Are you really so weak?” Brother Gregor jeered. “Are you really troubled by our brothers’ noble sacrifice?”
“Aye.”
Brother Gregor spat on the snow at his sandaled feet. “Fool. You should be elated. It was your spear’s tip that pierced the Megachad’s heart.”
“Indeed,” said Brother Francis, gaze still drawn downward. “But it’s an injustice that they should die, and I should live. They were the true faithful.”
“Death finds us all soon enough.” Brother Gregor stretched his arms out wide. “Our Lord smiles upon our deeds this day, and once we get back to the altar and offer Him the Megachad’s bones, He will gift us with His dark blessing. Though for your weakness, I expect He will curse you. As He rightly should.”
Brother Gregor tightened his grip on his spear. “This life Is curse enough.”
“As is your petulant whining.”
Something sank in the pit of Brother Timmy’s chest. He could sense Brother Francis’s pain in the dreariness of his voice; his defeated tone and sad demeanor. Indeed, the loss of those valiant brothers wore on Timmy’s spirits as it did Francis’s. Was it right for Brother Gregor to chide him for his anguish? To wish a curse upon him for it? It was not. Nor was It right to abet such behavior.
Timmy spoke up. “Leave him alone, Brother Gregor. He did nothing to you.”
Brother Gregor sneered and shot a glower at Timmy. “Shut your mouth, neophyte, or I’ll cut out your tongue and feed it to your whore mother.”
More words entered Timmy’s mind, but his lips held them back, paralyzed with fright. Brother Gregor was a fearsome warrior: swift as a viper, cunning as a fox, and strong as a bear. From the time Timmy had been weaned off his mother’s breast, to the time the Order razed his village and took him as a little boy, Gregor had collected at least several dozen heads from bandits, militiamen, and house retainers of Queen Stacy the Tenth, whose queendom stretched vast from the fringes of the Desert of the Shunned to the delta of the River Soylent. It was often said by the High Priest of the Order Despondent that Gregor would inherit his father’s place as the cult’s field marshal, should Almighty Blakops Toosel—Lord of Solitude, Lord of Agony, Lord of Death—take his father’s soul from the mortal realm and leave the body to lay down and rot.
“Both of you,” said Brother Gregor. “Both of you are weak. Your breath; your sweat; reek of soy. I can smell it even from here.”
“Brother Bishop,” said Brother Han, who stood next to the Bishop atop the wooden sled. “I thirst, and my canteen is empty. Perhaps we should search for fresh water.”
The Bishop held silent for a moment. “The altar is but two days away. Can you not wet your mouth with the snow?”
“I would, Brother Bishop, but the cold makes me shiver. I wish not to put more of it in my stomach.”
Drawing his gaze toward the sky, the Bishop seemed to ponder. After a long moment’s passing, he looked down to Brother Gregor. “How about you, warrior? Does thirst bother you as well?”
“Yes,” replied Brother Gregor, “but not in my throat. It’s my loins that thirst.”
“Of course. But you know we haven’t any roasties in our chains right now.”
“Feh,” spat Brother Gregor. “One of our slaves has a girly-looking ass. I’ll use that, instead.”
The Bishop nodded and looked to Brother Francis. “And you, Brother Francis?”
A long breath drew in and out through Brother Francis’s nostrils. “Aye.”
“And you, neophyte?” asked the Bishop.
Though he had not noticed until now, Brother Timmy’s throat did feel dry, and his eyelids did hang heavy with want for rest. The sun had sunk halfway into the western horizon, and the moon had just showed itself in the east. He licked his lips and shook his canteen. It felt light in his hand.
“Y-yes,” said Brother Timmy. “I am tired and I thirst.”
“Then it’s settled,” said the Bishop. “We make camp here for the night. Neophyte, grab the cooking tools from the chest. Brother Francis, set up our tents. Brothers Gregor and Han will stand guard.”
“Aye!” shouted the brothers in unison.
Brother Timmy walked to the back of the sled, where the chest was held in place by sturdy ropes. He took the key tied to a string around his neck and opened the chest. As he took the flint, the firewood, and the stone, a slave’s scream ripped through the freezing air. Again, something sunk in the pit of Brother Timmy’s chest. He looked down and shook his head. Poor fellow. Poor, poor fellow.
Englishmogs me to oblivion. I made a wise move moving to writing a VN, I'm not skilled enough for a novel.
You'll still need a decent grasp on characterization, plot structure, and other storytelling elements that aren't directly related to prose.
Could you recommend me something to get some quick notions on those? I have already started writing but I'm a bit unsure of the quality of what I have so far.
I have the plot structure down at least.
Stephen King's On Writing is a good place to start. I would also recommend How Not To Publish A Novel and George Orwell's Politics and the English Language.
David Stewart's Youtube channel is also a good place for tips and reviews of popular work.
reddit.com/r/Braincels/comments/as4vrc/a_short_chapter_in_the_story_of_the_ancient/
link for those who cant click
Thank you very much!
I read it and looks nice. I recommend you post it directly on here instead of reddit.
Well done, OP.
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