Start of a short story - Worth finishing?

Lore World's End Tavern: Role-play and Fan Fiction
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Was wondering if my short story here shows any promise.

The orc warlock’s gaze was fixed intently on the impromptu arena before him, where the sound of clashing metal echoed. This was his respite, the time of day he coveted most, not for the battle itself, but for the sight of one particular warrior. The female figure in the center of the melee moved with a grace that belied her strength, her slender form dodging and weaving against the bulkier silhouette of her adversary.

His absorption in her dance of war would be unfortunately shattered by a slap on his back, a blow that might have been mistaken for a cudgel strike. “Still playing the spectator, Warlock?” a mocking voice boomed from above. The Warlock turned, rubbing the sting from his skin, to find a towering orc leering over him, the scent of sweat and Kor’kron leathers heavy in the air. “Perhaps if you summoned creatures greater than rats, you might conjure a companion to tolerate your presence,” the brute jested crudely.

The Warlock’s usual response was to tune out the derision, to return his focus to the arena where dust from the Durotar grounds now clouded the air. Apparently his tormentor agreed, forcing his head around with a grip of iron to witness the ongoing skirmish. “Observe the might of a true warrior,” the tormentor sneered.

Indeed, he observed. Every move she made, every decisive swing of her ax, he noted with a mixture of admiration and something deeper. But the poetics of his thoughts were abruptly cut short by another harsh cuff to the head, a jolting reminder of his place. “She is beyond your reach, Warlock. You, the weakest among us, are no more than a jest here.” the orc jeered, his laughter a grating echo.

The taunting ceased only when his tormentor barked a command, silencing the din of combat. Warriors assembled swiftly, forming a disciplined array before the two seated orcs. “Grashka, your audience has returned” the tormentor said as he hoisted the Warlock to his feet.

Her gaze met his, unwavering and sharp, a piercing contrast to the warmth in his own. Any semblance of hope swiftly curdled into dread beneath her scrutiny. He braced for scorn, for contempt, but her expression yielded no such clues, only the same stern intensity that she bore in battle.

Unable to bear the imagined judgment any longer, he averted his eyes, a sense of utter defeat washing over him. The world seemed to lose its luster, and he was left hollow.

The sergeant’s voice sliced through his reverie, dripping with disdain. “You see, Warlock, you wilt even beneath her stare. You are a failure, as is the lot of your kind.” The push that followed was forceful, sending him to his knees, left to wallow in the dust as the others returned to their training.

So profound was his humiliation that he didn’t notice her parting gesture, a fleeting, curious glance that she afforded him, her composure momentarily slipping, before she rejoined the ranks, her own facade of indifference firmly back in place.

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Title…

Only you can really decide if a story is worth finishing. I personally think you should just so that you can finish it.

Though define finish… do you mean just finish writing up the story to the designated conclusion or do you mean fully edit it and get it out there as a refined product? These two might sound like the same thing but they can produce very different results.

Beyond that… my interests in stories vary, I haven’t read yours to find out if it’d interest me but that would just be my interest in the story. At the end of the day it’s your interests that will enable you to sit down and write.

Finally, remember that the idea/concept is fairly easy compared to the labor that is writing. Most writers talk about the slog that is just putting down words to get the story to the next stage and then editing it. I can attest to the slog very much so, it often makes it difficult to keep going as we feel like we’re losing interest when in truth we’ve just come off the high that was that sweet shiny idea and now it’s work and few enjoy work.

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Thank you for feedback. I definitely suppose I can finish it for myself, however I was interested to see if it held any interest to anyone else(the concept). I have a few stories I had ideas for and was trying to figure out if this was worth the time.

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Alright, I read it…

I’m interested, but mostly because I like the dynamic on display between the female and the warlock.

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Excellent, I’ll continue to work on it then. Thanks again.

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And so, deep underground, in the bowels of Orgrimmar, the Warlock sat sulking in a corner of the Cleft of Shadow. His attention was vacantly fixed on the ground as he continued to replay that day’s wretched events in his mind. The finality of his humiliation rattled around endlessly. It wasn’t until he heard the squeak of an all-too-familiar voice that he was semi-roused from his misery.

“So, what happened this time?” the voice squawked. A tiny purple and green imp emerged in a bright felfire flash, examining his “master’s” pitiful state. “I haven’t seen such a pathetic display since the first invasion.”

Unfazed by the imp’s sudden appearance, the Warlock leaned forward, chastising his “summon.” “Pip’nam, where were YOU?! Aren’t you always supposed to help me when I need it?” he yelled.

“Now, now, don’t take it out on me. I was between here and there,” Pip replied.

The Warlock’s response to the cryptic answer was a typical one, he had grown accustomed to the creature’s nonsense. He sighed, leaning his head back against the wall, his shoulders slumped in defeat. “It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t even speak. They’re right when they call me weak; I embody that word. But to have my weakness exposed for all to see, especially her…” The orc gritted his teeth and fell silent.

“Ah, the poor incompetent Warlock,” chided Pip. The sneaky little imp had skittered up to his side in silence, prodding his side with a claw. “Just look on the upside; you can’t get any worse.”

Rolling his eyes, the Warlock met the “cheerful” gaze of the demon. For reasons even his mentors couldn’t understand, it had somehow chosen him for a “master,” as he lacked the control over fel to perform even the simplest summons. “If you’re trying to cheer me up, you’re failing miserably,” he said.

“Now, why would I want to do that?” The demon’s eyes glinted mischievously as it flashed a toothy grin. Although Pip’s next response was uttered with a much more serious tone. “You need to increase your power, don’t you? I can help.”

The tiny imp hadn’t been “his” for long. It had shown itself only in the past few days, promising to bind itself to his will. Since then, it had offered nothing but ridicule and misinformation. In fact, the Warlock had almost singed his eyebrows off reciting a spell Pip attempted to teach him. And as always, an uneasy feeling of emptiness filled him whenever it spoke, as if it were puppeteering the words of a far more sinister force. He banished these thoughts from his mind. “Great, more good news. What will you have me do next, ignite my robes? Summon an eye to spy on a succubus den again? How will we increase my power this time?”

The imp’s gaze became serious. “You have ambition now, don’t you? You want this female to notice you?” The imp appeared disgusted for a moment, thinking of the orc woman. “Although I can’t imagine why,” Pip continued. “I happen to know of an object ‘between here and there, almost up, slightly down.’ It can grant you great power.”

The orc laughed. “I take it back; you have cheered me up. I’ll just pick up a powerful artifact lying on the ground and transform into Gul’Dan!” Sarcasm dripped from his voice.

Pip nodded. “More or less… yes.” The emphasis on the word “yes” oddly bore deep into his mind. It was as if a thousand entities had all uttered it simultaneously. A remarkable chill swept over him, bringing with it a frigid emptiness that tugged at his insides as if to tear itself out.

The orc’s laughter ceased, he overcame the frozen blast and spoke as genuinely and plainly as he ever had. “How can I obtain this? I would do anything…”

Pip’s smile wasn’t visible at first but then shone as bright and luminous as the midday sun when he replied “And you will.”

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It had been three days since the pact was struck between Pip and the Warlock, three days that Pip had decided were to be used to “borrow” several items from other members of the Cleft. They needed a basilisk’s claw from Master Morgul, a firestone from Master Anak, and six soul shards from Master Blaze. The thefts hadn’t been easy, and the last item would be the most challenging to acquire. It was located deep within the chasm beneath their great city, and it had been a while since the Warlock had engaged in so much physical exertion.

“This is ridiculous, Pip. You have me snatching trinkets like a common thief and now wandering through these caverns without even telling me what we’re looking for,” the orc panted, his breaths coming in huffs as he scaled a rocky outcropping leading to yet another tunnel winding deeper into the darkness. Upon reaching the top, he planted his feet firmly, leaning over with hands on his knees to catch his breath.

“And physical activities aren’t exactly my strong suit,” he added, the complaint echoing off the cavern walls.

In a bright flash, his diminutive companion appeared yet again, materializing from thin air. The imp used the orc’s black robes to scuttle up his back, perching itself on his shoulder.

“Well, since there aren’t any areas you excel at, my choices are limited,” Pip teased.

Turning to meet Pip’s gaze, the Warlock could only let out a frustrated sigh. “Are we at least getting close? I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up without a rest.” His complaint was punctuated by the audible growl of his stomach, echoing through the cavern. Exhausted and hungry, he regretted bringing only some plainstrider jerky, which he now devoured with enthusiasm.

“Perhaps we should tell her that you need a break, that she needs to wait for you to develop the minor stamina necessary for this task,” Pip scolded. ‘Her’ referred to the object of the orc’s ambition and affection, the reason for everything now.

Instantly feeling defeated again, the Warlock stuffed the last of the jerky into his reagent pouch and pressed on. His renewed determination did not go unnoticed by Pip, who grinned his tiny toothy grin as they ventured deeper into the abyss.

Elsewhere, far above in the outskirts of the great city, the din of battle resounded as the Kor’kron guard wrapped up their exercises for the day. In the arena, the sound of metal striking metal filled the air as two figures sparred in the center, they were now the focus of all attention. Grashka deftly parried another blow, the force sending shockwaves through her and pushing her back. She retreated, adopting a defensive posture, her position increasingly precarious, something she was seldom accustomed to. A momentary distraction, prompted by an idle glance toward a now-vacant spot that typically housed a robed observer, had disrupted her focus. But, she couldn’t afford to dwell on the lapse as another blow to her guard made her stagger, and a follow-up attack sent her weapon clattering away. She bowed her head slightly in defeat, acknowledging her loss.

“Excellent, Rogg. It seems at least one of you was focused on victory,” a voice jeered from the sidelines.

Grashka opened her eyes, steeling herself before meeting her accuser’s gaze with her characteristic cold defiance.

“He was the better warrior today,” she stated, nodding to the victor.

“Indeed,” the sergeant replied, his eyes briefly scanning the dusty patch of ground by the stone wall. “This is the first time he has defeated you. Interesting.” He paused, adding with a note of insinuation, “But don’t worry, your spectator wasn’t here to witness. With no distractions, I expect your full commitment if you wish to retain your place in our ranks.” With a quick command, he dismissed the day’s session.

Grashka lingered to retrieve her axe, which had landed next to the very spot that had caught her attention mid-fight. The sergeant’s words echoed in her mind, the irony not lost on her. With a mix of frustration and resolve, she kicked dirt over the worn patch before leaving, muttering, “Idiot,” leaving it ambiguous to whom she referred.

Oblivious to the arena’s events, the Warlock trudged through the chasm’s uneven terrain, his eyes stinging from volcanic ash and his body drenched in sweat from the nearby lava flows. He wondered how the dark shamans who once dwelled here had tolerated such conditions.

“Pip, how much farther? I can barely see,” he choked out, his voice raspy with soot.

“Not much now, up we go,” Pip directed, pointing a clawed finger toward a high ledge on the cavern wall, about two hundred feet up with scarcely any footholds in sight.

“You can’t be serious. How am I supposed to get up there?” The Warlock gestured to the treacherous path ahead, the heat from the lava flows threatening to overwhelm him.

“If you can’t reach, you will never overcome,” Pip retorted sharply, the impatience in his voice pricking at the Warlock’s resolve like a thousand tiny spurs. “Up we go, or down you fall.”

Gritting his teeth, the Warlock shook off images of a fiery demise and filled his mind with visions of success. He needed to do this. With careful steps, he crossed the rocky bridge and began his perilous climb.

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Halfway up the treacherous ascent, the reality of the Warlock’s predicament struck with chilling clarity. A handhold crumbled, and he teetered precariously, his eyes squeezed shut as he willed calm upon himself, visualizing his goal. From his shoulder, the imp’s impatient voice cut through his focus.

“Stop dawdling, we’re already halfway there,” Pip chided, pointing a claw upwards toward a ledge now visible through the haze. “Move,” it commanded, its fingers digging sharply into the orc’s flesh.

Peering upward, the Warlock squinted through the ash-filled air that clung stubbornly to his vision. “You seem more excited about this than I am,” he retorted, resuming his climb with deliberate caution. His hands found purchase on jagged outcrops, and his boots scraped for grip against the unforgiving cliff face.

“Hurry, almost there,” Pip urged, nodding with a perverse satisfaction at the orc’s progress. The Warlock pressed on silently, hand over hand, until, at last, he heaved himself onto the ledge. He lay there for a spell, gasping for breath, feeling the ache in every muscle.

Pip observed him with a twisted curiosity. “I was certain you’d fall,” it mused, having never seen the Warlock so driven, his determination almost palpable.

Laughing despite the pain, the Warlock quipped, “And I would have taken you with me.” After a brief respite, he rose, dusting off his robes, and approached the entrance to a smaller cavern. Without waiting for a cue, he stepped inside, Pip hitching a ride once more.

The cave’s gloom was barely alleviated by the glow from the distant lava. As he groped along the wall, the Warlock grumbled, “I can’t see a thing, Pip.”

“Incompetent,” came the imp’s derisive retort in its native tongue, a language the Warlock only partly understood. Suddenly, a pale green orb flared to life in Pip’s grasp, casting an eerie light on the tunnel walls. “Now, you see?” Ahead, an opening suggested a larger chamber.

The orc edged closer, the tunnel constricting around him until he was forced to squeeze through the entrance. Inside, the chamber’s walls were unnaturally smooth, contrasting with the roughness of the passage. It was starkly empty.

“Quickly, did you bring what I told you?” Pip’s impatience was evident.

“Yes,” the Warlock confirmed.

“A miracle, you did something right,” the imp crowed. “Now, place the items in the center and repeat these words.” The incantation was in demonic, a language that should have, but did not, come easily to the Warlock.

Kneeling, he arranged the stolen components with a grim determination, attempting to mimic the imp’s pronunciation. His initial effort was met with frustration from Pip. “No, No, like this,” Pip insisted.

The Warlock’s patience snapped, and a rage unlike any he had felt before surged within him. With a deep focus, he repeated the words flawlessly.

Instantaneously, an icy sensation coiled in his chest while a searing heat ignited in his palms. The dual agony was overwhelming. “PIP, it burns!” he screamed.

“Perfect! Do you hear it?” Pip cackled maniacally.

Amidst the torment, whispers threaded through the Warlock’s mind, one voice becoming distinct, echoing Pip’s previous chilling tone.

“Submit?” it coaxed. As more voices joined, echoing the entreaty “Submit? Submit? Submit?”, the pain momentarily subsided. Struggling to rise, the Warlock could only manage a feeble nod as promises of power and visions of ‘her’ flooded his senses. The pain vanished as swiftly as it had appeared.

Gasping, he looked to Pip, whose glee remained unabated. “What is this?” he managed to whisper.

“This is the beginning. You needed the mark,” Pip explained. A drowsy heaviness descended upon the Warlock, his eyelids drooping, an irresistible slumber drawing him down.

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You made me feel like I was there, looking over peoples’ shoulders to make sure I didn’t miss anything. And there’s the key to writing a story like that, you have to hold my interest. You never want to "short-change* your reader.*

Compliments, Planetofjunk!

*That’s not to say you might need some “fine tuning” here and there. Is this the story as you’d like it to appear in one of the fantasy magazines? if you haven’t already, get yourself a Writer’s Market at any book store, get familiar with what they’re after.

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Thank you for the kind words. I like writing, but have never really written anything but a small short story here and there. I’m writing this story as we speak and posting the chapters here.

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The Warlock’s eyes snapped open, his body slick with sweat as he lay sprawled in the newfound cove. Every muscle and joint throbbed with the echoes of his ordeal, and his head pounded with a dull ache. Struggling to prop himself up, he called out with a frail voice, “Pip?” The only response was the cold echo of his own voice off the chamber walls.

Heaving himself to his feet, he scanned the dimly lit crevice for any sign of his capricious companion. “Pip?” he called again, a note of annoyance threading his words. “This isn’t funny.”

With no sign of the imp, the Warlock made his way back to the tunnel’s mouth, his body protesting every movement. The ledge’s exit welcomed him with a deceptive glow from the molten rivers below. Peering down the sheer drop, dizziness clutched at him, a stark reminder of his perilous climb.

“Well, if I got up, I must get down,” he muttered, trying to summon a thread of resolve. The descent loomed dauntingly—not just physically taxing but a test of will.

Kneeling, he cleared his mind. What kind of Warlock couldn’t solve such a predicament? Any adept should find a way, even a novice. His own incompetence gnawed at him, as did the absence of his imp. He was alone.

Then, a memory surfaced—a lesson from Master Morgul, the aged Warlock had once conjured a gateway that could connect two locations. The Warlock’s mind grasped for details, his concentration causing an intense chill to creep through him. “Come on, remember!” he urged himself aloud.

The sought-after memory unleashed a torrent of pain similar to the one that had precipitated his collapse in the chamber. He endured, and after the initial pain passed, he could quite literally see Morgul’s incantations and precise gestures as if he was standing before him.

With no time to spare, he began the chant, his hands tracing the necessary symbols in the air. Before him, a gate erupted from the stone, a demonic archway forming an unseen connection to the ground below.

The triumph was marred by a sharp, tearing agony that felt like the rending of his very essence—a grim toll for the magic he had just performed. Gritting his teeth, he surveyed the gate with a mixture of pride and pain. He had done it!

He approached the swirling portal, now or never. As his flesh met the otherworldly material, he was yanked through the gate, his being stretched and compressed in an instant beyond the physical realm. When he reemerged at the cliff’s base, the world spun violently.

The contents of his stomach spilled out onto the hard rock—a harsh welcome back to reality. Morgul had likely warned of such consequences, but that lesson had been lost to him until now.

Wiping his mouth, he began the arduous trek back through the chasm, his body teetering on the brink of collapse. Hours later, the faint glow of the Cleft of Shadows beckoned him like a lighthouse. He staggered into its sanctuary, gasping for clean air as he crumpled to the ground.

A stern, surprised voice pierced his exhaustion. “Warlock?” Above him loomed the silhouette of her—the impetus of his arduous quest, her intense gaze meeting his.

He would have laughed if he had any strength left. Of all the places for her to appear… His response was a feeble nod before darkness once again claimed him.

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You’re using too many talky words, show your narrative instead…

The orc’s gaze was fixed intently on the field, which was enclosed by more of a circle of thrown together debris than any formal attempt at a proper arena. He could feel his ears vibrating to the sound of clashing metal. This was his respite, the time of day he coveted most, not for the battle itself, but for one sight over all. His eyes fought to keep their lock on the figure in the center of the melee as she moved with a swiftness that one who did know know her would not expect on sight, her slender form d weaving in and out of view against the bulkier silhouette of her foe.

Now that’s more of a rough draft, I’d probably tinker more with time. But in many cases you’re saying the same thing twice in a row “dodging and weaving” and we got her gender the first time you said.

Think more the eyes and senses and a bit less of the brain.

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Gotcha, what is a “talky” word exactly, filler? I take it you don’t like it much? Ty for the assist btw

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You spend much of your verbiage in telling what a person is instead of showing. You spell out completely what the orc is in your first sentence before you’ve given us a reason to care by showing him as a person.

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Ok, more descriptive , less narrative. Out of curiosity, was there anything ‘good’ about it ?

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Not enough there for me to judge. If I didn’t see potential, I would not have made the effort.

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Hello, been a while since you posted a piece. Everything going ok?

Don’t be too hard on yourself, none of us can produce perfectly written prose the first time everytime all the time. :laughing:

In fact, many of us have to work to produce sentences that are viable and useful to the project. More importantly you are for all intents and purposes writing a draft. It’s going to be messy and sometimes wordy or sometimes spars. That’s Okay, it’s fine it’s just a draft. It existing is all that really matters because drafts exist solely to exist. Without them we couldn’t refine them. Writing is hard work it can feel endless and even pointless but that’s just the process, we grind through and keep going because we can because we alone can tell the story that we are writing, anyone can use the elements of the story, but only we can make it our way.

Anyways just wanted to check in and see how you were doing. Have a better one.

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I occasionally correspond with Mercedes Lackey on Quora.

Her first book wasn’t published before she had rewritten it 17 times.

Writing is work… your first hundred thousand words are going to be crap. the process is about not giving up until your words stop being crap. There are no short cuts around it.

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Hi Nightsong, yeah, I’ve been a bit sick and was going to post the next chapter this weekend.

@drahliana, yeah I actually appreciate the criticism, was just trying to understand it better :slight_smile:

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Greshka hadn’t lingered long in the Cleft, its eerie purple hue casting an unsettling pallor over everything. Despite her curiosity about the goings-on in this dismal place, her presence here felt more like punishment than exploration. Her recent defeat in the sparring session, which had cost her focus, resulted in a ‘banishment’ to the source of her distraction, as the sergeant put it. In truth, it was a patrol assignment — a task she usually didn’t mind, but in the Cleft, it was a clear mark of humiliation.

Her gaze flitted between the tattered tents and smoldering fires, wondering how the warlocks endured long periods away from sunlight. She allowed herself to absorb the cleft’s peculiarities, seeking some distraction. It was at the route’s lowest point that she noticed movement in her periphery, near the tunnel leading to the chasm — once a haven for the Twilight cultists. Anything stirring there warranted investigation.

Approaching the tunnel’s entrance, she spotted a cloaked figure struggling to navigate the uneven terrain, leaning heavily against the tunnel wall for support. The person’s sheer willpower seemed to be the only thing keeping them upright. Axe in hand, Greshka adopted an aggressive stance as the figure stumbled into view.

Before she could issue a warning, the figure hurled itself out of the tunnel and into the cleft, rolling onto its back. The black robes, now marred by ash and heat, draped over a familiar male orc. Him? Here? Her voice, tinged with curiosity and shock, echoed down to him. “Warlock?”

No verbal response came, only a mix of shock and relief on his face before he slipped into unconsciousness. She knelt beside him, checking for a pulse. It was faint but steady and growing stronger. Alone in her duty, with no other warlocks in sight, she realized any help he received would have to come from her.

Gently, she lifted his head, propping him into a sitting position. A faint murmur escaped his lips, something about ‘Pip’ and her presence. In true warrior fashion, Greshka’s response to his trance-like state was a sharp slap across his cheek. His eyes fluttered open, gripping her wrist with surprising strength.

“Warlock?” she repeated, her tone firm.

His gaze locked onto hers as awareness returned. He quickly let go of her wrist, a flash of embarrassment crossing his face. “Yes.”

“What were you doing in there?” she asked, nodding toward the chasm, her voice a mix of curiosity and skepticism.

“Training,” he sputtered, instantly regretting the lie as her expression showed clear disbelief. “Training? In the chasm?” Her raised eyebrows spoke volumes.

Attempting to shift the conversation, he groaned audibly, struggling to stand. “And you? What brings you here?”

“Patrol. On your feet, Warlock,” she instructed, helping him up. He leaned heavily on her, more than necessary, savoring the dreamlike moment.

“Thank you,” he said, striving for a neutral tone, his gaze averted to hide his true feelings.

Her stoic face gave nothing away. “Will you be training here from now on?”

“No, but I have much to learn.”

“And your usual spot? You weren’t learning there?” she prodded, referring to where he usually watched her training.

“I learned I didn’t have much to offer there,” he replied, his voice distant, eyes drifting away.

“I see. Do you need help?” she asked, gesturing to the nearby tents.

“No, I can manage,” he asserted, feeling a newfound strength within. His voice softened, “Do you ever feel as if you’re running out of time?”

Her response came after a pause, “Yes… all the time.”

Picking up her weapon, she nodded, indicating her patrol’s resumption. He returned the nod, their gazes locking briefly, leaving much unspoken. He slowly made his way to find a quiet spot in the cleft, his first task clear — he needed to find Pip.

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