Here's my edit of the first paragraph:


The sky was dark and brooding. Billowing, mumbling clouds covered the meek, timid sun. Jars of rain poured down from the dulled skies, drenching the battlements to a slick, slippery sheen. Trees bent their stressed trucks, bowing down to the might and fury of the heavens above. And it was cold…so very cold.
A lone silhouette stood, cowering yet strong against the fierceness of the storm. The once-peaceful grasslands and forests he had always gazed upon were now perceivably sinister and menacing. He shivered as his breath fogged in spasmodic wisps out in front of him. When would it finally begin?
From far away, lightning split the sky with a piercing crack. Truly, Fate is a lady of cruel drama. Such scenery, like the snarl of a panther before its kill, an iron frame for the miserable picture of death! It is as certain as it can be: Fate, that lady of cruel drama, looks me through her icy pupils today.
He closed his eyes to remember, and the skies, the storm, and the cold disappeared for a single, precious moment.


Again, Dornel, sorry if it's a little old english. I am studying Shakespeare in class, after all.

Alright, I'm going to go to bed, but this is my edit until ..."countless battles" or until the first quotation mark. I'll get to the rest tommorrow, or when I come back from my trip.


As twilight set on, the raging nimbus quieted to a fairylike pitter-patter of tiny raindrops, little pieces of nature’s love. The setting sun blushed crimson beyond the soot-tinted clouds, warming the dear earth with the little heat it had before plunging into a deep sleep.
The barracks were a silent symphony of restless souls, each man a voice within a dismal choir. Some kneeled in desperate prayer to their preferred deity, while others closed their eyes and lay on their bunks in a pensive silence.
In all their pain and anxiousness, few minds moved from their thoughts to a particular corner near the Western wall, where a dark-haired man quietly sat alone in at a plain wooden table. This man was a new recruit, and he gazed down at his sword in silence, perhaps still pondering the ways of Lady Fate and the cruel drama she had placed him in. Eventually, however, his thoughts were interrupted by another soldier, who came by and sat next to the new recruit.
This man was older than what the new recruit had seen of most of the barrack, but was nonetheless in perfect fighting condition. Tightly packed sinew wrapped his arms, and long sword-fingers casually played around with a beige sash, held to his waist by a war belt of solid steel. Two shoulders moved up and down with each breath, giving the impression of pebbles bobbing up and down in water. Scars ran down the length of his face: one trimmed his left ear, crawling down his beard-line to his chin; one sliced his right cheek in a vicious diagonal; and a third one raced its way from the right side of his thin lips up the center of his face to the peak of his pulled-back hair, as though someone had attempted to cut his face in half.
But despite all of this, the new recruit was drawn to this soldier’s eyes. Never before had he seen such a strong aura of solemnity in someone: hard as the hardest stone, yet accepting the cheerless truth of war, pain, and death. It was easy to tell that the battles this man had fought in numbered to which one could not count; it was also easy to tell this was someone who was to be respected.


(LOL, I promised myself I'd never put so many colons and semicolons in a single paragraph, but whatever.)
WRITING FODDER #1: Why does the guy's (third) scar run from bottom to top instead of top to bottom? apparently your antagonist has quite the unique fighting style...

Yes, I'm actually done! Now I can wait another week before I do any more edits for Dornel, in which he'll probably have done several thousand words... xD


‘Mind if I take a seat, lad?’ he asked. The younger man made no reply. The veteran sat down and sighed.
He reached for the sheathed sword on the table, checking for a sign of prohibition from the recruit, but was greeted with the same silence as before. Picking it up, he turned it over in his hand. What may this be? It is just a sword, simple and stout, yet it has been shined and sharpened with care and commitment, a man’s only hope in the bleak, bloody course that is the war we all know well. He twisted the sword, flashing it in a broad circle, before aiming a stab diagonally at the ground. With a flick of the wrist, the sword flew in the air, and the veteran grabbed its linen-wrapped sheath, using it to catch the sword just before it struck the wooden table beneath.
Apparently satisfied, the veteran set the sword back on the table. ‘A weapon for winners.’
Seeing no expression in his converser’s face, he sighed once more. ‘Friend, I know you not, but I can tell you this is the hour when death will strike. Those who live will be few, and those who do not will be many. Friend, you may stare down at this wood wordlessly, but your hush is of no use, for the fist of the enemy bears down upon us as we speak, and with them comes the Reaper’s own scythe. Be prepared, Friend!’
The younger man looked up. Tearless circles of dark hazelnut examined he whom had just spoken, and a broad steel-armoured chest rose to take in air. ‘Yes, sir, this I have known.’ He replied in a confident, quiet voice.
The veteran scratched his unscarred cheek as he cocked his head in mild curiosity. ‘You’re not worried? Hah!’ He leaned forward a little to speak, ‘Those who have courage walk strong amongst men, but those who are foolish are destroyed by them. Be wise, and, again, be prepared.”
The recruit showed a flicker of a thoughtful smile, ‘Am I foolish? My mind and soul were as a rabbit in the presence of an adder; only that which causes fear can end it. But what must come must come indeed! Fate has chosen for me to live and die by the edge of a blade, and soon my name will be carved away from the mists of time, to be forgotten by men of generations to come. Despite such, I look forward to my end; fear of it has caused me much pain.’ Yet there is still one last deed I must do…
The veteran grinned, ‘I sit in the presence of a man who is ready to die! Such cases are rare. Him who is ready to die, does he have a name? Perhaps it is polite for myself to begin, although fate too will soon carve my own away from the mists of time. The men call me Sharkeye.’
The recruit sat back, still eyeing the older soldier from across the table. ‘Well met, Sharkeye! It is nice to meet you indeed. I’m …’ the recruit’s eyes glistened for a moment as he reached through his mind’s depths for his name. ‘Haelas. Yes, that’s right. In time, I guess, I will see you in Hades’ own sanctuary.’ Haelas let out a humorless, forced laugh.
‘Aye lad, I guess I’ll be seeing you then, sooner or later.’ The veteran stood up and left the bare room in a chuckle.

Soon the horn sounded, the final measures of the song that is life. Haelas stopped outside into the grassy courtyard, and looked up to the sky, dark clouds gathering again to restart its vicious tempest. So, it has begun. The beginning of my end, as Fate herself has decided. Let my song finish beautifully. Haelas closed his eyes, and remembered once more before walking onwards.


Like I said, it's incredibly Shakespearean and uses the funny "theme" things they do in English class, so when the story is done you can turn it in and see if your local school teacher can beat me at English.

Hey Chris, thanks for spending all this time to comment and looking at all of this xD. I really appreciate your editing. I'll see what I can add in into the prolouge without deviating from my writing style. (Btw, not turning this in, This is just for fun.) Some parts sound a bit funny, and I'd rather not make this Shakespearean though. I'll take the time to go through your edits, and post my thoughts on it.
-Rydaven