First time playing dnd. It's 5e and the DM required all the players to make a backstory for their characters...

First time playing dnd. It's 5e and the DM required all the players to make a backstory for their characters. I chose to make a paladin and before I turn it in I want to have some outside eyes on it and letting me know if the character is sound or not.

So please let me knows if it sucks.

Rommel was a serious man of thirty nine years and in those years he had become stringent, clever and haunted. Often his face would pull taught and his hard azure eyes would focus on something beyond the northern horizon and lock onto it. He would just stand there staring out past the end of the world until some distraction or some concerned individual would rip him away and set him right again. He wasn't a tall nor short man and nor was he skinny or fat. He looked average, with a run of the mill normal face which was often unshaven and an aloof posture that didn't brim with timidness nor confidence. It just seemed like he was there just in at the edge of the background and was not important enough to be remembered. With that combined with a deep-seeded hatred of heathenry and heresy he had thrived within the caste system of The Order which had needed a man like him but didn't know where to find one. He started as a lowly guard but through politics and blood he was promoted in leaps and bounds. The gilded armor of the inquisitor he donned was hard earned and well worn with chips and small dents from axes, hilts, and dirks. The war-hammer chained to his cuirass was inlaid with worn ivory which had browned with use, blood, and time.

Rommel did not know where he was born and had many fragmented memories of traveling but the earliest solid memory he held onto was of an ice storm which blanketed the great St. Agius monastery in a foot thick sheet. Many monks around him lamented to the Champlain that Gara was punishing them for harboring young Rommel and that surely all crops were lost. And when the crops were lost Rommel was demonized by all residents of the monastery and was hissed at and called 'cursed' and 'marked'. When his bed was doused in holy oil and set aflame while he washed dishes down in the kitchen he knew it was time to leave. At the age of seven he gathered all his things and some stolen supplies from the kitchen into a knapsack and headed out to the north into a world of crystalline white and biting wind. An hour later he was found under a grove of pines bent with ice by the Champlain and a few shivering sour faced monks. The Champlain took young Rommel by the hand and led him back to the monastery. As Rommel sat next to the great hearth and warmed the chilled blood in his hands and feet he asked the Champlain why everyone hated him. The Champlain said simply 'They are idiots.'. But Rommel pushed and asked where his parents were and why he was here. The Champlain cleared the room of the vicious eyed monks and told young Rommel simply at first, 'They are dead'. He studied the young boy to see if surprise or sorrow racked the small face but there was none for the boy had figured that out himself long ago. The Champlain decided it was time for him to learn the full truth and fell back into his leather seating and spoke it to the cold eyed boy.

“Your parents were missionaries of a sister sect of the church of Gara called Seeds of Light. Their goal was to spread the word of Gara and our influence beyond our borders through peace, trade, and conversion. Which failed sadly. Your father's name was Tiberous and he was a pit fighter turned carpenter after buying his freedom, bit of a brute but a pious one. Your mother was named Auril after the goddess of winter, she was a farmer's daughter and could read which was a miracle in itself. She was made by Gara's hand. Beautiful but formidably tough. They stopped here for a day with their meager caravan to top off supplies before crossing into the northern wild to tame the barbarians of the plains with our civilized religion. You were with them and you all joined us for dinner. Your father did some repairs and built a few chairs in trade for some potatoes, oats, salted meats, holy oil, and some books for your mother. Then you were all off into the north with your four oxen hauling the wagon through the spring mud of the north road. After the wagon was over the crest of the horizon a wicked ice storm hit the monastery just like the one we had today.”

The Champlain leaned forward in his chair and asked the small boy. “The rest of their story comes from the mouths of other men and from the diary written by your mother, nothing good comes from it. Some truths scar the soul while some lies only go skin deep. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?”

Little Rommel nodded his head and then said. “Tell me the truth.”

10 words or less, son

The old Champlain sank back into the plush leather and continued. “The story goes your wagon made it through the northern plains to the great meadhall of Njoerd, missing a few oxen and low on supplies. They were not met with open arms but they were not met with hostility either. They were welcomed to their monthly feast and were allowed to travel freely but they were not to attempt to convert anyone within the clan. Your father was invited to a hunt and aided in bringing down a mammoth, which he was honored for. Your mother on the other hand did not enjoy her time within Njoerd. She did not enjoy the constant violence and smell of stale mead and shit and piss. Or the constant offers from barbarian men to kill your father in single combat so she could become one of their wives. She found solace in attempting to teach the children how to read. During the moon feast they sat with the low ranking citizens but were honored by Chieftain Rannek as he gave your father the first cut from the mammoth backstrap. From what is said the feast was nothing short of normal for all moon feasts. A night of heathenry and degeneracy and violence caused by their barley mead and general animalistic nature. During that madness your father did approach the Chieftain who sat upon the mammoth skull throne and asked for permission to create a chapel on his lands. Chieftain Rannek denied him stating that it would upset their gods to allow such a thing but that he would allow a chapel to be built on the border of his territory and would protect him and his family as long as they did trade. But he warned your father that the north was old and had the blood of the old gods within the soil and that old gods are vicious and cruel. That they do not love like Gara. They punish and curse instead.-"

"Your father shook his hand and the next morning they were off to the northwest. The spot they chose was where the plains met an old whitepine forest. Your father conscripted a few lower class citizens from Njoerd as laborers and paid them in silver. First the well was dug and the water came up fresh and clean. Then came the skeleton of the chapel. When they ran out of beams brought up from the south your father looked to the forest for lumber. The laborers at first refused to cut down any tree but with more silver their complaints melted away. But their fear didn't. And when your father asked why they were afraid they told him that the pines were ancient and that ancient things had ancient wrath. Your father did not care for old gods. Your father was a zealot of the lord of light and would not be shaken by lesser deities. It took only one month to complete the chapel which was more of a large cabin with a back room with some pews, an alter, and of course a god's spire reaching towards the heavens atop the roof. Two years passed in peace and prosperity. A small farm was constructed and wheat and potatoes were harvested. Chickens and pigs had their own pens and were fat and happy until the ax came. Trade between the barbarians and your parents was constant. They admired your father's craftsmanship and would special order tables and chests and chairs. It didn't take long before they brought him ivory to work with and he made pommels and inlaid helmets and shields. But one day it all ended. The mammoths and rhino and bison migrated east for cyclical pastures fresh and untouched and the barbarians chased them and occupied the ancient Meadhall of Austur which waited for them there. Some barbarians stopped by the chapel before their journey east and gave gifts and farewells. Which set your mother into a panic and your father into a silent worry.-"

The cellar was full of food but your father knew that it wouldn't last for the flow of haunches of wild game that were acquired by trade had ceased and they sustained them for the most part. Your mother was pregnant again and you were two years old. Not much help around the small farm was to come from either of you. It didn't take long before your father delved into into the woods to forage and hunt.”

“And so he went into the woods and brought out elk and deer. Then after the third week he brought back a bull elk and a prolonged silence that troubled your mother. And when she finally broke down the barrier he told her that Gara could not be found within those woods. That he stumbled upon a circle of standing stones and an alter at the center while tracking an elk herd. That the stones had symbols cut into the ancient rock and that fresh blood handprints were smeared upon them all. He wouldn't say what was atop the alter and he refused to go deep into the woods again for game. Instead he trapped within sight of the chapel along the forest edge.-

Venison was gone and replaced by squirrel and rabbit. Then one morning when your mother fetched up the bucket from the well she brought up blood instead of water. She shrieked and your father came charging from the woods to her aid. During the night someone had dumped ten rotting elks heads down the well. Your father fished them all up and brought them into the woods and put them into a row. Etched into each skull was a rune. Your father went back into the chapel then reemerged a moment later with a blessed war-hammer newly inlaid with ivory and walked into the woods and whilst whispering prayers he smashed each skull to bits. With holy oil brought from the south your mother dumped a vial into the well and purified the cursed water. Protective pyres set between the forests edge and the chapel burned through the night. But the next morning the chickens were in bits and strewn about with bloodied feathers and gruel flung across the whole of the property. The hogs were tattooed in a patchwork of runes and they squealed and ran in endless circles and vomited up ink black filth until your father cleansed them all with his hammer and threw their bodies into the pyres. In a rage your father began felling trees and lighting them aflame where they lay. The pyre had become a complete line of fire between the chapel and the forest and your father stood there waiting for them come. And when the sun fell and the sky was a black canvas littered with the white eyes of the gods and just as the full moon hit its zenith they did come. Tall and skinny and crooked and hooded they glided and danced within the shadows across the fire-line. They shrieked and cackled at your father and he screamed at them to leave him and his family be.

Then in an instant a great bellowing came from deep within the forest and a torrent of whipping wind ripped through and doubled the great pines over with their roots screaming in the soil. The great pyre funneled up fed by the wind and became a towering cone of fire and for a moment it looked as if it was a solid obelisk of reverberating crimson and bleeding orange before it bucked and twisted with the manipulating winds and crashed down upon the chapel and bathed the wooden structure in death. You and your mother were inside and she took you into her arms and ran through the sheets of fire and out of the chapel. Her hair and woolen clothes had caught flame and she rolled around the dirt while your father fought the line of hooded creatures that darted and loped and glided towards you and his burning wife. There were too many and one slipped past him and gripped you by your skull with three gnarled talons and lifted you up with little feet kicking and little mouth screaming. The creature then loped into the woods and its hooded brethren retreated with it. With one hand holding in his intestines your father stepped over the five twisted and broken hooded bodies that lay at his feet and limped off into the woods following the sound of your fading screams. With skin caked in pink burns and clothes charred black and falling apart your mother took chase with your father. When the scream fell to silence your mother began to weep but your father keep on marching through the underbrush of the forest with feet that knew where they were going. And under the light of the full moon they made their way through the pines and into earshot of your screaming once more. Then a clearing emerged and bathed in dull white light unimpeded by canopies of pine the great stones stood carved and oblong in a wide circle. Within the circle of six stones was another circle but it was instead made of cursed men.

They stood naked with spines crooked and arms and legs replaced by unnatural claw and flightless wing. Twisted and cursed these once men lifted their deformed arms reaching to the moon and chanted and squawked and growled. On the black altar lay you wriggling and screaming as the moon's brand seared into the skin of your little chest. Your father spent no time thinking and got to swinging his blessed war-hammer and crumpled the chanting cultists into broken bloodied piles of shattered bone. Your mother scrambled up to the alter and sliced at the thin rope holding you down. The creatures were upon your father and ripped at the flesh of his back and chest and neck and belly and face with vicious claws and talons. But still he swung the hammer and crumpled the cursed. When the last rope was cut your mother ripped you from the alter and dashed back into the forest in the direction of the burning chapel which lit the eastern night sky a feint shade of orange.”

“From under the stones and alter a wrathful groan bellowed up to the surface and shook the trees and rattled the loose bones that were cast about the altar. The twisted creatures of the whitepine turned their attention from the now blind and bleeding out hammer swinging madman whose intestines were out in coils round his blood soaked feet and began their chase of their stolen sacrifice to the angered old god. But your mother was tough and light of foot and she raced through the underbrush towards the growing orange. The wraiths of the pine screeched and cried out behind her. But she held you close and kept running and when she reached the world of orange skies the pines were behind her. The charred corpse of the chapel was behind her.

She ran cross the plains bald and charred skin exploding in pain until at midday a Barbarian scouting party found her. They almost left you both to die because of the black rune that was etched into the middle of your tiny chest. But the son of Chieftain Rannek was amongst them and gave you both food and shelter. You and your mother were brought to the eastern great meadhall of Austur. Chieftain Rannek saw you both privately in a personal tent away from the rest of the populace and your mother in hushed whispers told him the nightmare that befell your family and he sat for a while and then said that the cursed men were nothing less than demons that would eventually become a danger to his tribe when all life was stripped from the forest in order to sate the greed of immortality and the hunger of a forgotten god. And so Rannek and a warband left that night with carts of tar and pitch in tow. Your mother grew weaker and weaker as the yellow puss of infection bubbled up from the burns. During sporadic hours she would awake and scribble into a diary for an hour or two and then be gripped by exhaustion and fall back asleep. Rannek and his personal guard returned in the dead of night a week later and before eating or drinking or fucking he went to the tent and found your mother asleep on the mat and furs. But you, you were awake and you guarded your mother. Rannek came into the tent reeking of the smell of campfire with your fathers war-hammer in his massive right hand. He placed the blessed hammer onto your lap and then left you to your watch. A night later your mother died. She was given a barbarians funeral and her urn was placed within the tombs under Austur. The next day Rannek's second born son and his party of scouts started the trek to the south with you as precious cargo. They arrived here at the abbey during our autumn feast. And they stayed the night and told the story of you and your parents.

They gave us your mother's diary and your father's hammer. Both of which I have locked away in my room. They said farewell and we went to work on your rune. Even summoned a high cardinal to cure you. But it is part of you Rommel. No holy prayer or divine ritual can remove it.”

Rommel said weakly. “What am I then?”

“A delayed sacrifice.” The Champlain stooped forward in his chair and made the leather groan. “Do you know how I knew which way you went with no tracks upon the thick ice sheet?”

Rommel shook his head.

“Because the white pine forest may have been burned down and absorbed by the plains but the stones and alter still stand. And it pulls on you without you knowing it. You went north. North to the stones. To that old god calling for you. To the twisted nightmare men who will feast off your life to prolong theirs.”

Little Rommel began to weep and the Champlain shushed him and said flatly. “I will protect you, boy. You will be my pupil, then apprentice. I will teach you how to use that hammer but also how to use your brain. I will make you into the gauntleted fist of Gara. Or, you can run and find yourself back on the plains unable to protect yourself from the unconscious coos and beckoning of giving away your own soul. So what do you choose boy?”

The child wiped away tears and said. “I choose to be strong and alive.”

“Good choice.”

That's it I know it's a lot. But if possible to get some feedback on it I would greatly appreciate it.

5e sucks

If you can't express your character in three paragraphs max, you've done something wrong. the adventure is supposed to happen at the table, not in your backstory

So you didn't read it then.

If you can't express your character or his family in three paragraphs max, you've done something wrong. the adventure is supposed to happen at the table, not in your backstory

just because your dm said a back”story” doesn’t mean he actually wants to read a short story about your character. like other anons said, keep that shit short.

READ IT YOU FAGGOTS

no. you and your shitty writing can go to hell.

user, it is already way too long.
Brevity is key, and your backstory should not be a short story.
It should include family, how you got your skill set, why you are out in the world, and give the DM plothooks for you.
That's it. That you are insisting on a far longer project means you don't want actual critique, which you have gotten in abundance, but approval, and you will not get that.
So pare it down to 3 paragraphs, include the stuff I mentioned, rewrite it, and then post it.

You don't mean that. Read it you'll like it I promise.

Now TL;DR it. Use the TL;DR version as your backstory.

nah

No one will is the point. You're writing this like a story and getting way too detailed. You're trying to deliver it all in elegant prose, but that's not the point of a backstory. You need only key points.

Things like "well worn with chips and small dents from axes, hilts, and dirks" can be shortened to just "well worn"

You don't need to slowly build up all the tension towards your kidnapping, just say "my character was taken by x"

All the dialogue between you and the Champlain doesn't need to exist, just say what was asked and what the response was in third person and with as much brevity as you can muster.

Again, the adventure is supposed to happen at the table, not in your backstory. Really at the end of this there's not even that much about your character; it's all about your parents and this one encounter you all had where you were too young to contribute in any meaningful way. What you did in the 37 years between then and now is addressed in like two sentences.

>he doesn't have his character this fleshed out

Fucking pleb

All of this story tells me nothing

A. About your character's personality
B. About what your character hopes to get out of adventuring
C. Why he is where the Adventure starts off
D. Anything about what he looks like
E. Really, anything distinguishable about him

F- see me after class.

Then you are simply a fool.
Having your character fleshed out != having an overly long backstory. At the end of the day, no one will know of the thing you wrote other than you and the DM, and most DMs give backstories a cursory look for hooks.
What you wrote has no bearing on your roleplay, the roleplay element comes from the same place.

>be you, first time playing D&D
>DM asks for a backstory
>oh shit, better write something up
>quickly type up a short story
>print it out
>first day arrives
>DM asks for backstories
>other players just speak for a few seconds about how their guy is a wizard or some dumb bullshit
>whip out my 12pt double-spaced three pages and start reading
>everyone says “oh cool user”
>start the session
>end up not doing anything really inline with the character because I have no roleplay experience or actual idea of how my character should be played
>just murderhobo except sometimes I talk about evil because paladin

Ironically, none of OP's post actually fleshes out his character, just an event.

Okay, I actually read it. When your DM asked for a backstory, he was probably looking for a summary of your character's past and personality. He wasn't asking you to write out an actual story. This reads like you tore several pages out of a novel, I checked on Google to make sure you didn't just copy/paste this from a book.

and are spot on. You just need to sum up your character. Don't write an exchange between two people, we barely even know who your character is. You can still have a fleshed out character, but leave it out of the backstory, if the DM/other players want to explore your past or whatever, THEN you can expand upon the backstory you give them. The majority of the time all this stuff is irrelevant and never brought up anyway.

Events that happen before your character is old enough to remember are terrible backstory material. Backstory is supposed to shape how your character thinks and acts, and if they can't remember anything of it it means fuck all. This is also why "my character has amnesia" is one of the worst things you could bring to the table

Well you could certainly use this to design campaign material. I had a DM once that would take everything from everyone's backstory and patch it together, filling in the holes and tossing in unexpected twists to generate a campaign. I don't think he ever even started his games with any idea for a plot; he just took our ideas and made a plot out of that. Of course, he was fairly strict on how we wrote the backstories, but still it was mostly just our ideas tossed back at us.

God I miss his games...

>This reads like you tore several pages out of a novel, I checked on Google to make sure you didn't just copy/paste this from a book.

Dank so it was good then.

>This is also why "my character has amnesia" is one of the worst things you could bring to the table

kek that's terrible

Yeah the dm wanted me to flesh out the northern lands of the world for him. I thought the best way to do so was to incorporate it into my "backstory"

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying it was a bad piece of writing, it's just not what people look for in backstories. When you sit around the table and each player quickly talks about who their character is for a minute or two, you're going to look a bit silly if you break into a long conversation with yourself for 10 minutes.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too long.

>you didn't read it faggot!

You're absolutely correct, nobody wants to read it. Three paragraphs, max.

I prefer three sentences.

I'd say it was bad writing. It didn't accomplish what he set out to do with it.

What did I set out to do?

I'm not going to go fucking autismal mode to talk about my character.

Quite simply my character is an inquisitor in the order that grew up in an abbey. Only the dm knows that my character is a delayed sacrifice.

Make a backstory for a character with which to roleplay. You didn't write a character, you wrote some events your character had no part in.

DM wanted me to flesh out the northern plains as well.

Character is fleshed out from this.

I read it, and it's shit writing. From a writing standpoint.

The summary you just posted is honestly a lot more interesting.

I'm sorry you're buttmad that no one is backing you on this, but you made a thread asking for advice. Literally everyone is telling you the same thing. Maybe every single person here is wrong, but it's possible that the people you asked for advice are correct and you have a bad back story

Guy, sticking your fingers in your ears and saying "no I'm right" doesn't make it so.

Cut the purple prose and just fucking say what happened. Keep it simple, and try to tell the story in as few words as possible.

On the other hand, thank you. I always write far too much and now I know that I'm nowhere near as bad as I thought I was.

What was shit about it.

Why does your character want to be an adventurer and not just stay as a paladin?
What has he been doing since the childhood trauma?
What are this character's personal relationships like?
Does he have any friends? Romantic interests? If not, is there a reason why?
Does he have any distinguishing physical features besides a mark on his chest that will almost always be invisible and irrelevant?

>purple prose

Buttmad faggot spotted.

If you googled it to see if I ripped it off then it's good stay mad shitter.

People write a lot of shitty generic fantasy books.

>didn't read the first paragraph

Prove that you're better than me.

He's a generic paladin that has no distinguishable physical features and has dirty armor.

Wow, took me one sentence.

Well that makes it less terrible, but it still kind of veers off from either goal. It's excessively wordy, only gives small details of the locale it takes place in, and again fails to say much about the character as a person and not as a plot device.

Seriously, 37 years in two sentences is not good character writing.

>What was shit about it.
The length, for starters.

I wasn't that user, sorry buddy.

It jumps back and forth between throw-every-adjective-in monologuing and telling instead of showing. There's not a lot of coherence in the transitions. There's not anything super interesting or endearing about the character, he's just kinda edgy and PTSD'd

>Seriously, 37 years in two sentences is not good character writing.

Story wasn't about my character but fleshing out the north with my character as a vehicle to do so. As well as giving the order some personality as well.

Motherfucker you start at level 1. Why the fuck would you have all that shit under your belt and still be level 1?

Hey look at you. You went back and read it.

>Prove that you're better than me.
For one, he can communicate effectively.

I don't know how many times it needs to be said before you get it. Maybe you won't get it. You asked for criticism and got it, and just because you aren't hearing what you want doesn't make the criticism wrong.

Do you actually want to be a better writer? Fucking listen to literally everyone here. You think you're going to launch your best-selling adventure novel career by forcing people to read your shit? Because that doesn't work outside of maybe your mom, and the people who will read it just so they can tell you that they read it and it is in fact shit

started at lvl 3

Well why you wrote a story that is not about your character when the prompt from the GM was "write about your character"?

So you can't prove it. Fuck off you no talent hack.

>character's backstory wasn't about the character
And this doesn't strike you as flawed?
>As well as giving the order some personality as well
Well I totally missed that. I have no idea what this organization is like

Oh wow, nevermind. You're a brilliant writer. Please take my money and make a book

Babe, I'm not saying I'm a good writer, I'm saying you're a bad one.

Would it make you feel better if I one upped you?

>no talent hack
I'm sorry, I didn't realize Mr. Stephen fucking King was in the thread. You're amazing. Please mail me the first draft of your novel.

:^]

He wanted me to do a backstory that fleshes out the north plains and order as well as creating a storyline that can be used as a mechanism to destroy my character that he can work with.

He already read it and loved it. I'm just meming you guys into reading it.

Please, show me what you got. You make claims that you clearly can't back up.

Already have two works published. One novella and a collection of short stories.

Sure.

I mean, posting it on Veeky Forums isn't exactly publishing.

Try to calm down after you're done with your temper tantrum.

Did you think that was clever?

Alright. For exercise the next writing prompt is:
>Write character background that addresses points listed in
The following writing prompt is:
>Same as above, but use only 100 words or less.
Good luck and have fun, post the results later!

Yeah. I rather liked it. Didn't have to write 30 pages either. Got the point across succinctly.

Wow, I will see your shitty wall of text and raise you one doggerel, you dumb arrogant fuck.


Bob the Manlet, studied Hamlet,
Auditioned for Bard School.
But at said trial, all the while,
He acted like a fool.

To act in jest was surely best
To earn him the best part.
Alack, dark day, he was sent away,
The Director crushed his hear.

"We need not more buffoons or clowns
To round out this production."
To this Bob swore he'd see him drowned,
After a terrifying abduction.

Never too bright, Bob is a mite...
Unhinged, is the best word.
But he'll be star, and rise quite far,
Till all his name have heard

Let me know when you can "one up me" kiddo.

Let's see.... Short and long term goals, as well as his reason for setting it on that path.
Also a rhyme scheme that I don't think you're smart enough to replicate, and a line missing a "t" at the end of a word

>he writes poems that rhyme

>samefag thinks he's tricking anyone
>samefag thinks that was actually good

Holy fuck.

Not vomiting that mess into a thread is a one-up. :^]

>>Implying e e cummings is better than The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. >>implying TS Elliott isn't pretentious trash

Good rhythm, funny, and covers the basic gist behind the character. Not bad at all, user! While people shouldn't write their character bio as limericks, it's fitting for a bard.

Still published.

I'm thinking of taking some of my work to some fantasy publishers. They'll take anything really. Well, maybe not your drivel. But they'll take mine.

this is shit and not as good as op's story

Haha! Fucking A+.

Post it on Veeky Forums for crits and link here, please.

Posted segments of my work on Veeky Forums plenty of times in /crit/ threads.

>implying I'm going to post my work here to fourteen spergs in the thread who are pissy at me for tricking them into reading a backstory not just for my character

What makes you say so? I thought the wordplay was clever. How would you improve upon it?

Have you had a single person say that it's good?

Trust me, I would be delighted to see the replies you got.

Yeah they tend to like it. Some autismals come out of the woodwork to try to shit on it by calling the prose violet sometimes which usually means that they can't find a flaw but they don't like it. But overall they tend to enjoy what I post.

I sometimes post /pol/tier short stories I had written a while back to trigger them.

Because honestly, I've gotten more positive responses than you have after writing what is, again, doggerel. And it took me less than five minutes.

I'm not saying I wrote something high quality. But it's mildly amusing and took no effort or time on my part and has a better response. You understand why I think that the turd I shat out in a few minutes getting more positive feedback than your epic background is evidence of your poor writing skills, yes?

The idiom you're looking for is 'purple prose' not violet, user.

Check their archive for this and see for yourself.

James hated sleep. Loathed it. Cursed it and fought it. He knew what waited for him there. The repeating film reel of nightmarish memories still fresh. The dead weight of Jackson straining the muscles of his arms and the sounds of bullets pinging off of metal and rock. The tumbling humvee heaved from the mountain road and twisting down down down along the slope in some horrible dance in which it spun itself apart. The smell of gunpowder and sandy dirt and gasoline. The stick of drying blood on his palms and the pistol grip of his rifle. Then he would blink and the battle on mountainside would be gone and replaced by darkness. And in that darkness the faces of his fallen brethren would slide out from the black and appear bloody and pale with lips roiling wildly in whispers and eyes stark wide with pupils engulfing their irises. James would scream and that scream would rip him from that hell and carry on into the waking world. Mom and dad and his little sister would bolt up from their peacefully dreams and rush in to see what was the matter to find a wild eyed man of twenty five weeping into his pillows. They stopped coming in to see if he was alright after the fourth night. When they stopped he knew that he had become more than a burden. He had become a shrieking annoyance and an unwelcome one at that.

Nope, I've been accused of using violet prose.

>Because honestly, I've gotten more positive responses than you have after writing what is, again, doggerel. And it took me less than five minutes.

It wasn't good man. You can samefag all you want but it wasn't good.

Do you know what purple prose means? Genuinely curious.

Because the way you communicates suggests that you don't. They're saying that you're overly elaborate and verbose and belabor the point by using too many words to get across what should be simple ideas but are unfortunately puffed up and over complicated.

You know, like that sentence. Which could be shortened to "you put too many unnecessary words in"

I know you think you're being condescending but in reality your just another no talent faggot who wants to feel like he has a leg upon someone.

But you don't. At least not here you don't.

This. Less is more, user. This is a lesson every writer worth their salt keeps in mind. Writing something overly descriptive don't make it good, it makes it Twilight. Sure that series was successful, but it was not good. Stop pretending everyone is trolling you and listen. We're trying to help.