Opinions please. Can you particularly comment on my characters… Do they seem a little 2-dimensional to you? It’s an old-world fantasy novel by the way.

Chapter One- A Painful Beginning
The cool evening air caressed the village of Threshton. Fading light drew a golden outline around the splayed branches of the surrounding woods. Distant hills wrapped a protective embrace around the community, watching over with intrigue. The moon’s peaceful face smiled down, casting an eerie pool.
No movement was observable from a distance, but a shrouded glow radiated from the local tavern. Cheers. Raucous shouts. Loud whoops. The joyous exclamations as yet another villager fell victim to a rough bottle over the head; and yet another case of concussion to be added to the Medicine Scholar’s ever-growing list of patients. And yet another happy hour.
The muffled sounds were shattered when a short, stocky fellow, wearing undersized clothing, smashed through the thin glass of the tavern. He landed painfully a few feet away. Sharp glass sprinkled around him, clawing at his bearded face to remind him to heave himself upright. He did so with a purposeful manner, careful not to tear his already friction-frayed trousers; he needed to keep a scrap of dignity intact.
Pausing to remove a shard of glass from a rather unpleasant place, he strode back into the tavern, a finger pointed with accusation.
‘Now, that was very rude wasn’t it?’ he said, his gruff voice trembling with restrained anger.
‘You asked for it, midget,’ replied the voice of his attacker, Aadan, a large man that was at least twice the size of his victim.
Unfazed by the unfair advantage, the little man scratched his hairy chin in mock-thoughtfulness. ‘Funny, I don’t remember becoming a masochist…’
Anger started to boil in the bigger man’s eyes. ‘You asked for it indirectly, Broxley. No half-breeds allowed in here, right landlord?’ he inquired to the man behind the counter, a dangerous glint in his eye.
The landlord nodded his head overenthusiastically, so much that it was threatening to become detached. He briefly considered asking Aadan to pay for the broken window, but quickly resolved that he valued his limbs more.
Broxley’s renowned temper was beginning to heat up. ‘I’m impressed that a guy with the intelligence, and personality, of a small worm would know a word like ‘indirectly’. Did you pick it up when you were emptying the bins at the Hall of Scholars?’ asked Broxley.
‘Shut it, you little half-dwarf!’
Broxley didn’t take the hint. ‘You got a problem with little people, but you don’t go throwing the Crillerwings through the bar window?’ he said, gesturing to the fifteen centimetre tall, winged creatures who were flitting about in the corner. Suddenly finding themselves under accusation, they guiltily hid behind their tankards which were bigger than they were.
Many others in the tavern were now watching the exchange with interest, all except a few who found the contents of their tankards much more engaging.
Aadan’s mouth was pulled tighter than a purse draw-string, and his face was ballooning into a red, bulging ball.
‘Constipated?’ inquired the half-dwarf.
That did it. With an animalistic roar, Aadan took a swooping swing at Broxley, who neatly dodged it.
‘Oh, it’s like that is it? C’mon then! Take me! Take me!’ shouted Broxley, hopping about in what he hoped was an aggressive fighting stance. His explosive nature had been ignited. But, annoyingly, he felt hands firmly grab his middle and yank him backwards. Broxley turned to glare.
Towering over him at six foot two inches was a slender figure, features handsome and youthful. Short, sandy blonde hair brushed the top of his pointed ears and his eyes were two dark green pools, piercing Broxley with disapproval. Serran Cabok. An apprentice builder, but with higher ambitions. He also happened to be Broxley’s closest friend. Many were puzzled by this friendship, as the two were very different in both appearance and personality. Not to mention that Broxley was old enough to be Serran’s father. A mismatched pair, one might say.
‘Getting into trouble again, Amalric?’
Consequently, Serran was one of two people who dared to call Broxley by his first name; Broxley’s wife being the other.
‘You stay out of this, you over-sized elf’ snarled Aadan, his fist a ball of readiness.
It must be understood that this was a great insult to Serran. He was a Lyth. Lyths were descended from elves (elves being much shorter, with reddish-brown skin. In certain places, a green variety can be found too. ). Lyths were much the opposite of elves, as they were often very tall and spindly. They also possessed normal skin colours, but abnormal eye-colours. In fact, the only trait that Lyths had really picked up from Elves was their pointy ears, which were often a subject for teasing. Female Lyths were called Nymphs, but they left home at a young age and lived communally, spending their time capering abo
young age and lived communally, spending their time capering about in forests, acting spiritual.
‘Sorry to interrupt; it looks like you’re having fun n’all but Amalric has some important business to help me with. C’mon’ said Serran, pushing the half-dwarf towards the door.
A tide of reluctance washed at Broxley’s legs as he walked to the door, muttering angrily at Aadan. ‘One of those pieces of glass got stuck somewhere I’d rather it hadn’t. I’m blaming you if I can’t stand up straight all week…’
The door shut. Serran went to follow, but Aadan blocked his path. However, there is a certain advantage to being a fresh and agile twenty-two year old. That advantage is dodging lumbering thugs, and running very fast. He was out the door before Aadan could make his two brain cells cooperate, and turn his head.
Serran ran after Broxley, shouting. ‘You idiot! If we miss it, it will be your fault. We still have to pick up Neni.’
Broxley furrowed his brow. ‘Miss what?’
‘Don’t you ever




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