I am writing a story, like most of the people on this forum, and i need help with the beginning of it, hence the name of the thread lol. I have written two different beginnings and i cant decide which one is better. One is in this thread. The other below The vista came through the window and lit up the dark room. Shaming the small comparatively empty house with a splendor of light and a confusion of trees and grasses. So thick one had to leave the boring, therefore comfortable boundaries of the house to appreciate, and understand just how dense they were. As the leaves moved in seemingly random patterns with all the vigor of the start of a new day Fey sat, and watched. He was a silent man, his silence spoke for him, it said "I am wise" and clung to him and around him like an aura. But instead of the light or colour of the aura one would imagine, there was an absence, an absence of sound. Or was there? Maybe he was silent so he could hear all the sounds about him. Maybe he had no aura. Rather those who did speak have an aura, an aura of sound through with little wisdom can pass. And Fey had diminished his aura, so that he may see others, and the hear things, and see sights clearly. He was old, that was clear to any who saw him. But an agelessness radiated from him, the way a landscape will never age, but instead just changes. So, in seeing this one did not feel comfortable calling him old. But it did not seem right too call him young either. For young he was not. He was many years old, that much is know to the everyone, as he was once a great hero, centuries ago. His house had a door, but it wasn’t being used this day as Fey had left it open so that a breeze could come through the house. The wind passed over the surface of all things within the abode. Over the table made of a strange black wood that was always cold to the touch. Over the sword displayed on a plaque above the entrance to the only other room in Feys house. The symbol for infinity was carved bellow the lithe sword. The sword itself was simple and drew elegance from this simplicity. It was like its owner, old yet young with a simplistic appearance but with something strange right under the surface. Something intangible. Light reflected off and filtered through the large window across the room from the table. It made strange and complex patterns of brightness and darkness across the room. As if the light itself were trying to reflect the fauna it was filtering through. Its funny the way we remember places thought Fey, a type of light, or a pattern of events. This type of light, reminded Fey of home. The bright, crisp almost washed out quality of the light that made shadows look like holes in the ground used to be all around him in his home country. The Quartet it was know to many as. But Fey knew many names for it. For him it was simply called home. Back in his youth he would have called it his own empire. Now that he was banished from it all he could think of it as was home, the home he was denied. He vowed his people who would return somehow, but that all seemed so long ago now… Fey looked out beyond the crazed patterns of light, beyond his own thoughts to the machine outside the window. His machine that he made in that distant detached life which seemed so long ago now. That life was suddenly tangible, now that a relic from it could be seen. Seen in that same achingly familiar light.