I should think more fully omniscient is reserved primarially in a place where a certain feel is wished for, most especially in a battle of a larger scale. In such a thing, it is advisable (or at least I have found it good) to shift to such a view, as it is more attuned to the voice of legend. A skald singing a tale would quite naturally assume and make up what his heroes were thinking, and would speak of what multiple characters feel. This happens time and again in the Ilidad. This person was suddenly greatly afraid at the onslaught of such and such. And then shortly thereafter, it will say how another was joyful in overthrowing his enemy. This, however, is not exactly within the head of all characters, but rather gives a general overview of what they feel, I suppose, but is still third-person omniscient - sort of a mid-point. You see, you can say precisely what someone is thinking, or you can simply say what they feel as a narrator, but still be more knowledgeable than the person from whose point of view it is - this is a fine thing to accomplish, actually. But this is primarally, as I have said, a thing to use within a battle, which I hold to be a unique case when it stems from a legendary style.
But in most parts, a more limited omniscient view is advisable, you are correct.
Anyway, as far as re-writing goes, here is an example of why rewriting needs to be done (note there is a two year difference between these re-writings):
First, the older terrible version from a few years back. Pay special heed to how badly I describe Magus.
The figure slowly turned, his hair and cape still blowing out behind him. They saw now that he was big; six feet tall at least, and massively built. In addition, he wore thick armour on his chest of some unknown material, and was shod in heavy boots. These contributed to the effect. His large cape lay fastened around his neck and stretched far back behind him. Likewise his hair, which they now saw was pale purple, still flew back behind him. On his hands were thick gloves, and from him hung various amulets and chains. From his waist hung an evil looking sickle. But it was the face that frightened them. That visage startled all but the Frog, who had seen it before, and, indeed, still haunted his darkest nightmares.
It was ghostly pale, with sharp features and a pointed nose that caught the shadows in a menacing way. A look of torture and pain seemed permanently etched into the features. His purple hair was pulled tightly back and waved gently in the wind. Two long pointed ears made him seem not quite human. He looked at them with a pair of sharp eyes that seemed to glow red at the core. A strange mixture of contempt and amusement was on his face.
“It’s that stupid frog...” he mumbled, “...kissed any princesses lately?” he added with a sneer.
“Nay, I rather enjoy this form, and I owe it all to thee Magus!”
Magus scowled.
“I have something for thee!” the Frog said.
He pulled the Masamune blade from its sheath and held it out menacingly in front of him. Magus didn’t move.
“Ah, the Masamune...” he said, the contempt clearly showing in his voice. “I bet you’re just dying to use it!”
The Frog stared at the wizard, resolve etched onto his face. Crono stepped up beside the Frog and pulled out his blade. Marle likewise loaded her bow, and Lucca readied her pistol.
Magus surveyed the group calmly.
“Very well then...” he said casually reaching out into the darkness. From somewhere he produced a scythe. A huge weapon it was, at least Magus’ height. The metre long curved blade glinted darkly in the light of the altar. The shaft was black. He stood facing them cooly, his weapon held out in his right hand beside him. The dark wind seemed to grow stronger.
“The black wind begins to blow” he whispered.
He eyed them menacingly and smiled in contempt. But for a second, a mere instant, they saw something else. A glimmer of immense sadness, that was hidden the moment it appeared.
“So be it...give me your best shot...” Magus scoffed, raising his voice so that its echo filled the room.
“If you’re prepared for the void!”
With remarkable dexterity he swung the scythe into the air and sent it whirling above his head. Crono vas almost too late bringing up his sword before the scythe sliced down towards him. Magus was swift. As quickly as he had attacked, he had retreated a few metres, not running but flying through the air. The Frog jumped forward, the blade of the Masamune slashing down for Magus’ head. Yet Magus had already dodged, and the sword sent sparks up from the floor as it struck the stone. Marle’s arrow cut through the air, but the shot had been wild and, missing Magus, vanished in the distance. Meanwhile, Crono had recovered from the attack and was once more upon Magus. He dealt him a few heavy blows, but the wizard deflected them masterfully and without effort. Lucca took aim at Magus and fired. The blast hit Magus between the shoulders, but did no more than knock him down. Lucca looked at her weapon in disgust. The wizard was quick to recover, and was up in a heartbeat. But the Frog had once again pounced on him, this time catching him off his guard. The Masamune swung in a deadly arc grazing the magicians arm. Red blood flowed from the wound, though no more than a scratch. Magus fixed an evil stare on his opponent and stretched out his hand towards him. Instantaneously the darkness about Magus grew and an intangible force knocked the Frog back a dozen metres. Then he turned on the others. Marle let fly one more bolt and rushed to the Frog’s side. Crono and Lucca ran towards their foe. Magus brought up his scythe in a defensive position as Crono swung with all his might. At that instant magical flames sprang from Lucca’s hand and struck Crono’s blade. As the blade glowed and fire ran down its edges he struck full force at Magus’ weapon. The shaft of the scythe shattered under the magical attack, and Magus had to jump backward to avoid the fiery blade. Crono bore down on his enemy, thinking him defenceless. But from his side Magus had pulled the sickle. Using it to block Crono’s sword he dealt a vicious blow to his enemy with his other hand, sending Crono reeling back in agony. Magus smiled wickedly as he surveyed his foes. Crono lay doubled up on the ground, Lucca was virtually weaponless, and Marle was still trying to revive the Frog. Picking up the broken end of his scythe he hurled it at Crono with incredible force, gashing his cheek. Crono jumped up, still in pain, but necessity rallying his strength. Magus laughed.
“You fool”
---
And here, the same things, yet re-written. This should exemplify why re-writing can be seen as laudable.
That glance startled all but Glenn. For he alone of the four had seen it before... only once before. Upon the darkest of days, and still the dread eyes haunted the deep corners of his memory. The visage was sallow and pale like that of a ghost, so gaunt that the very shadows were caught in menacing ways upon his cheeks. His hair was dark, violet or blue (it could not be seen fully aright), and was allowed to fall free below his shoulders. For all accounts here was no man, but rather a mystic, even as the creatures that served him. For even his ears were sharp in an unhuman way. And the sheen of the eyes was red. Their glance was of both mockery and amusement at once. And he was tall, far beyond the measure of any of them. Six, perhaps seven feet to the crown, and with sinews of adamant. It half crossed Crono’s mind that, had he been told the fullness of this man’s presence, he should have let the others take this path alone. And even then he spoke, with a voice deep and harsh like the report of thunder in the hall:
“What is it that we have here? It is that fool of a frog. Still you remain thus: unchanged in appearance since the day I cast that semblance upon you. Have you not thrown it aside yet, base squire of a fallen knight? Have you found no princess willing to give their kiss for the spell-breaking?”
He laughed greatly at his own jest, and Crono could not figure which was the more terrible: that they were not standing in the very lair of this fabled magician, or that he laughed at their threat. If he was so without fright, then they were surely doomed.
Glenn, however, was a measure more bold. In defiance of the sorcerer’s jest, he replied:
“My form is not without some measure of good. Indeed, I rather enjoy it, at whiles. See, now, sorcerer, I mock you: Magus of shadows, I shall turn this curse crossways yet!”
The sorcerer said naught, his wits perhaps unused to so unafraid a reply. A scowl was the only answer.
“And now see: I have something for thee!” Glenn cried, and drew from its scabbard the Masamune. With a knightly flourish he held it before him in the manner of a lord’s challenge. The sorcerer did naught at first. Then slowly came a reply.
“Ah, the Masamune,” he said, in near to a whisper. There was a measure of contempt, and perhaps even a touch of fear as he said it, but at once the former took full command, and he raised his voice to a half-disdainful laugh saying: “I reckon that you’re just dying to use it, fool.”
Glenn returned the dire gaze of the wizard with a stern resolve; once before he had faced this dark enchanter, and then he had failed. He would see to it that a like thing would not chance again. He brandished the sword before him, and the others, at his left and right, bore ready their own array of weapons: sword and bow and flintlock pistol.
The wizard looked from one to the next, and it was plain that he was measuring the strengths and weaknesses of each. But whatever his dark mind saw, it remained hidden, and only a soft smile touched upon his lips as he said:
“Very well, then, children.”
And he reached a hand into the darkness; from the shadows he drew a weapon. It was neither sword nor spear, but rather a scythe, not unlike that which the reapers were wont to use at harvest for felling the wheat. Or, perhaps more telling, akin to the old renderings of death itself. For surely the scythe was beyond the measure of most; this wizard was taller than any of the four without doubt, but the topmost point was above the crest of his head, and the long blade shone with a silvern sheen in the unlight of the room. And at that a dark wind seemed to rise within the hall, and not one of the four felt comforted by this, for it was grim and cold, as if it were the whispers of some dread prophecy.
The wizard too felt this thing, and casting a far gaze into the darkness whispered:
“Ah, the black wind begins to blow,” and he laughed.
“So be it then, children,” he said, striking the haft twice to the ground so that the report echoed noisomely. “If you wish my blood, do so to the best of your skill. But be mindful, for only Hades awaits you!”
With far greater skill than any reaper of the fields, the blade was hafted into the dark air. The fingers of the wizard were skilled in far more than simply spellcraft, it seemed: he bore his dread weapon with ease, turning it here and there about him as a knight at play, brandishing an arming sword. Swift, indeed. Nearly too quick for Crono, for it was only a moment’s breath later that the blade was swept for his neck, halted only by a hasty and clumsy parry.
And at that the wizard leaped back in feigned retreat, his steps hardly more than catfalls upon the earth. Or perhaps he even flew, but to judge such things was difficult, and the enchantment was heavy in the air.
“If this is to be the manner of this battle, it may go hard with us,” Glenn muttered, but drawing up his eyes cried: “Return hither, coward. But who would fault you if you should flee? A child, a cursed squire, and two maidens are a dreadful foe for any man.”
It was not well placed, maybe, but Glenn knew the report of this sorcerer well: he would ill endure any such suggestions of cowardice. His steel-shod steps were as thunder in the dark room as he came forward again.
“Do you wish so greatly for death, squire of Cyrus?” He said, drawing firm his fingers about the black haft of the scythe. “Do you know the power of this one you face, or are you drawn to doom by some evil chance of fate, like so many others? Know that I am Magus of the Mystics, Asarel ar Asant Medina. Hold to your bravery, if you wish, but know that I fear neither you nor your enchanted blade.”
A bolt off Marle’s crossbow sung a path through the air. A coward’s stroke, maybe, yet when one combats so dark a lord as this, who can judge fairness? But it was to little avail regardless: it was wild and vanished in the dark.
The Masamune leaped, and the sorcerer parried, sparking as its failed stroke met the ground. Glenn spoke a low prayer, and struck again, swifter and more fell than before. But though it was true, whatever blood ran through the veins of this foe was that of a master warrior. The holy sword missed its mark yet again, and in return the wizard dealt a heavy stroke of his hand across Glenn’s face. The strap broke and his helm flew from his head; he himself faltered to the earth, his eyes in a swoon. Perilous, to be certain, for the scythe was ready for blood and singing a high note through the air already, but Crono was there at once to hold off the blow, and Glenn was saved.
“Ah, a swift one, I see,” the wizard laughed. “Do so again, and I will strike off the hand that foils my blow. Kimtos!”
And at that word, Crono was thrown to the earth and backward further than a score of paces. He rose wearily, wondering at what this was. If it was sorcery, it was potent beyond anything he had thought possible. What was this sorcerer, now? Man or demon, or a mingling of demon in the guise of a man?
Now, all this while, Lucca had stood her ground, with an eyes of watching only, waiting for a moment in which to make a fell stroke. Now, as the sorcerer stood over Glenn with an eye for death, she deemed it had come. A tongue of fire leaped from the barrel of her gun. A masterful shot, too, for it found its mark at the heart. But whatever armour this man bore beneath his sable robes, it held true. He turned his eyes upon her with a laugh.
“So you make your move in this game, then? And with what an array of arms? Cunningly constructed, I think, but holding no strength against the armoury of the ancient world. Know this of me...”
Glenn rose, and whatever more the wizard was minded to say were silenced. Twin blows were traded, and he fell back a pace.
“Hold your peace, squire!”
Whatever sorcery had assaulted Crono now worked its spell upon Glenn, only thrice as strong. He was overcome in a half-moment, and struck heavily to the stone ground. Marle, with an ever-compassionate heart, leaped to his side, and fought to work her subtle sigaldry upon him.
And even as she turned aside, Crono and Lucca made essay to strike down the dark one for the last. Crono’s blade was flourished swiftly, across to one side and then to the other; Lucca, by her arts and learning spoke short words of command, in the near-forgotten tongue of an ancient realm: “Rotha achos!”
The flames that leaped from her fingertips were perilous indeed, and they caught themselves upon the keen blade-edge of Crono’s sword.
“What is this?” the wizard muttered, scarcely heard above the clamour of the flames. “A child of learning to know that tongue, indeed; sooth, it shall not avail against me!”
But even so it was that, when Crono came upon the sorcerer, his sword was whelmed in flames. Twice, three times he struck. At the fourth the wizard’s black-hafted scythe shattered, and with a certain measure of plain alarm, he retreated a pace from the child’s deft assault. And then Crono erred: he thought the sorcerer defenceless, and pressed forward what he thought to be the final attack. But catching at the ruined blade of the scythe in his left, and drawing from his side a sickle in his right, his foe was full prepared. A great rending of steel sounded in the hall, and Crono faltered, his weapon wrested from his grip.
Magus shut fast his eyes and cast out a hand. At once a darkness, like to a wave or sudden gale wind, leaped from the nothingness, and whelmed in about Crono and Lucca. To their hearts it was as though a freezing terror had taken hold of them, and their eyes were darkened to all light. In that moment, they almost despaired of all life, for such was the great wizard’s power that even their heroic will could not contend with his dark sigaldry. But it passed even at the brink, and they faltered with a mingling of keen relief and fear to their knees. For certainly they were freed from the mighty spell, but worse there was: their limbs were weakened so that they could make no trial at defence, and Magus came with heavy steel paces before them, drawing high his blade for a single death-swath. Surely they would have died even then, but from the far length of the room, a swift arrow was loosed: Marle had arisen again, with Glenn at her side. The arrow wound a straight and fell path through the air and halting fast in the armour of the sorcerer.