The Frewyn Herald: Home of the Haanta Series

Bilar Harvester is the royal cleric, but before he ever came to the keep, he lived with his mother and father in Kileen, a landscape known for its Proto-Frewyn architecture. His mother was a member of the Frewyn Archaeological Society, and his father, as no surprise, was a well respected cleric in the west. Here is a little of their fateful meeting in an extra long post. Enjoy! Image by David Kernow, Callanish Stones, via Wikipedia creative commons T hey had been walking some minutes before stopping to survey the grounds, Cgnita in all the fleshment of first meeting, and Eilen in all the exhilaration that ancient stones and interested Almost fell there, lad, good thing you got her , and Cgnita, while turning aside and blushing to himself, began to wonder at Aoidhe’s disappearance.   company could furnish. Each was reluctant at first to talk of their interests, Cgnita prompting her to say more by regaling her with the history of Kileen, and Eilen tripping through her not...

The Gods do enjoy plaguing their subjects, but sometimes, even after all the japes, they do really come through: B rudha encouraged the cleric to sit and then went to the range, to boil the water and sachet the tea leaves, whilst Cgnita sat at his desk and slumped in his chair, staring blearily at the page before him, where he had feverishly written down every word of the dialogue that he and Aoidhe had engaged in not an hour before. It all seemed nonsensical now, to think that such a God had imparted his humble blessing and magnanimous wisdom, and he wondered at his own writing, wondered how fearful he was and how bewitching Aoidhe seemed only an hour ago. The difference that time could make in his perception was astonishing, and his mind, under the governance of realization, was all benumbed. Brudha came to the desk, placed the cup of tea into Cgnita’s hand and looked out the window, to admire the first intimations of lilacs in bloom, whilst the cleric stared at his teacup, e...

 Nothing like getting a pep-talk from the God of Fire and Passion. Oh, Aoidhe, you are a card. W hile Aoidhe’s form traveled beside the boy, as his son and the guard walked homewards  from the village square, his consciousness partly remained with Cginta, who was sitting at his desk, looking wholly disenchanted, lounging languidly to one side, his back slumped, his knees wide, his aspect pretending disinterest. His arm hovered in front of him, with his cup still occupying his hand, but he was not sipping his tea, nor was he parituclaly eager to do so: the tea was cold, his cup being half empty since the other half had landed on his chest, and his robes were damp and maculated, and his leniency with the somewhat not so Great God Aoidhe all but done. Go on, lad, take another drink , said a voice, with the air of self-congratulation. “No,” the cleric’s voice droned, “I think I shall just let it stay for a while. I rather like cold tea. It cannot scauld me.” Didn’t ...