The Frewyn Herald: Home of the Haanta Series

Mean Fhomhair is the beginning of the Frewyn High Holidays and the last harvest of the year. Naturally, this means feasting and drinking until someone has had too much and needs to go home, but the evening cannot be finished without someone bringing out the moonshine, in this case good ol' fashioned Westren Rime: Read about the Gods HERE T he glow from the bonfire waned, the air cooled and a chill poured over the celebration, diamond dust coruscated against the decrescent light, the moon mirrored a faint warmth which the world civilly declined, and to appease everyone and convince them to keep the gaieties going, drinks were made and handed round, warm chocolate for the children and Rautu, who was given two to keep the cries of “No, that’s my warm chocolate, Mr Den Asaan!” at bay, and mulled wine and spiced brandy for everybody else.                 Aoidhe tended the fire, convincing it to be as no...

There are many euphemisms on the farms with regard to cubicular pursuits: a 'Sethshire sowing', a 'Glaoustre mining', or a 'Tyfferim thanking' are all used when in company with the young to indicate what activities will be taking place in the home later that evening. Winters in Frewyn are long, and what better way to warm up the house than to show how thankful you are to the one you share it with: Read more about Aoidhe HERE T he evening curtain was drawn, nocturnal hues suppressed the lingering hints of day, and a scintillating veil hung on a languorous loom, galericulated by a murrey canopy, the sky growing bucculent with stars. A roral mist titillated the nearby meadow, dispersing against the warmth from the nearby bonfire. The set dances endured, countless couple turning and linking arms and turning again, Alasdair lead the music, calling out the keys and arranging the barndances and reels, the standers-by stood in a circle to applaud and admire...

Frewyn Remembrance Day   is the day that the Galleisian war ended and honours all of Frewyn's fallen throughout their nation's history. All of the Westren regiments wear their clan kilts, the Brigade sound their horns from the mountains, Tyr's Tygh is recited, and everyone honours those who have passed with bouquets of rye grass, snowdrops, and daffodils, the national flowers of Frewyn. Some offer a prayer to Frannach, God of War and Peace, and others say a prayer to Menor, Guardian of the nation, in thanks for keeping the kingdom safe, but everyone gives tribute to the Veterans of the Second Galleisian War, for without their valour, Frewyn would have surely perished. The Veterans, however, are left with cares and anxieties for the future that can never be done away: B oudicca was glad to be alone, her spirit growing sanguine toward the joys of observation, the equanimity of being allowed to stand and survey and say nothing. Being a farmer in Western Tyfferim, having ...