The Frewyn Herald: Home of the Haanta Series

Machanabi is one of the oldest games in Lucentia. It was invented by the Ruvani, and once the kingdom was taken over by the Elves, the game became confined to the Old Lucentian dens and gaming parlours, where high-rollers could be screwed out of wagers and into poverty. Not many play the game outside of its home, but on the deck of the Myrellenos, a few rounds are known to be played: Danaco fan art by Cassandra P eppone was delighted to find the evening was far from over: the night was wearing on, and he thought the captain might impose restrictions with regard to lamplighting, as some ships were wont to do when abroad, or that some of the men might want to go ashore and see what evening gaieties could be got round the docks for a goldweight. Cards, however, seemed to be everyone’s expectation, small coins were releaved from pockets and unbroken packs of cards were tossed across the table, and the usual seats were claimed, Peppone stowing himself between Feiza and the captain. Pan...

"Esteemed ladies and gentleman of the house, or whathaveyou in this circumstance, director of the Academy, students and novitiates: As head of sciences, the duty of announcing a passing in our community, as they call it, naturally becomes mine, though I'd rather it belong to someone else. Being a herald of death is an office no one should ever look forward to, but never mind that now. I am asked to do it, and so I will and have it over. The greatest cosmologist, and perhaps one of the greatest scientists in our world or our universe, however far that may extend, has died. I certainly never expected him to pass on so suddenly. It is literally impossible that he should have lived forever-- being in Space-Time, the probability of living forever is against us-- but he really did seem to be immortal. He ignored his condition and got on with life, and did a better job at it than most of his or of any generation-- and yet, perhaps because of his illness, he triumphed at living, a...

There is always a bigger fish. There are also always older Gods. For however powerful the Four Sons of Diras promise to be, there is always one who reigns supreme over them, one whom Baba Connridh dotingly calls 'The Bramble'. T he nidor of braised meat stewing in suet and spices made Baba turn back to the house, but she stopped at the threshold, seized by a sudden thrill. The wind changed, the nearby boughs bent westward, the house creaked, bringing down a few rebellious shafts of straw from the thatch, and a warmth descended. A hum pursed her lips as she surveyed the rows, eyeing the whitethorn in the distance with grim suspicion.                 “No…” she breathed, taking her hand from her knitters, “this ain’t them…”                              A tidal rote filled her ears. It came from...