The Frewyn Herald: Home of the Haanta Series

Baronous on Brigid’s Day : Brigid’s Day is a curious thing. For all the holler and high revel that accompanies the New Year in Frewyn, the nearly six weeks in between Ailineighdaeth and Brigid’s Day, the kingdom is under a languid haze, the end of the winter holidays beginning in the groans and gripes of farmers having to return to their fields, and all the rest of the country is rapt in moderate revelry, sanguine at the prospect of Spring coming on, and lamenting that the exquisite snows should soon be over. I had been used to think the kingdom a dull old place, wondering what ever would a whole country do trapped under a wallop of winter, but Frewyns are nothing if not busy, and they are forever cleaning and clearing away, making the roads passable, their towns and villages rendered only more charming under the garland of frost. Ailineighdaeth is clear in its history and commemoration: a holiday which celebrates the death and rebirth of the year with Diras at the helm as the patr...

What are we but the culmination of idle hours, flailing limbs, and rampant cogitations? In the misery of to-day, in the whirling entropy of grief, I have accidentally remembered that all those I love named Terry are now gone. Terrance Hanbury White. Sir Terry Pratchett. Terry Jones. Heaven, or something like it, must be a grand old place, with such a collection of giants to furnish its halls, the palladiums to guard its troves and offer pedantic tirades to all. Of course nobody is educated nowadays; all the best loresmen are dead. And everyone wonders why death is so attractive as of late. Being educated by the elites ought to always be fashionable, regardless of whether they still be alive. It is hardly my fault they all decided to die, and therefore I should not be blamed for being to follow. Emulate your heroes how you can. Being left to wallow in their legacies, to peruse the moderate-sized mountain of books each has left behind, is an agony in itself: it is ...

Frewyn butter biscuits and burls: A National Treasure Baronous on butter biscuits : Only a kingdom that thrives on how many pounds of butter it produces   would think to make biscuits from butter alone. It is an art really, a something like magic which graces each kitchen and greases each pan. I have no other explanation as to how every Frewyn household is able to turn their butter into dinner and dessert. In Marridon we have biscuits enough, but butter in Marridon is an ingredient, not a reason. We use it an accent rather than a feature, but as I have previously stated, butter is the gold standard in the kingdom, and where the Empire shines in other lights, the aurulent haze of well-loved ovens and well-lined skillets will always belong to our cousins to the south. That is not to say Marridon has no idea what to do with butter: on the contrary, Marridon’s tea culture is well documented, and though we are the standing champions of biscuits and buns, when there is anything lik...

The Ailineighdaeth Carol : Ailineighdaeth has many songs associated with it, but one in particular is sung at midnight on the 23 rd , to usher in the full Ailineighdaeth season. It was written by Baronous Hodge, which is why it’s written in Common and not Auld Fremhin, a carol that follows more of the Marridon tradition of choir singing rather than solo singing. The legend of the song is that Baronous Hodge wrote it upon seeing his first Ailineighdaeth and his first real winter in Frewyn. He marveled at how the whole country seemed to slumber, the snow fell in heaps, farmers finished their work, and everyone seemed to prepare for their weeks lying in, pies were baked, firewood was got, cider was mulled, and the darkest time of the year gave way to merrymaking, homemade gifts were exchanged and feasts were set down, and high revel and good cheer reigned over the kingdom. Baronous immensely enjoyed his first holiday in Frewyn, so much so that Ailienghdaeth became his favourite time o...