The Frewyn Herald: Home of the Haanta Series

Beryn has many interesting and unique creatures on his land, but none so ridiculous and lovable as his prize cockerel. A WIP of the Ode to Cluck by Twisk, complete with hens. Twisk asked me not to post the newer version. She said nothing about this one, however. P lacing his hand upon her back caused her to rouse. The first moments of wakeful confusion with muffled humphs and the delicate fluttering of eyelashes drew his attention, and all his notions of what might be done so secure her attendance in his bed every morning ceased.                 She raised her head and descried the sun just peering over the horizon. It was morning : all her terrific notions of parting were returning. She was too comfortable, too warm, too sanguine for movement; she could not get up now, and the moment she recognized the broad chest beneath and the well-muscled arms about her, she groaned and buried...

B ilar judged it best to say what must be said and smooth away evils as they should arise. He took Martje’s hand and said in a quiet tone, “Martje, there is something we need to discuss.”                 Her eyes flared in horror. “Am I dyin’?” she whimpered.                 “No, Martje. I’ve sat you here because there is something I as a cleric have been meaning to speak to you about for some time.”                 He made an insufferable pause, and over the horrific silence, Merra suddenly fluttered over with the vile of nettle, said her cheerful hellos, and then flittered away to her corner of the infirmary where she was rolling bandages and preparing salves for the new recruits. A few had trickled in with cuts and scrapes, but with Rautu as a commander...

I have to return to the doctor this week to see what can be done about my gallstones, or "Chune's Tears". We'll see how nice I am to the doctor should he insist that I give up chocolate again. S truck by the sight of Martje lying along the ground trembling in the throes of horrific agony, Bilar leapt to her side, endeavouring to remain as composed as knelt to her and rolled back his long sleeves. “Martje, can you hear me? If you can hear me, I need you to lie on your back.” He placed his hands upon her, and glowing as they were with the emerald hue of the Gods’ gift, he helped her onto her back and began his examination. “Good. That’s very good. Can you speak, Martje?”                 “Aye,” she aspirated weakly, “but it hurts to talk and all.”                 “Talking is a good sign,” he said with perfect calmness. “Can you show...

Despite the strict diet and militant exercise regime I keep, I was told that I have gallstones. I was told to cut out all coffee, chocolate, bread, and live on a diet of only fruits and vegetables for a while. First, I told the doctor to fuck himself. Second, I had a cry and a moment of why-me-o-god. Third, I wrote a story. T he cake in the oven, the roast on the range, there was nothing more for Martje to do than to decide upon which sauce to make. A white sauce with some savoury and thyme might do very well for such a handsome hind quarter of lamb as the one Sheamas had brought, but she reckoned that with such a fine bushel of basil as the gardener had procured, a red sauce with some sherry and a tomato base might be much best. She made all the requisite preparatory measures: she dried and shredded the basil, strained the oils and garlic, and had begun tammying the minced tomatoes when a slight twinge along her right side assailed her. The beating of her heart and he...

Today, one of the last literary classic greats passing into the otherworld and left a blazing trail of books and stories behind him. Ray Bradbury, author of classics Fahrenheit 451, The Illustrated Man, The Martian Chronicles, pioneer of science and speculative fiction, touched many readers and authors alike over his many years. He was honest, poignant, sentimental, monumental. His works have been lauded and loved by countless people the world over. He sold stories for 20$ a piece to Weird Tales magazine and didn't make a living from his writing until much later in life. His motto was "Write the Goddamn book. To hell with everything else", I sentiment I certainly share. We honour giants here, and Ray was certainly one of them. Thank you for your inspiration, your craft, your candor. You will be excessively missed. 

A lthough akaaphu was a celebrated Haanta diversion for children, Rautu could not like it. Too many remembrances had he of Otenohi’s schemes and connivances, of his cheating and deceptive machinations, of his false triumphs, of his gloating and dancing about, that he must sneer at the very sight of the board. So odious and horrid a game, a ridiculous article that had ruined all the peace of his younger years and had forced him to seek a partner in Unghaahi and Leraa for games, though this never kept Otenohi from devastating this brother’s equanimity. His decipherable and vehement loathing for akaaphu was apparent and soon inquired after. “When we were Mivaari, Otenohi and I played this game in the garden around the temple,” the giant said, his voice growing fond as he spoke. “He always found ways to defeat me unfairly. He used the mazdafa,” motioning to the blackwood sticks, “to cheat. He placed sap from the trees on his hands so the mazdafa would land downward.” He humphed at the ...