The Frewyn Herald: Home of the Haanta Series

And in a trice, NaNo is done. I ended with somewhere over 170,000 words. How did everyone else do? To commemorate the end of NaNo, a story about a father's joy: T hey came to the bakery window whereupon Little Jaicobh’s blue eyes instantly flared, absorbing everything on display, ruminating over every bread, every cake, every pie on the shelves.                  “Remember, Cub,” said Sheamas, resting his son in the bend of his arm, “we’re just goin’ in for some pockets, so no comin’ out with arms loaded like we did last time.”                 Little Jaicobh seemed hardly to hear his father’s gentle entreaty; he was far too engaged with the gingerbread biscuits lining the bottom of the window, all of them in familiar shapes: there was one of Unaa with her pillowy chest, and another of Uncle Alasdair wearing a crown, and...

Alasdair has a longstanding love-hate relationship with baked goods: he loves to eat them, and he hates the inches they add to his waistline. He has the unfortunate business of inheriting his father's appetite but not his father's metabolism, leaving him at a terrible disadvantage when his will finally gives way. If you have never reveled in all the joys of a crumble, you will not understand Alasdair's pain .  T he king came to the oven room to find a lone round crumble, sitting on the centre of the table, illuminated by a shaft of silvery light pervading the window. He neared and looked about: the fires in the oven were dimmed, the range was blackleaded and cleaned, and Martje and even Shelbeigh were nowhere in sight. This is what all desserts do to me.                 “Martje must have gone to her apartment,” he surmised aloud. “She’s been doing that recently  to make certain tha...

Well, the 50,000 word marker has been achieved. Onto the next 50,000. In the meantime, here is a piece from Draeden and Bryeison's return from the Galleisian War Saga: T he season was in its heightened state of alteration: the verdant hues of a lingering summer giving way to the golden flush of autumn, the trees blushing with ripened drupes, the ground misted over with glistening rime, leaves furnishing the forests with their vibrant hues, the bark of the various trees glowing numinous in the soft morning light, the end of the harvest bowing to the reign of winter impending. Here was autumn in its ripening bloom, and there harvest and the beginning of the Frewyn High Holidays were prepared to surmount the kingdom. The frosts delicately garlanded the boughs of the subdued landscape, the last intimations of moss raged tranquil against the dampening frosts, the withies of the weeping willows laden with light snow mantled over the ground, the great oaks wreathed the canopies of t...

Prince Draeden, Alasdair's father, has a terrible fear of talking to women; he thinks most of them are much too beautiful to be approached with any semblance of composure, and he envies anyone else who is able to walk up and talk to them without any hesitation.  O ne song ended and another began, and Draeden returned to the upper end of the table with many good things to devour and demolish. Women warbled and wassailed, men crooned and crowed, Draeden was still eating, the king joined in the song, and the whole of the Great Hall was in a tumult of bustle and confusion, half the occupants dancing, the other singing, Bryeison and Vyrdin nursing their teas, and Draeden humming over the fidget pie he had just finished.                 “Are you satisfied?” Bryeison laughed.                 “Yes,” Draeden languished, leaning bac...

Word count so far: 32,498 And our story continues... D raeden found the roast hiding behind Bryeison and moved to take it, bringing Bryeison nearer to the ginger and nettle tea. He filled his own cup, and then held the kettle near to Vyrdin. “Tea?”                 Vyrdin swallowed hard and tried not to stare at Bryeison’s gargantuan arms. “Yes, thank you, sir.”                 “Bryeison,” he said, in a kindly accent, pouring the tea and granting a few friendly smiles.                  Vyrdin raised his cup and was about to drink, hoping to avoid conversation with the Varrallan giant, but a gesture from Bryeison, his raising his cup and professing to Vyrdin’s good health, persuaded him to invent something to say. He would have asked his history...

I n the midst of Draeden’s lamentations, King Dorrin at last called for dinner to begin. He approached the table, kissed his son, and much to Vyrdin’s astonishment kissed Bryeison, whose pale complexion darkened momentarily and he turned aside, smiling abashedly to himself, leaving Vyrdin to wonder at whether Bryeison was considered as much his son as Draeden was. How he had come to deserving of such a position occupied Vyrdin’s thoughts even as the king approached his seat, poured his wine, and raised his cup. He gave a concise benediction, and when everyone resounded their approbation with Onne Bennath Aconna , the king claimed his seat, music was called for, wine was poured, and the dinner was begun. Draeden attacked the goose and rabbit, taking the carved slices and shoving them into his mouth with all the alacrity that his rapaciousness could recommend. Plates and even the necessary mastications seemed irrelevant to a prince who was only desirous of quelling the vicious grum...

For the Frewyn holiday of Ailineighdaeth (al-i-nay-de), it's tradition for the king to open the castle keep's Great Hall and welcome all of his subjects to dine with him and the royal family. King Dorrin and King Alasdair keep this tradition, and for those like Vyrdin, who have no family and no where else to go for the holidays, the custom is particularly welcome.  A few splashes of cold water, a doting last look at his gift, and Vyrdin was tolerably prepared for his appearance in the Grand Hall. His heart swelled with thankfulness and delight as they walked down the main hall together: the image of the earring, with its fine etchings and pearlescent finish, and the manner in which it was given remained with him until they reached the peristyle. Passing nobles and servants flocked toward the king, all of them wanting to pay their sovereign due honours and wish him good tidings for the day, and though Vyrdin usually would have shied away and recoiled from any added attent...

It's here: NaNoWriMo! Here is out first post, a story about Vyrdin's first gift from the Galleisian War Saga. Enjoy! H e returned to his private apartment with a pained heart. All the privations and cruelty he had endured during his time in Farriage had destroyed his powers at happiness. Where his heart persuaded him to celebrate, his head refuted such a claim. His mind wandered through his reasoning, telling himself again and again why he was unworthy of revelry, ill-suited for camaraderie, and forbidden from closeness. He stood at the centre of his room with clenched fists and downcast eyes, his tumbled hair lumbering over his brow, and his musing carried him through the many times he had begged the man who had made himself his master to share in one meal, one walk through town, one hour by the fire, one day of celebratory bliss, and was denied every humble request. Gifts were never to be mentioned, for he knew that such an appeal would be answered with vicious conduct...