The Frewyn Herald: Home of the Haanta Series

Rannig continues in defense of his new friend : “ C rabs don’t harm people voluntarily, Bartleby,” said Rannig. “Sometimes they pinch if people step in their holes, but they’re not mean. They’re just scavengers.” “And yet they will eat a kitten if it means they are to live another day. It has mandibles and pincers and is a merciless predator, and yet you coddle it as though it were a guppy. The centipede that crawled behind you earlier is far less harmless than that crab.” “What centipede?” the giant cried, instantly tremulous, looking about in a fever of terror. “Where’s the centipede? I don’t like centipedes, with their legs movin’ so fast and their mouths twitchin’ and all.” “There is no centipede, my darling giant,” the captain softly, in a conciliating tone. “Look about you, and you will see there is none, only the trail of where it once was, and it probably scurried along much before we even sat down to tea.” Rannig, still under the reign of his own horror...

Today is the day! Grab your copy for only 99. cents! The House Guest is the first of the Frewyn Fables: When winter comes early to Frewyn and the first snowfall of the year traps a young mouse in her home, fate brings an old mole to her door, but is the young mouse prepared for all the challenges that catering to a fussy house guest can bring? Buy the book with the original cover illustrated by Twisk at: Amazon (http://smarturl.it/fztvy1) or Smashwords (http://smarturl.it/jda2om) Buy the book with the variant cover at: Amazon (http://smarturl.it/svtt37) or Smashwords (http://smarturl.it/dlhli6)

Being from Frewyn, Rannig learned at a young age to befriend wild animals, always with the object of taking them home. Bartleby, being from Marridon, grew up with exactly the opposite inclination: all animals in the wild should be left in the wild-- unless they should be captured in the interest of science.  T he old man blew the tassel of his hat out of his face and searched about the table for a stray …Thank you ” from the old man, but before Bartleby could take up his fork and shovel his potatoes onto it, he looked down to discover a white ghost crab scuttling across his side of the table, its legs working busily as it scampered toward his plate. slice of bread or a cracker to commit his newly made pile to good use. Something by way of a lonely wedge was soon found; the captain sacrificed a slice from his own sandwich for the price of a sepulchral “ “No!” he cried, taking up his plate and holding it away from the crab. “Go away, you vile decapod, or I shall feed you ...

Poor Lochan still making his case for his new friend. He sees a life-long companion, and Martje sees a pie filler. L ochan held the goose away from his sister. “You gotta have pity on her, Martje,” he pleaded. “How would you feel if you lost your family and had to stay with a stranger till your flock came back?” “I wouldn’t feel nothin’ ‘cause I’d be baked in a pie,” Martje humphed. Rautu grumbled something about how Martje should liked being wrapped up in a buteraceous crust, and Alasdair hemmed and pretended not to have heard though the small smile wreathing his lips betrayed his acknowledgement and amusement.     “You don’t want to take that bird out, then it’s goin’ in the oven.” A pout, a fierce look, and Lochan refused to relinquish his friend, tucking her into the bend of his arm and covering her head with his hand. “I don’t gotta do anythin’ the king doesn’t say.” “I’m not getting in the middle of this,” Alasdair insisted, hiding behind his ...

Lochan has a new friend, and while everyone is disposed to be enchanted by the animals he rears, Martje is always somewhat at odds with a pet that could be placed in the pot. A Goose for a Gander                 A few strange ululations emanated from the servants’ hall, and when the party entered the kitchen, they were met with the sight of Beryn and Lochan sitting at the kitchen table, Beryn smirking to himself over his tea and wheaten scones, Lochan holding to the goose nestling against him, and Martje looming over her brother with a most displeased expression, her sleeves rolled high, her rasied hand over her head and furnished with a large rolling pin.                 “Don’t stand over her, Martje,” said Lochan, in a plaintive tone. “You’re scarin’ her, wavin’ your pin around.”        ...