The Frewyn Herald: Home of the Haanta Series

It is rare that the king would ever wear anything to cause distress to himself or his subjects, but when his queen chooses his outfit, he can be very sure that everyone is begin to notice: T he nidor wafting up from the table bespoke a sundry of meats prepared for the morning, and when Alasdair perused the table, he found a display of fried rashers and smoked salmon, rye slices and fried farls, garnished with a few soft boiled eggs at the edge of the table, whence Ouryn was just demurely plucking a slice of salmon and scudding away back to her corner. The children were sat round the table with Hathanta and Varthrasta and their Auntie Linaa, colouring in the few holiday scenes she had outlined for them. Tomas was nestled in the opposing corner, sitting quietly with his mother and Aghneis, Mrs Cuineill well-employed with some impossible piece of knitting, and the blacksmith cutting Aghneis’ salmon for her and quietly encouraging her to eat, as Bilar said it would promote the c...

While Commander Boudicca MacDaede's deep vale is often under scrutiny in the barracks, and often averts eyes and spawns embarrassed discussions, they are exceedingly pleasant to look at, whether you be a bystander or her mate. Born of two delightful mounds, her chest is a grand study in sarcology. Frewyn woman are known for their magnificent endowments, but that doesn't make them immune to the diseases that can claim them, which is why, on this National Cleavage Day, we are making a donation to the Canadian Cancer Society and urge our readers, if able, to do the same. If we all give just a few dollars to our local cancer foundations, we can save many women's lives with the research our contributions will fund. Here are a few associations that you can donate to: American Cancer Society Canadian Cancer Society Cancer Research UK Irish Cancer Society

There is nothing that distresses a king more than clashing. A tender osculation was shared, their noses touched, their eyes inspected one another, and after a moment of fond reflection, each made an amorous sigh and continued to dress. Carrigh tied a hanging ribbon around her waist, and Alasdair straightened his cuffs, and when he turned to smooth his shirt under his jerkin, he paid particular attention to how the colour of his shirt offset his jerkin. Was it varied enough? Was the colour too plain and uncomplimentary? White with evergreen and gold might detract from the whole piece. He was wearing light breeches, which allied with his shirt, and where was the harm in wearing light breeches with a light shirt when there was a darker jerkin to complement? Carrigh watched her husband agonize in this private committee of habilatory apprehension, and her lips pursed in a smile. “Do you want to change, sire?” “No. Yes. Possibly.” He thought for a moment, rapt in the vicissitud...

Suffering from a hideous head cold and still not over Sir Terry's passing, I can understand Alasdair's desire to never leave is bed if he can help it. Unfortunately, he cannot help it.                  I t was Ailneighdaeth morning, and while Breigh and Cabhrin were on their way to Tyfferim, and Aiden and Adaoire were taking their children to Lochan’s farm in Farriage, everyone at the castle in Diras was rousing from a peaceful and much needed rest. The demands of yesterday and all its subsequent enjoyments had been just as agreeable as they had been fatiguing, and after propinating and accubating, delighting in good company and excellent music, and enjoying all the usual regalia of the holiday, after a few postprandial drinks and an hour or two spent under the dominion of the bonfire, everyone was glad to find their beds and just as glad to remain in them well after sunrise. An hour after dawn, when th...

Another star burns bright and streaks into the murk of the unknown. Sixty-six for such a man of such literary distinction is far too short of a stint on our little swirling blob, drifting aimlessly in the gravitational sludge of the universe. And yet, in all that aimless swirling, there are microcosms that Sir Terry discovered, from people living in carpets to alchemists failing miserably and succeeding accidentally, from thieves and assassins to hogfathers and even Death. His excavations of these paracosms and his sharing it with us is perhaps what we will all miss, but I still contest that sixty-six years is far too short. It does not matter that he left us with countless works; it only matters that we will have no more of them. It is abominable to leave us to flounder about, shamelessly fumbling over so unconquerable a legacy. Never again will the world see such prodigious literary efforts, never again will we be delighted by such fabulous hats, such exquisite smoking jackets, suc...

The workmen are the unsung heroes of many kingdoms, but in Frewyn and Marridon, they are the fabric of a gingham which keeps countries together. One such creature among these is Fhilibh, master of the Glaoustre mine. Hardy, convivial, unaffected, and hardworking, he is the quintessential working man, once whom everyone likes to see but whom many would rather not hear .                 Their brothers were not in the Seadh Maith, as they soon found out. It was rife with all the usual Tyfferim accumulation: vulgar farmers clinging to their pints, nattering old woman attacking spun wool with their knitters, the single men looming over the bar, a few young couples locked in apparent redemancy at the tables in the far corner, gaggles of young woman giggling amongst themselves, a few younger patrons indulging in buttered bread pudding and trying to achieve the best indigestion, a few musicians sat round the fi...