The Frewyn Herald: Home of the Haanta Series

It is nearly the end of the month, which means our newest novella will be available on our Patreon page within the next few days. While we're all waiting for the final touches on Damson's Distress to be finished, join our Patreon campaign HERE and receive the last twelve novellas for your reading pleasure. This month's novella will feature the full story of Alasdair's failed attempts to gain a copy of Shaman of the West: A lasdair gave up the point, resigning himself to the unbending determination of his four forebears, each of them resolved to dissuade him from committing invented literary crimes, and each cherishing a something of secret delight at seeing Alasdair quit the room in quest of Vyrdin’s private library. “You know what?” said Alasdair, in a careless hue, turning into the hall. “I don’t need to read the second book. Who needs a second book when I have the first? I certainly don’t. No one does. No one needs to read the second in any series. I will

"Mockingbirds don't do one thing except make music for us to enjoy..." Fame is not a kind mistress to many, and it is always rather more invasive than those to receive it deserve. Hard work and serious endeavour deserve attention and praise, and certainly an opus as To Kill a Mockingbird merits all the unmitigated regard it receives, but while some notice and encouragement is pleasant, there is such a thing as having too much. Public prominence, we know, does many things, and only some of them good, but for such a brilliant author like Harper Lee, the fulmination of accolades produced an expectation she felt herself unequal to fulfill. The generosity of a close friend gave her the time she required to write something she felt worth reading, and after a little time, and many iterations, one of the greatest novels in the History of American Literature was created. How all the pangs and pleasures of achievement will work their powers on a demure heart. Lee never weltered

There are not many sins to commit whilst being interested in reading. I make absolutely no difficulties about readers reading stories only about certain characters they like, but in the Brennin family, and especially whilst Vyrdin is about, there is only one rule to follow: thou shalt not read a series out of order. The cake pans were in the oven, and presently, after the counter was cleaned, she removed to the table, to sit beside Shayne and plague him about eating habits and newly-mended cottage floors, while the children repaired to the small table, where they collectively tootled over the compendium, scouring every page for new creatures and wondrous illustrations. “It really is such a beautiful edition,” said Alasdair. “Did you buy that book at Balleigh’s?” “Yes,“ said Vyrdin, in a heated tone. Of course he bought it at Balleigh’s—there was no other place in the world he should rather purchase a book, but the glint in Alasdair’s eye, the look of unassuming expectation

It always astounds me how many birthdays our family circle has to celebrate at the beginning of the new year. It seems there is always an excuse for cake from one weekend to the other. A present Twisk is making for Soledhan's birthday B rigid’s Day over, and all the excitement of the high holidays now diminished, it was time to have done with commemorations belonging to antiquity or the gods, and new celebrations must have their way. The barrage of birthdays that was the late winter and early spring amongst those belonging to the royal party must now begin, and everyone, from Myella and Brighel, Vyrbryn and Peigi, Fionnora and Ennan, to Little Jaicobh and Little Aiden and Adaoire must all celebrate their age with toys and cakes, new arrows and hunting bows, and new animals to torment with fervent affection. It was a standing mystery amongst their set as to why so many of them should be born in the months from winter to spring; it was generally thought that the chief of t

There are many sentries in a village: there are the royal guardsmen, there are mothers and grandmothers to chase off hooligans, fathers to hasten after eager young men, but there is no guard so devoted to the safety of Rannig's village than Mr MacDunnaigh, the village smith: “ O we, thayt’s a good ‘un!” said Moppit, remarking the little girl’s powers at snow building. “Round thayt boulder off at the bottom, and she’ll be a good base fer the rest. Yew awl right, Feiza?” He turned round to where Feiza was a moment before and found only a cloud of moving snow dust and a tangle of fur and limbs. “All right, Feiza, all right,” was the muffled voice from under the knot. “Right yew are then,” said Moppit, and then turning back to the little girl, “Owe, thayt’s a noice scarf yew done brought for him.” “Her,” said the girl stoutly. “It’s a girl.” “Owe, sorry, love. Aw shoulda known with such a lovely figyah as thayt.” The girl spied the two shapeless boulders of snow laid