The Frewyn Herald: Home of the Haanta Series

While Borras and Menor, Diras' Second and Fourth sons respectively, do get along, they do not always agree on everything, especially when it comes to Discipline and Punishment: A moment passed. The clouds began to part, the nebulous curtain revealing the ranging iridescence of an early gloaming, pine martins dithered up and down trees, swallows kited after one another in streaks, the cypress and juniper moaned under the windward gale. A voice resonated from above: a member of the Brigade was passing again, the crunch and crepitation from rocks underfoot lilting the chorus of the rhythmic march, the glow of a torch passing through the rising brume. Low clouds decapitated the peaks above, droplets gleaming pearlescent hung on an invisible loom, and a roaring silence descended, suppressing the whispers of the adders slithering through the forest below and the fritinancy of the birds amidst the boughs above. The musical drip from the stalactites muted, an approaching brontide sw...

Reis, the Frewyn God of Luck and Deliverance, is often found where she shouldn't be. She shouldn't be watching over any one at the keep, she shouldn't be loping about the Realm of the Gods, and she certainly should not be anywhere near Menor's home in the mountains. A t the southwestern end of the Menorian Mountains, which separated much of Frewyn from Gallei, on a jutting crag halfway up the range, a slender black cat loped toward a nearby cove, the entrance marked with a Roe Gaumhin on either side. The surrounding dawn redwoods were illuminated by a setting sun, the ocher bark tingeing the atmosphere with an amber haze, the chirruping of nesting larks filtering through the trees. The black cat mounted the stile to the cave and crept toward a depression in the rocks, where stalagmite fountained up from the ground. Clouds suddenly canopied the skies, billowing out in flocculent waves, the air cooled, the sky grew heavy in the hope of snow, and the static silence o...

No one should ever bother Gran Baba Connridh when she's perusing the fields and doin' a pie fer the Gods. 'Specially when the person doin' the botherin's a thief. Ain't nobody got time fer that. Read Baba's first book HERE                  O n the other side of Frewyn, amidst the rippling downs of southeastern Tyfferim, Frewyn’s oldest farmer ventured beyond the confines of the farmhouse and the byre, and walked through the fields, to peruse the rows and judge how good a job the boy she had hired to plough them had done. The stones had been tolerably cleared away, the plough had been driven somewhat straight, the top soil turned and loam exposed, and she was only waiting for the final thaw to begin planting for the season. She ambled along the fence and   wondered whether she ought to put in the carrot and the mangold this year, but after inspecting ground, after tasting it and spying it with ferv...

While Bartleby is a fully fledged chemist and has an arsenal of alchemical fire at his disposal, he will forever cherish is most rudimentary weapon: sandstone bricks, brought with him from Marridon, for the purposes of building an emergency shelf should he need it and throwing at the crew whenever they should annoy him, which unfortunately for Bartleby is much of the time: A fulmination of applause emanated, faces flizzened and smiles reigned amongst the crewmemebers now gathering round. Everyone was delighted with him, nobody mocking or sneering at his attempts to match Magochiro’s stride, and he was just grown used to the idea that he might enjoy his time aboard the Myrellenos when something suddenly whirred by his head. It flew through the small crowd in front of him, whizzed through the wedge in his head, and fell to the deck, where it slid down the gangplank and into the water. He turned, and from the corner of his eye, he saw something in the near distance, obscured by the ...