Wondering if you might like Dark Fey? I’ve decided to GIVE you an Entire Chapter to decide. And not just any Chapter, The Pinnacle Chapter; the one I wrote first; the one around which the rest of the story is built. So pour yourself a beverage, sit back in a quiet room (or the local pub, depending) and Enjoy this Fantasy Freebie. 🙂 (And for those of you who’ve already read this…or the entire book, MANY MANY thank Yous!!)
The forests of Jyndari were vast and Hwyndarin was set nearly in the heart of the ancient woodland: with good reason. On the coast, storms and high winds could sweep in from the oceans or roll off the heights of the Trynnari Mountains and threaten both the stability of essential Light and the equally indispensable treasures of learning collected through the ages, but deep in the center of the primordial forest storms were seldom a threat or even a consideration. Hwyndarin had been chosen millennia ago as the seat of all learning and artistry for this especial reason, for here the precious tomes from thousands of years of wisdom could be housed safely and here the artisan’s treasures could be protected. Yet infrequently, a significantly powerful tempest would press back the borders of the forest and shatter the tranquility of that peaceful village.
The late November day had been extraordinarily fair, but the night brought with it gales and pouring icy rain of unparalleled fury that tore at the canopy above Hwyndarin like a giant running its hand over a field of wheat. Boughs and branches crashed down on the village rooftops, rain pelted down like daggers in blinding torrents, and blazing bolts of jagged lightening with resounding clangors of thunder tore the sky repeatedly asunder.
Ayla was guarding the infant of a family called away in grief over the loss of a loved one and had been enjoying a peaceful evening in the quiet solitude of her home with the child. Now, as a bellow of thunder shook her small cottage and the hammering of rain pounded over their heads she held the child close in her arms. She hushed his wailing with a soft, melodic tune, but a furious gust of air blasted open the shuttered windows and shredded her voice. Instantly, her glowing home was pitched into darkness as the gale extinguished every lantern and the child’s shriek of fear mimicked her own.
Her thoughts spun in a panic. A mirror stood in darkness in her boudoir, the child’s cribroom lay in shadows, and the corridor along which she had to travel to reach either held no window, only darkness that could conceal The Reviled, yet, she knew she had to light at least a single candle and she had to brighten the mirror immediately. Each second it stood in blackness was an opportunity for crossing. Racing to the nearest cabinet, she fumbled with the beeswax taper she found there and whispered one of many, simple spells she used frequently in her daily life.
“Luxay,” she said in a commanding tone and the wick popped into flame. The room flickered between shadow and light, yet, it was only a single candle. Should she light more or should she race to the mirror? A mirror left in darkness cries out to be crossed. The recitation she had repeated for years in her youth now played over and over in her mind, but she could not risk entering a room with a darkened mirror while holding a baby in her arms, ripe for the taking. She was a Guardian; her first duty was to protect the innocent.
Clutching her candle, she drew a deep breath, kissed the tot’s head reassuringly and darted along the hall toward his cribroom. A small lantern stood upon his night table, she only need reach it and light it in order to keep him safe. She stopped at the darkened doorway and peered inside, her sight piercing the ebon shades and her own glimmering aura lending illumination. Stepping into the dark interior, she reached immediately for the lantern, yet even as she touched its cool, brass sheath a shadow contracted in the far corner of the room and she froze in instinctive terror.
The shadow grew darker, denser, then spread outward into the dimness of the room not brightened by Ayla’s small candle. Roshwyn in her arms squealed and began to cry louder and she cradled him more tightly, protecting him with her diaphanous wings as her mind spun in alarm.
Light the lantern! Speak the words of protection! Flee!
It was too late.
A Dark One stepped out of the shadows and glared at them with ophidian eyes. The flame in her hand guttered and threatened to go out, but she had no other means of protecting it than repeating her lighting spell with a timorous tone. Shadow swirled about the Dark One like smoke curling around embers and she watched in perfect dread as he slowly reached out his hand toward them.
Light the lantern! Speak the words of protection! Flee!
Years of training screamed at her from within the spiraling depths of her mind, but fear held her transfixed. He stepped closer, his dark eyes glimmering in the fluttering light of her candle, his hand outstretched toward them, toward the child. Light the lantern! Speak the words of protection! Flee!
“Luxay!” Ayla turned toward the lantern and shouted her lighting spell, gasping in relief when the wick snapped into flame, but the Dark One flexed his immense wings and directed a current of air across the room that extinguished both flames, the one she held and the one inside the lantern, in the same moment. Roshwyn screamed and Ayla jerked backwards toward the door, but in an instant, the Dark One was upon them and she stood, paralyzed by dread, her aura shrinking to a feeble glimmer in her terror. The Dark One stared down at her with unreadable eyes, then reached for the squalling child.
“Do not take him.” She pleaded; her voice a mere thread. Remarkably, the Dark One paused, regarding her with his snake-like gaze, but the wailing child could not be ignored. He raised his hand once more and uttered a single word in the vile Dlalth tongue, the language of The Lost.
“Gvyndlal.” Ayla stared at the demon-fey standing before her with utter surprise. As Roshwyn’s wailing subsided and his squirming ceased, she shook her head and struggled to translate the word he had spoken. Gvyndlal? Sleep? The Dark One had said only Sleep?
“Sleep?” She gazed down at the quiet babe in her arms in amazement, then back at the Dark One still glowering over them. Her aura expanded, illuminating his dark silhouette and she beheld, for the first time, one of The Reviled.
He dwarfed her diminutive stature by at least fourteen inches and had a lithe, powerfully muscular physique. His shoulder length hair was the color of shimmering ice, both white and silver. He wore a full-length coat with burnished gold lacings and buttons, with armor-like plates embellishing his broad shoulders and with dark crimson and vibrant silver silk accentuating the deep lapels of the coat he wore open across his broad chest. The multiple belts and chokers crisscrossing his close fitted vest, his pants and boots; all were black leather with similar burnished gold fittings and, although she never would have imagined a Dark One dressing so strikingly, he wore a double flounced cravat and golden choker with an enormous ruby glimmering from its heart.
His vast dragon-like pinions were deep black and blood-red, stretching fully twice his height in length, yet with vicious spines at each joint and tip they seemed even larger and were hideously frightful to behold. His complexion was the unmistakable sallow pallor of the Reviled.
“Put the child in his crib.” He said unexpectedly, his calm baritone voice sending a violent shiver through her. She hesitated; if she released Joshwyn, he would be lost.
“Put the child in his crib.” The Dark One repeated in a more imposing tone. Ayla jolted into motion, but shook with uncontrolled fear.
“Please, do not take him.” She whined piteously. The Dark One scowled at her impatiently and stepped closer, pointing insistently at the small cot in the corner of the room. She shuddered visibly at his nearness and shrank away, wholly intimidated by him, but he did something Ayla never would have anticipated. He stepped past her towards the doorway and glanced out into the ebon darkness of the cottage.
“Light your candle, speak your protections and leave him in his cradle.” He insisted through gritted teeth, urgency marking his every word. She stared at him perplexed, but only for a moment. Turning to look down upon Roshwyn, she relit her small candle, as well as the lantern, and began her intonation of protection. The words and light made the Dark One step out into the shadows of the hall, as if they sickened him, but they did not banish him back to the realm of Uunglarda as she had always thought they would. When she finished, Ayla turned with a knife of uncertainty twisting in her stomach, but before she had time to consider her next actions, he lunged into the room, grasped her by the wrist and drew her out into the dark corridor.
She recognized her folly immediately. In striving to protect the child, she had unwittingly sacrificed herself. In the darkness of the hall as he dragged her unfalteringly toward the only room in her home containing a mirror, she recalled the dire and dreadful warnings given to all young fey as they entered youth. A mirror never stood in a sleeping chamber for a mirror could never be left in darkness. Should a Dark One cross over, he would open the portal the mirror provided and summon his legion. Then they would cross in untold numbers visiting such vile acts of upon the young fey as could never be named. They would only return into their own realm when the first light of the sun crossed the horizon, leaving ruination and despair in their wake and, oftentimes, death.
“No!” She shrieked in absolute horror, straining against his grasp, leaning away from him, scratching at his hand, beating her wings with every ounce of strength she possessed, but her resistance seemed more an inconvenience to him than a problem. Tugging her along behind him, he strode purposefully into her boudoir, her private chamber of preparation, and turned toward the mirror. Raising his free hand toward the reflecting glass, he arched his wings as if setting himself against a foe and closed his eyes, beginning an incantation that was not spoken in the Dlalth tongue, but in a language she did not immediately recognize.
Where were all the spells of protection she had learned as a child? How could she have forgotten after repeating them, literally, thousands of times until she was weary of speaking? Her mind spun, her terror choked her, her breath came in ragged gasps, she shook like a willow in a November wind, but she could still hear him speaking in the mysterious language and, in spite of her fear, she could not prevent the shred of curiosity that made her pause and glance up at him. She realized in that brief moment of clarity that his hand around her wrist was not an iron of restriction, clamped around her like a manacle. In fact, astonishingly, he was not hurting her at all.
The mirror creaked like ice shifting on a frozen river, the sound making her tremble more fiercely. He was opening the portal. Desperation inundated her like a spring flood and she pulled against his restraining grasp more vehemently, but he did not even turn his head. Hauling her up against his side, he crossed his arm over her shoulders and pinned her against him, turning the edge of one broad wing toward her furious thrashings to threaten any further resistance with a glinting, ten-inch spine.
Suddenly, her training returned to her and words of protection filled her mind. She gasped them out in haste, but her voice was little more than a choked squeak. Regardless of the weakness in her chanting however, his reaction was instantaneous. Pausing in his invocation, he turned his head to look down at her with obvious irritation, pressed the cruel barb on his wing to the soft skin under her chin and raised his hand from her shoulder to cover her mouth. There was nothing more she could do to protect herself. She had been defeated in her first and only battle. She knew she was utterly lost.
Turning back to the mirror, he began again, the unrecognizable words ringing in her ears like chimes spinning her senses. She was falling under his spell. She was unable to struggle, unable to speak her own protection, unable to do anything other than listen as he opened the portal and wrought her destruction. Yet even in her panic-stricken state, she could not prevent her overly inquisitive mind from lucidly noting that his hand, pressed over her mouth, was not hurting her. He did not bruise her lips under the ferocity of his contact; he did not wrench her head backward with cruel disregard; he did not restrict her breathing. He was simply thwarting her ability to speak.
Why was he being so shockingly careful about not hurting her? Why had he permitted her to protect Roshwyn with Light as well as spell? Why had he pulled the nursery door closed quietly before proceeding to drag her down the hallway toward the mirror? She could not comprehend his entirely incongruous behavior. Moreover, she had always been told The Reviled were cold-blooded, heartless creatures; that the touch of a Dark Fey was icy as death itself, yet, pressed up against him as she was his surprising warmth was undeniable.
The mirror creaked more loudly, drawing her back to the horror of her present situation and, with these calamitous musings confusing her thoughts, she strained to see around his vast pinions and broad shoulders to watch the mirror with morbid curiosity.
Tiny shards like crystalline ice were stretching across the reflective pane, each splinter a minuscule prism that reflected any spark of light in the room, even the ineffectual glimmer of her diminishing aura and his ethereal, dark crimson glow. With each word he spoke, the crystals increased, growing in number, dimension and intensity until they spread across the glass like frost on a winter window. Scraping and creaking like snow scrunching underfoot on the coldest day, the shards in the mirror began to reflect their own luminosity and as he continued to speak the luster of the mirror intensified.
Then the mirror resounded with a deafening crack and she flinched abruptly away, a sharp cry escaping her muffled mouth. Even the Dark One recoiled from the force of the sound and fell silent. Petrified, she squeezed her eyes tightly closed and held her breath. He had opened the portal; his kind would soon rush in and then she would pray for death long before it would come. In her terror, she could not breathe, blackness swirled at the edges of her mind, and her knees grew weak. Almost imperceptibly, she began to collapse, sliding down the length of his strong frame with no measure of power left within her to break her fall.
Without a sound, the Dark One turned his head to look down at her and released her. He did not drop her or throw her to the floor like a worn out plaything; he took her by the shoulder and by the hand and lowered her to the floor at his feet. Her thoughts swirled at this additional peculiarity and, before she lost herself to fear completely and was swallowed up by blackness, she opened her eyes to peer up at him wanly, utterly bewildered.
The room was bathed in Light! The mirror was intact, not lying in a multitude of shattered pieces on the floor as she had expected, and, somehow, it stood aglow with radiant, incandescent Light that sparkled and reflected in its own shimmering! Blinking woozily in the brilliance, she gazed up at him and drew a deep breath.
What had he done?
Discover More About Dark Fey on its official website
Beautiful Forest Artwork by: Rongrong Wang
Amazing Dark Fey Illustration by: Hgjart at Deviantart.com
Mirror Image found on Google.
Rest not upon my lips Until His Kiss
Lies also there.
Fill not the recesses of my heart Until His
Is United there with mine.
Be not Content Until I am wrapped
In His Warm Embrace.
Heart That is Longing,
be not Happy
Until He Fills it with His Much Desire Love.
Beautiful Original Artwork by: gilraen_ar_feiniel
There is no Fair Expression my Love can take,
Which would adequately Reveal
The Depths of my Love for You;
For even as Time itself is ever –present
My love for You, as Sweet as Breath,
Beautiful Image found on Pinterest. Credit Acknowledged for the original Photographer.
Do you love the cover of Dark Fey The Reviled? (Me too!) Well, now you can get it as a Tee-Shirt, Sweatshirt, Phone cover, Tote bag, Pillow, Beach Towel, Mug, Stickers, …..and even Leggings! (Im serious…and they are seriously amazing!)
Yeah, I want a pair too 🙂 I was notified by my publisher today that this amazing merchandise is now available and I couldn’t wait to share the news!
Check it out…
OK yes Im over the moon…hope you are too.
So here’s the all important LINK
100% Money back Guarantee if not fully satisfied 🙂
Thank you so much for sharing my excitement! Now I’m off to do a bit of shopping…..
The third installment of the Dark Fey Trilogy was recently compared to J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit and R.A. Salvatore’s Drizzit Do’Urden, a character from Dungeons & Dragons :
4-Star Review by SAG Actress April Wahlin:
Two warring factions of Fey clash in this third installment of the series.
With well-detailed action packed into every sentence, we are dropped right into the fray as Light Fey struggle to rescue a group of Younglings from the Demon Fey. Coming fresh off this conflict, the Light Fey seek to heal their wounded hero and take their next action against the child stealing antagonists.
Along their journey they gain new allies and band together against the brutally of the vicious Demon Fey Lord.
Full of ancient prophecies, colorful fey, and the horrors of battle, this book is definitely for adventurous readers.
If you love tales of Hobbits or the lore of Drizzt Do’Urden, this narrative style will be right up your alley.
The Reviled are the enemy. They embody brutality in every form. The Fey of the Light know only too well how savage the Dark Fey can be and daring to think otherwise invites tragedy.
Gairynzvl was once one of the Reviled and lived the riotous life of all Dark Ones, but his acceptance by The Fey of the Light has changed all that. Now, he is opposing The Reviled by returning into their dark realm and rescuing childfey. The actions taken by him and his band of Liberators are not only changing lives, they are fulfilling ancient prophecies and proving long-accepted beliefs inaccurate.
Those who have lived in the Light all their lives are suddenly faced with unavoidable questions. How is peace achieved? Can Light unite with Darkness? Can all the atrocities the Dark Ones have inflicted really be forgiven?
The Fey of the Light have a deadly choice to make: ignore the emerging truth or risk the tranquility of their realm and go to war to offer the Reviled a chance to change.
When Shadows Transcend the Ebon Glow
And Whispers Speak of Brazen Unknowns
Golden fire Reaches and Stirs
Delicate Splendor Gently blurs
5-Minute Verses…Just something I like to do/ am able to to with reasonable success and thought I’d extend the challenge to participate. Select an image, then write. Try not to overthink it 😉 I’m usually surprised and pleased with what Inspiration and Creativity share with me and I’m sure you will be as well.
Beautiful Photography found on HD Wallpapers. Credit Gratefully Acknowledged to the Original Photographer. Thank You~
Being Grateful means, by Oxford’s definition, a readiness to show appreciation for and to return kindness; having or showing the desire or reason to thank someone for giving pleasure or comfort. Being Grateful means you know you are indebted to someone for some action undertaken by them that benefited you in some manner and consciously acknowledging that appreciation. Gratitude can take unnumbered shapes and forms, from tickets to the hottest show in town to a brand new Porsche (theoretically speaking, of course), but often gratitude comes in gentler doses; a simple inclination of the head, a tearful, wordless hug, a handshake and poignant look into another’s eyes. Yet however it comes, it is one of the most important things we can ever do.
Expressing gratitude rewards; it builds bridges, it alleviates tensions, it sets a higher standard, but it also opens the doors and windows to blessings untold. It sets aside our baser, more selfish tendencies and allows us to be, if only for a few moments, the people we all wish we could be far more frequently. It makes princes out of paupers and, conversely, paupers out of princes; it is a leveler of scores and a righter of wrongs and no matter how it is expressed, if it is genuine, it is always significant.
Imagine, for a moment, that you are a laborer working at some menial job; cleaning bathrooms perhaps, collecting garbage, mopping floors somewhere. Every day you come in on time, do your job conscientiously and without complaint; you leave only when your task is done completely and correctly, but no one ever says a word to you. If you didn’t do this job, the resulting mess would be atrocious, yet people pass by you all the while you work, stepping to the far side of the hall or moving to the other side of the room rather than approaching you and no one, not even your boss, tells you that you are doing a good job.
Then one day, out of the blue, a complete stranger comes up to you and says Thank You. They tell you they truly appreciate your willingness to do a job that not many others would do and they even go so far as to shake your hand, although you are grimy and they are pressed and polished. It only takes a moment, then they go on their way, but their simple act changes everything. You hold your head higher, walk with a lighter step; you go home, tell those close to you what happened, share how good it made you feel and, regardless of the fact that no one, not even your boss, has ever told you how important you are, you value yourself much more highly.
When you go back to work, you feel so good, so essential, you begin taking on extra responsibilities without being asked; you work a few extra minutes each day tidying up or polishing something that has been neglected for months. You talk to people more willingly; you share a smile more easily; you begin noticing the things that others do, which go unspoken, and you take time to extend a token of appreciation to them. A small note of thanks for cleaning the windows so well or a bottle of water for the man cutting the grass outside in the summer heat, and as a result of all of this, you feel even better about yourself.
Not too long after this change occurs, your boss stops by unannounced to speak with you. He tells you that he has noticed what a great job you’ve been doing lately, how hard you have been working and how well you treat your coworkers and the company’s clientele. He explains that a new position has recently been created by management, one for which he feels you would be perfect, and asks if you would be interested in a promotion and a raise. Then he stands back and watches you smile.
And all because someone thanked you.
Yes, Gratitude is a miracle worker, and if we remember to be thankful for our blessings, big or small, trite or unique, miraculous or mundane, our appreciation invariably opens the floodgates and allows Heaven to send down Showers of Blessings beyond imagining.
In honor of it being FantasyFriday and the fact that my WIP Angel of Mercy passed 200 pages and 120K words this week, I wanted to share a few snippets about a character that is not necessarily a character and yet, is. The Sword of an Archangel, which answers to the name of Jshunamir (Pronounced Zshoonawmeer)
The road to Marçais was 360 miles. With an attachment of 30 soldiers, 10 auxiliary personnel, two dozen pack horses and a train of 15 supply wagons, including the one turned into an open-air-prison, Lévesque knew the journey would take at least a week.
He did not, however, anticipate the difficulty they would face transporting the Archangel’s sword.
It appeared normal enough to the undiscerning eye; a long-sword forged with exceptional skill, but not unusual. Upon closer inspection, however, one could see its black leather scabbard, although older than any could comprehend, appeared ageless and bore no mark of any kind upon its luxuriant surface. The blade was etched with runes and indecipherable writing that shimmered with a silvery light all their own, and the edge was sharper than any steel could ever be honed. Even more incredible was its incomprehensible weight. When Lévesque attempted to pick it up from the beach where it had fallen, he discovered it could barely be moved. Two men together, then three, then four tried to raise the sword from the sand and drag it away, all unsuccessfully. They struggled with it for some time, ultimately devising a makeshift sling for it using an old tarp, which they managed to slide beneath it before harnessing the sling to two draft horses to pull.
On day two of their journey, one of the horses collapsed out of exhaustion. He was replaced by two pack horses, their goods being redistributed among the remaining animals, but on day three the other draft horse needed to be spelled. The unfathomable burden the sword created required routine cycling of the horses and slowed their return to Marçais considerably. ….
“We had a devil of a time getting him here.”
“Why? Was he resistive?” Shaking his head, Lévesque gestured to the magnificent sword lying atop a small stone dais they had draped with deep black velvet at one side of the chamber.
“Moving him was not the problem; it was his sword that gave us the most trouble.” The EPP Guard stopped to examine the weapon with greater interest.
“A sword?” Lévesque nodded.
“Not just any sword. The weapon of an Archangel.” He waited, allowing the young man to gaze at it for several moments before continuing. “It required three draft horses, spelled every six hours in a continual rotation to haul it here and the strength of thirty men on a winch cable to get it to where it is now.” Such a declaration was nearly beyond imagining and the guard’s forehead wrinkled with skepticism as he turned his doubtful gaze back to the captain.
“A sword?” He repeated incredulously, to which question Lévesque smiled magnanimously.
“Please, by all means, see for yourself. I invite you to take it in hand.” The youthful officer glanced across at Philippe who was busying himself with the practical matters of preparing their captive for another session, checking the tension of the manacles confining him and placing a leather harness across his head to hold him down.
Unable to accept such an outrageous claim, the EPP Guard stepped closer and grasped the hilt of the sword firmly. Try as he might, however, he could not move it. Not a fraction of an inch. It was a mountain resting atop velvet without as much as a bend in the delicate fabric.
“Astonishing. Yet, he can wield this weapon without effort?” Lévesque nodded….
Never in all the years of his immortal life had he ever felt such irrepressible rage. It was not in his nature to feel hatred or violence, but he was not himself. He was immortal energy bound within a human body. Growling fiercely, he pushed himself up from the floor, ignoring the intense pain that shattered through him as his wounds reopened. Sauvage had already turned away and was pulling Lourdes against his body, smothering her with a lustful kiss as he tugged the bodice of her dress open viciously.
“Leave her.” Straining to suppress the violent shuddering that wracked his weakened body, Tzadkiel stood facing them and repeated himself with a more imposing tone. He was ignored, but he had not defeated legions of Hell’s demons to lie on the floor helplessly and watch so vile a human indulge his wicked lusts. Stretching out his hand, he spoke the word that had been poised on his lips for months.
“Jshunamir.” His voice was barely a whisper, but at the sound the sword, which had rested atop the pedestal created for it for nearly a year, stirred. Holding out his hand, Tzadkiel waited, never doubting the result of his word. The sword rose, spun as if seeking him; then moved with speed that could scarcely be tracked, slowing the instant before it touched his hand. Looking down at the weapon, Tzadkiel closed his hand around the hilt and clanked the tip loudly against the floor.
The unexpected sound drew Sauvage’s attention at last. Twisting to find the source of the noise, his eyes grew wide when he saw the Archangel standing with his sword in his hand, facing him with a bold, unwavering stance even as blood streamed across his torn, bruised, naked body. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he held Lourdes by a fistful of hair and shook his head.
“Think you can take me in your condition?” His impudence was only exceeded by his lack of insight. Tzadkiel glared at him, speaking with intractable aggression.
“This sword answers every command I give it. If you do not release her, I shall ask it to bury itself in your spine.”
Beautiful Original Artwork by
In the stillness
To the sweetness of the Hush
In the Silence
With Peace Soft and Lush
Through the Whispers
Of All that has been Lost
Of the Inestimable cost
Beautiful original photography found on Pinterest. Credit Gratefully Acknowledged to the original photographer. Thank you~
Love is a Timeless Endeavor. It is not Fleeting or Transient. It does not turn its face away in times of trouble. It does not look backward, wondering. Love Stands Strong. It Holds Fast when mighty waves crash against it and when storms lash upon the shore. Love is not a Flickering Flame, washed by the currents that brush past it; Love is a Blaze, Burning Brightly, Radiating Fiercely, Lingering Long past the Elemental Inferno, where embers Softly Glow through the long night.
Love is not a shadow, lurking, suspicious and mean-spirited; it is not unkind or vindictive. Love Fills the Souls of Two made entirely for each other and offers an Irreplaceable Opportunity to Cherish and Be Cherished.
Love is not self-seeking. It does not look to its own needs, but only to Another’s. It Helps, Guides, Protects, and Guards. It Waits long past the expected time of arrival, Never Faltering. It Gives Without Recompense and does not wander when there is little. Love is Stronger Than Steal, yet far more Delicate than a Single Strand of precious silk.
Love does not waver or meander, tasting all the temptations along the way, but Hungers and Thirsts for One Alone. Love is Winsome. Love is Magical. Love makes the ordinary, Remarkable. Love Stands on the Mountain and Shouts to the Highest Heaven. Love Whispers just above Perception, Hoping to be heard.
Love is Breathless.
Love is Frenzied.
Love is Patient.
Love is Willing.
Love is truly a Many Splendored Thing.
When Love is
Last push..Breaking Into The Light is only down by a few votes! Please stop by, even if you voted already. You can vote each week and it’s super appreciated 😊😊😊
Thank You for your generous support. It means the world to me 🙂
I’m honored! Just discovered this #5Star #book #review of #DarkFey The Reviled
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ The novel established an exciting fantasy world
July 16, 2019
Format: Kindle Edition
I love to read unique texts, and this one certainly is one. The author has a voice and an interesting style of writing, which complimented this metaphysical novel. I enjoy fantasy, especially one that deals with fey or elves, and this one beautifully merges the world of the light and dark fey. I enjoyed the development of the characters, especially the main character Ayla, who won my heart right from the start due to her empathy and genuine willingness to help. I found the character of Gairynzvl most entertaining, as he is the one who keeps being tested throughout the story. There’s a constant tension between the main characters as well as the darkness and light sides, which keeps you turning the pages.
The novel established an exciting fantasy world, and since it’s the first in the series, I look forward to read on.
Review by SacredGeometryBlog
The Hours of Night Pour through the casement,
Secret, Yet Unhidden;
Clutching at my Train of Thought;
An Addiction that’s Unbidden.
Twilight circles Menacing outside the Darkened door,
Her Indigo spread wide;
Cloaking all my Reticence,
Until I’ve nowhere left to Hide.
The Hours strike and echo in this Brazen Reverie,
Impervious to Haste;
With You, Initiative is Sweet,
Though rarely ever Chaste!
Beautiful Photograph found on Pinterest. Credit Gratefully Acknowledged to the Original Photographer and Model. Thank You~
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