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Showing posts from April, 2015

Celebrate #AuthorsforIndies #IndependentBookstoreDay on May 2nd!

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I have a shameless love for small independent bookstores, such much so that every book signing we've had has taken place in one, but this Saturday, we'll be celebrating Independent Bookstore Day with Babar Books. Join us from 1pm-5pm at their downtown Montreal location, for news about the upcoming Damson's Distress, The Slave Galley, Tales from Frewyn Vol. 3. There will be giveaways, and, of course, there will be chocolate. And maybe cake.

Story for the Day: Tales of Intrigues - The Captain

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Pastaddams' and Alasdair's favourite series of books is Tales of Intrigues, a choose your own adventure style series that allows the reader to make alliances, form court confederacies, gain favour with men and women of distinction, and of course delight in romantic scandals. Pastaddams has been collecting the series since its first printing twenty years ago. Here is a piece from one of the latest volumes. She sat beside his chair, and Pastaddams, his book open before him, began reading from where he left off, his teacup poised in one hand and the other scratching the top of Khaasta’s head, all his tranquility thus restored, though the appearance of the snowdrop still silently plaguing him. Of course the cat had brought it to him. Who else could have left it there if not her? And he debated this point in the unconscious recesses of his mind whilst his awareness was deliciating over asking the inimitable and fictitious Lord Iverleigh to abscond with him to foreign parts.

Story for the Day: The Karnwyl Pipes -- Part 1

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The Continents have their share of strident instruments. Livanon has the high bombard, Gallei has the whirring wheelfiddle, and while Frewyn has many different types of bagpipes, there is no set more offensive than the Karnwyl species. The standing joke in Frewyn is that these pipes were invented to keep out invaders, their noise being so grating and detestable they deafen anyone listening. Whether this is true is a matter under constant discussion: G aumhin led the way, marching down the all with all the stateliness that the Captain of the Royal Guard could accomplish. He walked a half step ahead of Alasdair, his shoulders straight, his arms swinging in time with his strides, and Alasdair half expected him to collect the Herald as they went, compelling him to order everyone to make way for the king. Alasdair walked faster to keep pace. “You could play your pipes if you want to make a ceremony of it.”           Gaumhin simpered. “Ah would if ye asked meh, syre, but folk s

Story for the Day: The Westren Breacan

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The breacan is the traditional dress of Westren. Worn when Westren was a nation of warring clans, the breacan was a symbol of clan pride, and while it's still worn on holidays and at festivals, it has become the unwritten tradition for those belonging to the Westren regiment of the armed forces to wear them for ceremonies and general duty. For those in the Brigade, however, wearing their breacan was a matter of honour whereas wearing armour was a matter of choice. G aumhin marched along the gallery, his outline iridescent as he strode through the varying     No tams, sporrans, or socks in the Westren dress hues of sunlight permeating the stained glass. He came with the express desire of speaking to the king, and while he found Alasdair alone, there was the ruffled air about the hall of someone’s just having run away. He narrowed his gaze: someone dashing into the servants’ hall; his conscience furnished a guess at who it was, but his sovereign was standing before him

Story for the Day: The Blue Shirt -- part 3

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An extra long story to make up for the few days' absence, but it was with good reason: the edits for Damson's Distress have begun! If you should like to support the book and its prequel novella, visit our Patreon page here . P astaddams had said enough to betray his preference, and while he might have wished some of it unsaid, he could not be sorry that he had said half so much. He did try to stop himself, but once the deluge of warm praise had begun, there was no ceasing until it had done. His piece had been said, his heart had warmed through it, and now he could now only rally himself and hope that Alasdair would not take any ideas into his head. “I know what you will ask, sire,” said he, glaring at the king over the rim of his spectacles, “why don’t I make my preference known, and all the rest, but it won’t do. I shall say nothing. I daresay if I did, Sir Gaumhin would not have me. I am far too old for him, and though he is hardly a child and his experience recommen