#epicfantasy — Public Fediverse posts
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BRECK: Dead Delivery: Chapter Eight
Daily writing prompt Who are some underrated people in history? View all responsesBRECK: Dead Delivery
Chapter Eight — The Forgotten Ones
Prompt: Who are some underrated people in history? Tags: dailyprompt | Breck | Crestfall | Dead Delivery | Lumenvale
He found the collection happening behind the granary.
Not in the square, where someone might witness and remember. Not at the gate, where merchants came and went with their paperwork and their careful faces. Behind the granary, in the narrow service alley where the grain dust gathered in pale drifts along the base of the stone wall and the only light came from a single torch jammed into an iron bracket above the rear door. Private work. The kind of work that needed walls on three sides and only one way out.
Pelk was running it.
Breck had heard him before he’d seen him — a voice carrying the particular easy confidence of a man who had never once been made to answer for the volume of it. He stood with his back to the granary wall and his thumbs hooked in his belt and two men flanking him with the studied casualness of people trying to look incidental, and in front of him stood a grain merchant Breck had seen setting up his stall that morning — a compact, gray-haired man in his fifties who held his receipt ledger against his chest the way a person held something they expected to have taken from them.
The merchant’s name, Breck had learned from Pell’s careful accounting, was Holt. He had worked the Crestfall grain market for twenty-three years. His father had worked it before him. His son helped him on Thursdays.
He was one of perhaps thirty men and women in this town whose daily labor had built the prosperity that Voss had spent three years quietly dismantling — the actual architecture of the place, the people whose hands and knowledge and stubborn daily presence were the reason Crestfall had sound buildings and a full granary and roads worth maintaining. None of them had statues. None of them had their names on the magistrate’s seal. They had calluses and ledgers and the specific dignity of people who showed up regardless of what the day cost them.
Breck stepped into the alley.
Pelk saw him immediately — hard not to, at Breck’s scale in a confined space — and the easy confidence didn’t waver. If anything it broadened. He was a big man himself, Pelk, running to heaviness through the middle in the way of men who had been strong once and had since found easier ways to apply it. He had the face of someone who had learned early that size was a conversation-ender and had never needed to learn anything beyond that lesson.
“Courier,” he said. It wasn’t a greeting. It was a categorization.
“Evening,” Breck said. He looked at Holt. The merchant’s eyes moved to him once — a brief, careful flicker — and moved away. Saying nothing. Asking nothing. Having learned, over three years of Thursday evening collections, that asking things made them worse.
“Private business,” Pelk said. “Road’s back the way you came.”
“I know where the road is.” Breck didn’t move. He stood with his hands loose at his sides and his weight settled and his eyes moving across the alley with the unhurried thoroughness of a man taking inventory. Pelk. Two others — one on the left against the wall, one near the door. Holt between them and Breck. One exit. Torch height casting the near wall in amber and leaving the far corners in useful shadow.
He filed it all away. Took perhaps three seconds.
“You deaf?” Pelk said. The easy confidence had acquired an edge. He straightened off the wall, and the two men on either side of him shifted their weight in the instinctive, practiced way of people who had done this particular choreography before. “I said move on.”
“Holt,” Breck said, without looking at the merchant. “You can go.”
The alley went very still.
Holt didn’t move. He was frozen between the instruction and twenty-three years of learned behavior that said staying small was how you survived Thursday evenings in Crestfall, and the two pieces of knowledge were not resolving quickly.
“He’s not going anywhere,” Pelk said. “He owes a collection fee.”
“He paid his tariff at the gate. I’ve seen the receipts.” Breck looked at Pelk directly for the first time. “There is no collection fee.”
Something moved across Pelk’s face — not fear, not yet, something closer to the recalibration a man did when a situation turned out to weigh more than he’d estimated. He looked at Breck the way people looked at things they were trying to find the correct category for and failing.
Then he made the decision that men like Pelk always made, because it was the only decision their entire history had ever equipped them for.
He came off the wall and closed the distance fast, his right hand coming up in a wide swing built for spectacle rather than precision — the kind of blow designed to end conversations with people who didn’t know how to respond to it.
Breck was not one of those people.
He moved inside the arc of the swing before it had fully committed, a single step forward and left that made the fist pass close enough to disturb the air beside his ear. His right hand caught Pelk’s extended arm at the wrist, redirecting its momentum rather than stopping it — using the man’s own considerable mass as the instrument — and his left palm drove hard into Pelk’s elbow from underneath.
The sound was brief and conclusive.
Pelk’s forward motion carried him past Breck and into the granary wall face-first, his useless arm trailing, and the sound he made when he hit the stone was the sound of a large object being suddenly and completely convinced of something.
The man on the left had been moving since the swing had started — Breck had tracked him in his peripheral vision the whole time, the way you tracked the secondary threat when the primary one was still resolving. He was younger than Pelk, quicker, and he had a short cudgel that he’d produced from somewhere and was bringing around in a low horizontal sweep aimed at Breck’s legs.
Breck stepped over it.
Not dramatically — just a single economical elevation of his right foot, the cudgel passing beneath it, and then his right boot came back down on the man’s leading knee with the full and deliberate application of two hundred and eighty-five pounds of moving weight. The man went down and stayed down, making the quiet, concentrated sounds of someone devoting all available resources to a single overwhelming problem.
The third man — the one near the door — had not moved. He was standing exactly where he’d been standing when Breck had entered the alley, his hands slightly away from his body in the universal posture of a person communicating that they had made a decision and the decision was this.
Breck looked at him for a moment.
“Smart,” he said.
The man said nothing. His hands stayed where they were.
Pelk was on his knees against the granary wall, cradling his arm, his face having undergone a comprehensive revision of the worldview it had held four seconds ago. He was breathing in the loud, ragged way of someone whose body was working very hard at several things simultaneously.
Breck crouched in front of him.
“The collection fee,” he said. His voice was the same as it had been at the start of the conversation. Level. Not unkind. “Where does it go.”
Pelk looked at him with the wide, recalibrated eyes of a man holding a new and unwelcome understanding.
“Voss,” he said. It came out smaller than anything else he’d said in the alley.
“All of it.”
“All of it.”
Breck nodded once. Stood. Looked at Holt, who had not moved throughout any of this — who was standing precisely where he’d been standing when Breck had entered, holding his ledger against his chest with both hands, his face carrying the careful blankness of a man waiting to determine whether this was better or worse than what had come before.
“Go home,” Breck said. “Tell your son supper will be late.”
Holt looked at him for a long moment. Then he looked at Pelk on the ground, and at the man holding his knee, and at the third man standing very still by the door.
He nodded once — a small motion, more breath than movement — and walked out of the alley without looking back.
Breck watched him go. Then he looked at the torch burning in its bracket above the door, casting its amber light across the grain-dust drifts and the walls that held no names and would hold none.
Twenty-three years, he thought. Holt had shown up for twenty-three years.
He picked up the satchel from where he’d set it against the wall before any of this had started — he always set it down before anything physical, because it was the job and the job didn’t get damaged — settled the strap across his chest, and touched the bracelet once.
Then he walked out of the alley and back into Crestfall’s quiet evening streets, and behind him Pelk was still making the sounds of a man with a new and permanent education.
☕ Enjoyed this story? Writing Lumenvale is how I pay my bills. If these stories are worth something to you, a $1 Ko-fi keeps the forge burning — and tells me this world is worth continuing. 👉 Buy Chadwick a coffee
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BRECK Dead Delivery: Chapter Seven
Daily writing prompt What are the biggest benefits of minimalist living? View all responsesBRECK: Dead Delivery
Chapter Seven — The Weight of Less
Prompt: What are the biggest benefits of minimalist living? Tags: dailyprompt | Breck | Crestfall | Dead Delivery | Lumenvale
He inventoried his possessions the way he did every few weeks — not from anxiety, but from discipline, the same discipline that had kept him breathing through four years of war and a decade of roads that didn’t care whether he made it to the next town or didn’t.
He did it on the floor of the inn room, the satchel open between his knees, each item removed and placed on the rough plank boards with the deliberate care of a man who understood that what you carried was a decision, not an accident.
The sealed reply document, his legitimate reason for being in Crestfall one day longer than planned. The oilskin packet against his chest — he’d moved that to the floor beside his knee, keeping it in his peripheral vision the way he kept everything important. A compass, worn smooth on the brass casing where his thumb had rested against it for ten years. A folding straight-edge. The stub of mapping chalk, slightly shorter now after Pell’s work on the riverside boulder. A money pouch, lighter than he preferred. A short-bladed knife, more tool than weapon, its edge maintained to a standard that would have satisfied his old commanding officer and would have baffled everyone else in the inn.
Flint. A length of waxed cord. A small tin of salve for the blister on his right heel that had been threatening to become a real problem since the hill road north of Millfield.
That was everything.
He looked at it arranged on the floor around him — the totality of what he owned and carried, spread across perhaps four square feet of plank boarding in a room that smelled of tallow and old timber. Another man might have found that inventory depressing. Breck had long since arrived at a different conclusion.
Everything on that floor was there because it had earned its place. Every item had been evaluated, found useful, kept — or found wanting and left behind in some previous inn room or roadside camp or post station along one of the hundred routes he’d run in the years since the war ended. The compass had replaced two inferior compasses. The knife had replaced a longer blade he’d carried for three years before acknowledging, with some difficulty, that its weight wasn’t justified by its use. The salve was new, added three weeks ago after the blister incident, because ignoring a blister until it became an infection was the kind of decision that got couriers killed in wet weather on long roads.
Nothing decorative. Nothing sentimental.
Except the bracelet, which wasn’t either of those things — or was both, in a way that didn’t fit any category he’d found for it.
He picked it up from the satchel strap where it rested and turned it in his fingers. Pale cord, woven tight by small hands from whatever had been available — grain stalks, roof grass, the kind of material a child in an occupied valley used because it was there and because the making of it was the point, not the material. It weighed almost nothing. It occupied almost no space.
It was the heaviest thing he owned.
He set it back on the strap. Began repacking.
The benefit of carrying little, he had learned, was not what most people assumed. They thought it was about freedom — the lightness of movement, the ease of departure, the romantic simplicity of a man with nothing to lose. There was some truth in that, but it was the surface truth, the part that looked clean from a distance.
The deeper benefit was clarity.
When everything you owned fit in a single satchel, you knew exactly what you had. You knew exactly what you could lose. You knew exactly what decisions were available to you at any given moment, because your resources were fully visible and fully accounted for — no hidden reserves, no forgotten assets, no comfortable surplus that let you avoid doing the difficult arithmetic.
It was the same quality he’d valued in Aldric Moss, without ever having met the man. A miller who kept careful records in a hand so neat it looked like architecture — who had known exactly what he had, exactly what was owed, exactly where the difference lived between the official number and the true one. That was not the habit of a man who avoided difficult arithmetic. That was the habit of a man who understood that clarity, however uncomfortable, was better than comfortable confusion.
Voss lived in comfortable confusion. Or rather — he created it deliberately, in everyone around him, because confusion was profitable and clarity was dangerous. The gap between what merchants paid at the gate and what the official ledger recorded existed in the space of that confusion, fed by it, protected by it. Men like Voss understood instinctively that a town which couldn’t see its own numbers couldn’t resist what was being done with them.
Breck cinched the satchel closed. Stood.
The room was as he’d found it — bed, chair, table, the cold hearth that he hadn’t bothered to light because a man who was leaving in the morning had no use for a fire laid the night before. He’d slept in his cloak, which was efficient, and eaten the bread and cold meat the innkeeper had left on his table without asking, which had been kind of her.
He owed her for that. He’d added it to the accounting.
Dawn came gray and thin through the single window, barely distinguishable from the night it was replacing, the sky the color of old pewter above Crestfall’s wet rooftops. The town was already moving — the sounds of it filtering up through the floorboards, the low voices of the innkeeper and her morning staff, the distant iron ring of a cart on cobblestone, the particular quality of silence from the direction of the magistrate’s office that meant nothing was happening there yet.
The third bell had rung twice since midnight. Regular as a heartbeat. Efficient as a threat.
He went to the window and looked out at the square below. Eleven stalls setting up in the gray morning light, the same eleven, the vendors working with their heads down and their hands quick, operating with the spare economy of people who had stripped their days down to the essential and left everything else — complaint, conversation, the small indulgences of ordinary life — somewhere behind the threshold of survival. They hadn’t chosen that economy. It had been imposed on them from outside, methodically, over three years of climbing tariffs and disappearing neighbors and bells that rang on schedule to remind everyone what was at stake.
The benefit of carrying little, he had said to himself once, is that you know exactly what you have.
The benefit of taking everything from people, he understood now, was the same thing seen from the other side of the ledger. Strip a town down far enough and it lost track of what it had been before the stripping — lost the muscle memory of prosperity, the instinct for resistance, the simple knowledge that things had once been different and could be different again.
Voss hadn’t just taken money. He’d taken inventory.
Breck picked up his satchel. Settled the strap across his chest. Touched the bracelet once, the old reflex, the checking without naming.
He needed three things this morning. His reply document from the magistrate’s office. A conversation with the innkeeper about what she was willing to risk. And another look at Pell’s map, which he’d memorized but wanted to walk in daylight before he committed to anything that couldn’t be undone.
He went downstairs.
The innkeeper was at the hearth, the fire built up properly now, the common room filling slowly with the smell of bread and the sound of the morning’s first customers settling into their chairs with the careful movements of people who had learned not to make themselves conspicuous. She looked up when he came down. Read his face the way she’d been reading faces across that bar for twenty years.
She poured him a cup without being asked and set it on the end of the bar where he preferred to stand.
“You’re still here,” she said.
“Thought I’d stay another day.” He picked up the cup. “If the room’s available.”
She held his gaze for a moment. Something moved through her expression — not surprise, not quite relief, but the particular stillness of a person absorbing news they had told themselves not to hope for.
“It’s available,” she said.
Breck drank his tea and watched the gray morning deepen toward day, and thought about what it cost to carry nothing you didn’t need — and what it meant to stay anyway.
☕ Enjoyed this story? Writing Lumenvale is how I pay my bills. If these stories are worth something to you, a $1 Ko-fi keeps the forge burning — and tells me this world is worth continuing. 👉 Buy Chadwick a coffee
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BRECK: Dead Delivery: Chapter Six
Daily writing prompt What’s a thing you were completely obsessed with as a kid? View all responsesBRECK: Dead Delivery
Chapter Six — What Boys Are Made Of
Prompt: What’s a thing you were completely obsessed with as a kid? Tags: dailyprompt | Breck | Crestfall | Dead Delivery | Lumenvale
The boy found him at the river.
Breck had come down to the bank after collecting his document — the reply sealed and tucked into the satchel, his official reason for being in Crestfall now fully discharged — and he’d stood at the water’s edge for a while, watching the Calwick move. Rivers were good for thinking. They didn’t require anything from you. They just kept going, which was occasionally the most useful thing in the world to watch.
He heard the footsteps before he saw the boy — light and quick on the gravel bank, the particular rhythm of someone trying to look like they hadn’t been following him for three streets. He didn’t turn around. He waited until the footsteps stopped a careful distance behind him, and then he waited a little longer, because patience was instructive.
“You were at the miller’s house,” the boy said finally.
“I was.”
“I saw you go in.” A pause. “I see most things.”
Breck turned then. The boy was twelve, maybe thirteen — the same one from the cooperage step, brown-haired and serious-faced, with river mud on his boots and the look of someone who had appointed himself to a task without being asked. He stood with his hands in his coat pockets and his chin slightly forward, projecting a confidence his eyes hadn’t quite caught up to yet.
“What’s your name,” Breck said.
“Pell.”
“Your father runs the cooperage.”
Something moved across the boy’s face — brief, controlled, gone quickly. “Ran it.”
Breck turned back to the river. After a moment he sat down on a flat boulder at the bank’s edge, which brought him closer to the boy’s eye level, and he watched the current move around a submerged stone in the middle of the channel, the water dividing and reforming downstream as though the interruption had never happened.
Pell came and stood beside him, not sitting, still maintaining the posture of someone who hadn’t decided yet whether this was a conversation or a surveillance operation.
“What do you want to know,” Breck said.
“What she gave you. In the house.” The boy’s voice was careful and direct. “Sela. What she gave you.”
“Something that belonged to her husband.”
“The records.”
Breck looked at him sidelong. The boy met his gaze without flinching, the way he’d done in the square — that old patience, that stillness that didn’t belong on a young face. Up close, it was even more apparent. Whatever had made Pell serious had made him serious all the way through, not just on the surface.
“You knew about them,” Breck said.
“Aldric told me.” A beat. “Before. He said if anything happened to him, the records were behind the fireback. He said I should tell someone useful eventually.” The boy’s jaw tightened slightly. “I’ve been waiting fourteen months for someone useful.”
The river moved between them and the far bank. A heron stood motionless in the shallows downstream, one leg raised, a creature built entirely around the discipline of waiting.
“How did you know your father’s cooperage figures into this,” Breck said.
Pell was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice had lost some of its careful construction — not broken, just worn thinner, the way a path wore thin where feet passed most often.
“Papa used to make barrels for the merchants coming off the river. Good barrels, tight seams, the kind that lasted. He had more work than he could handle.” He paused. “Then Voss changed the tariffs on river goods. Merchants started moving their routes inland, away from Crestfall’s landing. Less river traffic meant less cargo meant less need for barrels.” He said it with the flat precision of a child who had listened to adults explain something terrible to each other enough times that he’d memorized the shape of it. “Half days since spring. By summer it’ll be no days.”
“And your father.”
“He doesn’t say much anymore.” Pell picked up a flat stone from the bank and turned it in his fingers without throwing it. “He sits mostly.”
The heron struck — a motion so fast and certain it seemed to happen between moments, there and then not there, the surface of the water barely disturbed. It stood again with something silver in its beak, tilted its head back, and was still once more.
Breck watched it. Thought about a grain farm on the Lumenvale outskirts. About a boy of perhaps ten who had developed a consuming obsession with the way rivers moved — specifically with the way water found paths around obstacles, the patient, indifferent geometry of it, how it never forced and never stopped and always arrived eventually at the same place. He’d spent entire summer afternoons at the creek behind his family’s property, building small dams from stone and mud and watching the water work around them. His mother had called it a waste of time. His father had called it useful thinking and left him to it.
He hadn’t thought about that creek in years.
“What were you obsessed with,” Pell said, unexpectedly. “When you were my age.”
Breck glanced at him. The boy was watching the heron with the same focused attention he brought to everything, but the question had been genuine — curious in the way children were curious when they’d decided to trust someone, testing the texture of a person through small revelations.
“Rivers,” Breck said. “How they moved around things.”
Pell considered this. “That’s an odd thing to be obsessed with.”
“What were you?”
The boy almost smiled — a flicker, quickly suppressed, the way smiles went when you’d been serious for a long time and weren’t sure they were still allowed. “Maps. I used to draw maps of everywhere I’d been. Roads, buildings, which houses had dogs, where you could move without being seen.” He paused. “Crestfall mostly, since I haven’t been anywhere else. But I know every way in and out of this town. Every alley. Every back gate.” He set the stone down without throwing it. “Every time the magistrate’s men change their route.”
Breck was quiet for a moment.
He looked at the boy — at the serious face and the mud-caked boots and the hands that had been drawing maps of this town for years, cataloguing it the way Breck had catalogued the river, the way the heart catalogued the things it needed to survive. Twelve years old, his father’s cooperage dying, his town hollowed out from the inside, and he’d spent fourteen months waiting for someone useful to arrive.
Breck reached into the satchel. Not for the oilskin packet — he kept that against his ribs, close and warm. For the secondary pouch near the bottom, where he kept the tools of his trade: a compass, a folding straight-edge, a stub of mapping chalk he used for marking routes on stone when ink was unavailable.
He held out the chalk.
Pell looked at it for a long moment, then at Breck’s face.
“The magistrate’s men,” Breck said. “Their evening route. Every detail you know. I want it drawn.”
The boy took the chalk.
He drew without hesitation — the square, the side streets, the rear alley behind the magistrate’s office, the stable yard where the horses were kept, the two positions he’d identified where guards stood after the third bell, the gap in the pattern on the west side of the building where the coverage went thin between the second and third watches. He drew with the focused pleasure of someone deploying a skill they’d been waiting to use, the map emerging from the flat stone’s surface in clean, sure lines.
When he was done he looked up. The almost-smile came back, and this time it stayed a moment longer before retreating.
“You’re going to fix it,” Pell said. It was not quite a question.
Breck looked at the map. Then at the river, still moving with its patient, indifferent certainty around everything in its path.
“I’m going to try,” he said.
He adjusted the satchel strap across his chest. The bracelet caught a pale slip of winter light, small and faded, saying nothing.
He stood.
☕ Enjoyed this story? Writing Lumenvale is how I pay my bills. If these stories are worth something to you, a $1 Ko-fi keeps the forge burning — and tells me this world is worth continuing. 👉 Buy Chadwick a coffee
#books #Breck #Crestfall #dailyprompt #dailyprompt2758 #DarkFantasy #DeadDelivery #EpicFantasy #fantasy #FantasyFiction #fiction #Free #FreeFantasyFiction #freeFantasyFictionOnline #FreeStory #Lumenvale #shortStory #writing -
Silent Orchard Rising Storm is a story about the power of our intentions and how those intentions shape not only the way we see the world, but the way that the world sees us.
https://wakelessriverpress.com/silent-orchard/
#bookstodon #WritersOfMastodon #writing #SORS #KnowYourSlayBCs #EpicFantasy #FantasyNovel #Dragons #EpicAdventure #WritingCommunity -
My sister is dead 😒
But I didn't kill her. 😳The Queen's infamous Sisterhood couldn't care less. 😈
They've been watching me.. 👁️
and it's time to make their move. 😱 🥵#SisterSeekers spins the first threads of an intense and epic tale where the trials of a #DarkElf test her resolve to rise from the depths of fear and hatred tearing her down.
https://etaski.com/series/sister-seekers
#DarkFantasy #EpicFantasy #EroticDark #BookSale #Drow #DnD @mastodonbooks #Books #Writing @Literbook
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My sister is dead 😒
But I didn't kill her. 😳The Queen's infamous Sisterhood couldn't care less. 😈
They've been watching me.. 👁️
and it's time to make their move. 😱 🥵#SisterSeekers spins the first threads of an intense and epic tale where the trials of a #DarkElf test her resolve to rise from the depths of fear and hatred tearing her down.
https://etaski.com/series/sister-seekers
#DarkFantasy #EpicFantasy #EroticDark #BookSale #Drow #DnD @mastodonbooks #Books #Writing @Literbook
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My sister is dead 😒
But I didn't kill her. 😳The Queen's infamous Sisterhood couldn't care less. 😈
They've been watching me.. 👁️
and it's time to make their move. 😱 🥵#SisterSeekers spins the first threads of an intense and epic tale where the trials of a #DarkElf test her resolve to rise from the depths of fear and hatred tearing her down.
https://etaski.com/series/sister-seekers
#DarkFantasy #EpicFantasy #EroticDark #BookSale #Drow #DnD @mastodonbooks #Books #Writing @Literbook
-
My sister is dead 😒
But I didn't kill her. 😳The Queen's infamous Sisterhood couldn't care less. 😈
They've been watching me.. 👁️
and it's time to make their move. 😱 🥵#SisterSeekers spins the first threads of an intense and epic tale where the trials of a #DarkElf test her resolve to rise from the depths of fear and hatred tearing her down.
https://etaski.com/series/sister-seekers
#DarkFantasy #EpicFantasy #EroticDark #BookSale #Drow #DnD @mastodonbooks #Books #Writing @Literbook
-
My sister is dead 😒
But I didn't kill her. 😳The Queen's infamous Sisterhood couldn't care less. 😈
They've been watching me.. 👁️
and it's time to make their move. 😱 🥵#SisterSeekers spins the first threads of an intense and epic tale where the trials of a #DarkElf test her resolve to rise from the depths of fear and hatred tearing her down.
https://etaski.com/series/sister-seekers
#DarkFantasy #EpicFantasy #EroticDark #BookSale #Drow #DnD @mastodonbooks #Books #Writing @Literbook
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Etaski writes #Mature #EpicFantasy with an ever broadening scope
#FoundFamily is a core theme with #D&D #TTRPG #Worldbuilding
#DarkFantasySeries begins underground with an isolated race of #DarkElves. #GritToGladness - NOT for the faint of heart #EroticHorror
#Books #DarkElf #Drow #dnd #Demon #Dragon #Necromancer #Writing #Sapphic #Bisexual #Lesbian #lgbtqia #polycule #polyamorous
@bookstodon @ttrpg @fantasy @sffbookclub @lgbtqbookstodon @readit @Literbook
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Etaski writes #Mature #EpicFantasy with an ever broadening scope
#FoundFamily is a core theme with #D&D #TTRPG #Worldbuilding
#DarkFantasySeries begins underground with an isolated race of #DarkElves. #GritToGladness - NOT for the faint of heart #EroticHorror
#Books #DarkElf #Drow #dnd #Demon #Dragon #Necromancer #Writing #Sapphic #Bisexual #Lesbian #lgbtqia #polycule #polyamorous
@bookstodon @ttrpg @fantasy @sffbookclub @lgbtqbookstodon @readit @Literbook
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Etaski writes #Mature #EpicFantasy with an ever broadening scope
#FoundFamily is a core theme with #D&D #TTRPG #Worldbuilding
#DarkFantasySeries begins underground with an isolated race of #DarkElves. #GritToGladness - NOT for the faint of heart #EroticHorror
#Books #DarkElf #Drow #dnd #Demon #Dragon #Necromancer #Writing #Sapphic #Bisexual #Lesbian #lgbtqia #polycule #polyamorous
@bookstodon @ttrpg @fantasy @sffbookclub @lgbtqbookstodon @readit @Literbook
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Etaski writes #Mature #EpicFantasy with an ever broadening scope
#FoundFamily is a core theme with #D&D #TTRPG #Worldbuilding
#DarkFantasySeries begins underground with an isolated race of #DarkElves. #GritToGladness - NOT for the faint of heart #EroticHorror
#Books #DarkElf #Drow #dnd #Demon #Dragon #Necromancer #Writing #Sapphic #Bisexual #Lesbian #lgbtqia #polycule #polyamorous
@bookstodon @ttrpg @fantasy @sffbookclub @lgbtqbookstodon @readit @Literbook
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Etaski writes #Mature #EpicFantasy with an ever broadening scope
#FoundFamily is a core theme with #D&D #TTRPG #Worldbuilding
#DarkFantasySeries begins underground with an isolated race of #DarkElves. #GritToGladness - NOT for the faint of heart #EroticHorror
#Books #DarkElf #Drow #dnd #Demon #Dragon #Necromancer #Writing #Sapphic #Bisexual #Lesbian #lgbtqia #polycule #polyamorous
@bookstodon @ttrpg @fantasy @sffbookclub @lgbtqbookstodon @readit @Literbook
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Chirp Audiobooks is having a sale on all of my gryphon titles, including the boxed sets and Pridelord.
Now's a good time to stock up if you're low on gryphons.
"Wings of Fire for adults — with gryphons!"
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🎉 I'm a Proud #BookshopOrg Affiliate! 🎉
Where every purchase supports your local #IndieBookstores
Visit my Storefront, #buy any #book and support your local community and me as an #IndieAuthor :blobcat_pat:
Wanna see who inspired me in #EpicFantasy and #DarkFantasy? Who are my obsessions in #Comics and #Comedy? Good "One & Dones"?
https://bookshop.org/shop/etaski
Newcomers: Use my referral link to get 20% off your first purchase!
https://refer.bookshop.org/asetaski -
Only 2 days left for this #SPFBO bundle! Get 25 books from 25 authors participating in this year's SPFBO for only $25!!
Includes #FantasyBooks from sub-genres like: #LowFantasy #HighFantasy #UrbanFantasy #EpicFantasy #DarkFantasy #SwordAndSorcery #Romantasy & #Horror
My book is in here: https://skaeth.itch.io/beneath-the-gods-treehttps://itch.io/b/3592/spfbo-2026
Only available until the end of the month!@bookstodon @fantasy
#IndieBooks #IndieAuthors #Bookstodon #SelfPromo #BookSale #SFFBookClub #SFFBooks #books -
Looking for something to read? I've joined up with a bunch of other authors from this year's #SPFBO to offer our books as a bundle.
Get 25 books from 25 authors for $25!!
Includes #FantasyBooks from sub-genres like: #LowFantasy #HighFantasy #UrbanFantasy #EpicFantasy #DarkFantasy #SwordAndSorcery #Romantasy & #Horrorhttps://itch.io/b/3592/spfbo-2026
Only available until the end of the month!@bookstodon @fantasy
#IndieBooks #IndieAuthors #Bookstodon #SelfPromo #BookSale #SFFBookClub #SFFBooks #books -
Queen Demon (The Rising World Book 2) "A story of power and friendship, of trust and betrayal, and of the families we choose" Sale: $29.99 to $2.99 by Martha Wells Rating: 4.5/5 (1,095 Reviews) #Fantasy #EpicFantasy #MarthaWells #Books #WitchKing #BookSky
Queen Demon (The Rising World ... -
Flames in the Cavernous Dark Shower Curtain: Epic Fantasy, Shadow Cave Bathroom Decor by EternalArt on Etsy: eternalart.etsy.com/listing/4397... #showercurtain #bathroomreno #bathdecor #flames #cavern #EpicFantasy
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He became Arc of the Realm at eighteen.
For nine years, he proved he would not break under the weight of ancient power.
At twenty-seven, he became Warden of Greystar — the shield that holds the kingdom’s barrier in place.
#EpicFantasy #WorldBuilding #Bookstagram #Greystar #CharacterProfile -
TheHeartOfTheTundra #KrishnaPrasanthGuttikonda #FantasyBooks #EpicFantasy #Grimdark #NewRelease #Bookstagram #BookLover #Tundra #Dragons #AncientTerror #MustRead #BookRecommendation #FantasyAuthor #BookCommunity #ReadingLife #AdventureAwaits #ComingSoon #BookMarketing
RE: https://bsky.app/profile/did:plc:p6si4w333k4rcflapekprz3e/post/3mfyfq7mias2m -
TheHeartOfTheTundra #KrishnaPrasanthGuttikonda #FantasyBooks #EpicFantasy #Grimdark #NewRelease #Bookstagram #BookLover #Tundra #Dragons #AncientTerror #MustRead #BookRecommendation #FantasyAuthor #BookCommunity #ReadingLife #AdventureAwaits #ComingSoon #BookMarketing
RE: https://bsky.app/profile/did:plc:p6si4w333k4rcflapekprz3e/post/3mfyfq7mias2m -
My sister is dead 😒
But I didn't kill her. 😳The Queen's infamous Sisterhood couldn't care less. 😈
They've been watching me.. 👁️
and it's time to make their move. 😱 🥵#SisterSeekers spins the first threads of an intense and epic tale where the trials of a #DarkElf test her resolve to rise from the depths of fear and hatred tearing her down.
https://etaski.com/series/sister-seekers
#DarkFantasy #EpicFantasy #EroticDark #Books #BookSale #Drow #DnD @mastodonbooks @ttrpg @horror @sffbookclub
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Magic gave them power. It also took everything.
Two mages on the run uncover a hidden conspiracy across a land of danger and mystery.Grab The Frozen Flame box set and begin the saga: https://buy.bookfunnel.com/3cssdkq2qp?tid=b6blnaosaa
#SwordAndSorcery #FantasyReads #Bookstodon #EpicFantasy #Fantasy #BookTok
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A satisfying, action-packed close to Mistborn Era 2. Strong character moments, solid pacing, and a standout arc for Wayne.
★★★★☆
Full review on the blog — link in bio#BookReview #BrandonSanderson #Mistborn #FantasyBooks #AudiobookReview #Cosmere #EpicFantasy #BookBlog #NowReading
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My sister is dead 😒
But I didn't kill her. 😳The Queen's infamous Sisterhood couldn't care less. 😈
They've been watching me.. 👁️
and it's time to make their move. 😱 🥵#SisterSeekers spins the first threads of an intense and epic tale where the trials of a #DarkElf test her resolve to rise from the depths of fear and hatred tearing her down.
https://books2read.com/b/mKNR19
#DarkFantasy #EpicFantasy #EroticDark #Books #BookSale #Drow #DnD @mastodonbooks @ttrpg @horror @sffbookclub
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My sister is dead 😒
But I didn't kill her. 😳The Queen's infamous Sisterhood couldn't care less. 😈
They've been watching me.. 👁️
and it's time to make their move. 😱 🥵#SisterSeekers spins the first threads of an intense and epic tale where the trials of a #DarkElf test her resolve to rise from the depths of fear and hatred tearing her down.
https://books2read.com/b/mKNR19
#DarkFantasy #EpicFantasy #EroticDark #Books #BookSale #Drow #DnD @mastodonbooks @ttrpg @horror @sffbookclub
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Heyyy, I've got a nice newsletter about books, sales, stickers, and a free story giving a Druid a good time! 😄 Happy Yule!
https://www.patreon.com/posts/146292855#DarkFantasy #EpicFantasy #FantasyArt #FantasyStickers #Smashwords #EoYSale2025 #SisterSeekers #Books #BookSale #FreeBooks #DarkElf #Drow #DnD @bookstodon @bookstadon @fantasy @mastodonbooks @ttrpg
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When the Balance breaks, empires fall.
One orc. One choice. Everything at stake.
🔥 Breach of Balance arrives in 3 days.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G2D295BN/ref=sr_1_1?crid=365CI6KYT9M44&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.O6h0-p6sOt1JmlNa4YWNCyTRmM_3nKpcK9V2SjMcDF6CL6t9f1KEYuiP2mzdYn-gmC5TfU_evYtXHy2n6GR7ypwCi9FBqewkjGjGx6Bw_4p4GHkJ7mHxhU4NivKwFo-3.9JHS3ppHlbCZtMff_HLphBYUaQ3MhptvC0gBokiyNa0&dib_tag=se&keywords=breach+of+balance+-+book&qid=1763463441&sprefix=breach+of+balance+-+book%2Caps%2C82&sr=8-1
Destiny waits for no one.
#EpicFantasy #DarkProphecy #FantasySaga #BreachOfBalance #HighStakes -
AI-generated content
The gates of Tartarus are shut.
But who stands watch?⚡ Not gods. Not mortals.
The ones who once broke the sky… now hold it shut.▶ https://youtu.be/15F-vX3emUU
#GreekMythology #Tartarus #Cyclopes #Hecatoncheires #Myth2Myth #Season2 #EpicFantasy
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A black and white dragon drawing on lined notebook paper, titled "DRAGON PROMPT," animates, breathing vibrant orange-yellow fire. The flames rapidly consume and char the paper, leaving glowing embers around the central dragon. Two pens rest on the wooden surface.
#FantasyArt #DragonArt #FireBreather #AnimatedArt #SketchArt #NotebookDrawing #MythicalCreature #DigitalArt #CreativePrompt #BurningPaper #InkDrawing #FantasyIllustration #MagicalAnimation #DragonSketch #ArtVideo #DynamicArt #EpicFantasy #HandDrawn #PaperArt #FlameEffect #SurrealArt #art #ai #aiart #aichallenge #aicommunity
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A black and white dragon drawing on lined notebook paper, titled "DRAGON PROMPT," animates, breathing vibrant orange-yellow fire. The flames rapidly consume and char the paper, leaving glowing embers around the central dragon. Two pens rest on the wooden surface.
#FantasyArt #DragonArt #FireBreather #AnimatedArt #SketchArt #NotebookDrawing #MythicalCreature #DigitalArt #CreativePrompt #BurningPaper #InkDrawing #FantasyIllustration #MagicalAnimation #DragonSketch #ArtVideo #DynamicArt #EpicFantasy #HandDrawn #PaperArt #FlameEffect #SurrealArt #art #ai #aiart #aichallenge #aicommunity
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A black and white dragon drawing on lined notebook paper, titled "DRAGON PROMPT," animates, breathing vibrant orange-yellow fire. The flames rapidly consume and char the paper, leaving glowing embers around the central dragon. Two pens rest on the wooden surface.
#FantasyArt #DragonArt #FireBreather #AnimatedArt #SketchArt #NotebookDrawing #MythicalCreature #DigitalArt #CreativePrompt #BurningPaper #InkDrawing #FantasyIllustration #MagicalAnimation #DragonSketch #ArtVideo #DynamicArt #EpicFantasy #HandDrawn #PaperArt #FlameEffect #SurrealArt #art #ai #aiart #aichallenge #aicommunity
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Free Fiction Monday: That Morning At The Hopkins Estate
A flare of light ignites a Fey attack on a sleepy coastal town in a character-stuffed thrill ride as only Kristine Kathryn Rusch can do. “That Morning At The Hopkins Estate“ is available for one week on this site. The ebook is available on all retail…
https://kriswrites.com/2025/10/06/free-fiction-monday-that-morning-at-the-hopkins-estate/#freefiction #FreeFictionMondays #MondayFictionPost #EpicFantasy #Fey
