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@wyrmfeldchronicles
The Wyrmfeld Chronicles
Recount tale of an 11th century warrior-poet, a Nephilim caught in a war between heaven and hell, and their thousand years odyssey to be reunited.
Chronicle iv: The Legend of Dragonfield
A wannabe influencer measures her worth in followers until her family inherits a legendary English castle. When the occultist-billionaire next door kidnaps her brother for an ancient blood ritual, she must swap her selfie stick for a sword to save him.
What A Perfect Time to be an author!
RADIO ATLANTIC
IS THE AGE OF READING OVER?
Rose Horowitch on her cover story and what happens when a society becomes “postliterate”
By Hanna Rosin
“Over the past 18 months, scholars have debated—and likely will continue to long into the future—why voters returned Donald Trump to the presidency. One intriguing theory: It’s because Americans don’t read books anymore. Fewer than half of all adults reported reading a book of any kind in 2022; only 38 percent read a novel or short story. And the proportion of Americans reading for pleasure on any given day is plummeting, according to the latest Atlantic cover story, “The End of Reading Is Here,” by Rose Horowitch.”
Excerpt From
“Is the Age of Reading Over?”
Hanna Rosin
The Atlantic
https://apple.news/A2pH7di6iRgGspR2nOoPpNA
This material may be protected by copyright.
Heaven hath no fury like a Nephilim scorned.
A trailer for my noble-dark contemporary fantasy. Check it out and join my mailing list to be a beta-reader. FYI: the vid is AI, the writing is not.
From scene 113:
WYRTGEORN
Shed not your tears, my angel. Despair not that life is a fleeting thing, for love is stronger than death.
The Nephilim Rowena: a pawn in the war between heaven and hell meets a man the gods did not foresee in their machinations.
A still from The Wyrmfeld Chronicles iv: The Legend of Dragonfield
Legend of Dragonfield
Prologue
Desolation
A wailing wall of wind slammed into Castle Ælfweard, ripping roofs from the outer towers and keep. Rowena tumbled across the allure and slammed into the balustrade before crawling behind a merlon. Even behind the high castle walls, the gale buffeted the men in the bailey battling the conflagration, knocking some from their feet. Smouldering embers flared anew. Majestic pines of the outlying forest bowed low, their roots clinging desperately to the earth. Clouds tore away, revealing the brilliant indifference of cold stars and portents etched in a blood moon ascendant.
Then nothing.
As she huddled behind the merlon, an ominous calm followed, which seemed to Rowena as if Nature held her breath in hushed anticipation. The fracas of frogs, the melody of mockingbirds, the cry of coyotes, and the orations of owls—all gone. The nocturnal soundscape swept away in an ominous instant, as if the Hand of the Unseen had gathered all life into its merciless fist. The silence that followed was so stark she feared the storm had stolen her hearing—it did not last.
Winds rose and whipped into a tempest of unnatural fury. Roiling clouds returned, swallowing moon and stars whole. Hail pelted down. Rowena peered out from the battlements, her ice-blue eyes sweeping the darkness for what the sulfurous winds had preceded. Dread coursed through her veins like spilled ink, for her heart knew what rode the wind, though her senses perceived nothing.
She flew down the stone steps toward the bailey, seeking her beloved Wyrtgeorn. His towering frame commanded respect throughout the castle, though Rowena knew the gentle heart beneath his intimidating presence. Wyrtgeorn stood in the thick of the firefight, rallying his men to their furthest limits in hope of containing the inferno that burned with supernatural hunger, consuming water as fuel and threatening the winter grain stores. Rowena found him amidst the smoke and chaos.
"We must away!" she cried, seizing his arm.
My casa in the clouds