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Nescher E Pyscher

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Tales of the Fallen, Books I & II
by Nescher E Pyscher   

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Publisher:  A-Argus ISBN-10:  0615523870 Type: 


Copyright:  Aug 28, 2011 ISBN-13:  9780615523873

Barnes &

An Urban Dystopian Fantasy exploring all of time and space through the eyes of one failing immortal who must redeem himself in order to save the Universe.

Tales of the Fallen Book I and Book II – eBook or Paperback - $4.99/$18.99

Tales of the Fallen opens in a sewer at the end of the world. Mankind has poisoned itself with the toxic excesses of an ultra-modern society. The earth has been pillaged, and mankind is partying its way to the Apocalypse with blind eyes and deafened ears.
One man, Solly Mont, knows what is coming. He knows how to rebuild from the ashes, and he can see where mankind needs to be led to prevent this from happening again. He’s done it before, after all. His wife, Titiana—the abdicated Queen of Faery, and now the keeper of The Beller Inn, the finest bar and restaurant in all of the Outrealms--fetches him home to celebrate their anniversary. His gift to her is the unabridged story of his life, aided by his unparalleled skill in the power of Storyweaving—mankind’s mightiest magic.
Solly’s story is an exploration of the experiences common to humanity through the eyes of one immortal man.
Solly’s master, the anthropomorphization of the virtue Wisdom, gave him the power of a god. Nothing humanity could achieve was beyond him, and even the spirits of earth and air bowed to his will. Being only human, Solly allowed the might and majesty of his gift to overwhelm his common sense, and in the end, he spurned his humanity. At the very end of his life, when everything he had accomplished was burning into dust and ash, Wisdom came to him offering her slavery as a path to redemption. Solly agreed and Wisdom stripped him of his name, his power and his very sense of self; a gift and a curse that allows him to relearn his manhood after losing the powers of a god. He took the name Solly Mont, and he agreed to do her bidding without question.
He was now a Soldier in the fight of order against chaos. Solly’s teacher Taliesin Sungmeister, introduces him to the mysteries of magic, teaching him how to travel through space and time, and showing him his enemies. Theirs is a friendship beyond measure and far surpassing that of teacher and student.
Jack O’Green, a lying Green Man—or a leprechaun, or a vampire, or a fairy, depending on what he feels like telling you—joins him in his fight. His story is part of the whole. He has lived among humans for tens-of-thousands of years, and his insights are invaluable. He is bitter, cynical, mean, petty, crude and crafty, but loyal to a fault, even if he is unwilling to admit it to himself. He fights alongside Solly Mont for reasons of his own.
Cain, the son of Adam, represents the forces of chaos. An immortal with even more power than Solly has, Cain yearns for the final death of the last star and the unbridled hunger of the void. He has sold his soul to Solly’s enemies and promises to kill Solly.
Shadows-Dancing-On-Wall is a Storyweaver himself, and he is waiting for Solly in the first place Wisdom sends him after he receives his training in magic from Taliesin. Shadow is a shaman of the People; a tribe of humanity that escaped to the Arctic Circle shortly before the Apocalypse. They are a tribe of hunter-gatherers who live according to a strict regimen of laws designed to keep this tiny enclave of humanity alive long enough to repopulate the earth. Shadow tells him the story of Weaver-of-Shadows: a proud father whose beautiful, perfect son—on track to be the next chief—is killed during the ritualistic hunt of manhood. It is Shadow who tells Solly the story of mankind’s final end, and it is Shadow who tasks him with the impossible. Solly has to save Shadow’s people from extinction at the hands of Weaver’s vengeful spirit. If he doesn’t, mankind will die.
Along the way to accomplishing his personal goals, Solly has to participate in life. He exists alongside the people he is trying to save, and their goals, desires, needs and wants often become his.
Solly’s tale is a quest and the history of humanity from beginning to end. Peopled with gods, monsters, demons, fairies and the people and places common to humanity.

Tales is available at and as an eBook or paperback.

“Long has it been since a Stranger graced these lands,” the figure said.

It unfolded long, misshapen limbs. Glamour, weakly clinging to the creature, blew away in wisps. Titus realized that the thing was too intoxicated to maintain its proper face in his presence. Further, it didn’t care.

A stink like the end of the world rose off it. It held a can of paint under its nose, and sniffed heavily.

Titus stiffened at the insult. He could see the thing for what it was. Long arms, ending in powerful hands with foot long claws. Feet like shovels, and a snout a crocodile would fear. It stood some nine feet high in its unglamoured form and its eyes glowed with the feral madness common to the Trollkind.

He’d known that many of the Trollkind were migrating to the earthfields. Something about the place called to them. But this was his first meeting outside of Faery. He wasn’t sure he liked the thought of them running amuck away from the King’s controlling hands.

Titus felt a thin thread of worry, quickly banished. Trolls were normally beneath his notice, but this one was taunting him. It could see that he was a Scion and its proper response would be to bow. Instead it was leering at him, unglamoured and naked, and its eyes showing none of the fear he was accustomed to. His sword hand itched.

“And what brings you here, milord?” the creature croaked. Its snout was covered in yellow paint.

“I seek a Storyweaver,” Titus said, fighting his temper. “Perhaps you have news of him?”

The troll laughed. The noise was like a cough before dying. “A Storyweaver? Here? I wish you well in your search, milord.”

The troll bowed, its head scraping the filthy ground beneath them. Titus returned the gesture with a stiff nod.

He would not sully himself with this. . .this. . .beast.

The creature laughed, and the sound was heavy in the noisome dark. “My regards to your lady, milord,” it said, and collapsed against the wall it had been leaning against, still laughing. In moments Titus heard it snoring.

Face set, and teeth clenched, he walked on.

Finding himself at the mouth of a tunnel that seemed to be an entrance for a sewer, he stared with angry eyes into the darkness. That people lived in this noisome filth was borne out by the shapeless huddles, covered in rags and cast-off clothing, all around him, snoring and shivering in the cold, mean wet. Figures moved with ill intent. Titus recognized the breed: scavengers, bent on easy prey under cover of night.

Putting a hand to the god-forged sword under his robes, he strode into the darkness, the sigil flashing a steady, pulsing blue. Illumination from drains and openings to the world above allowed a feeble light to shine into the stygian dark.

Footsteps dogged his for a hundred yards. Low, sniping laughter echoed off the tunnel’s walls. Titus tightened his hand on his sword and took a left turning.

“Heeeeeey,” a voice called. “That’s a pretty light! Can I hol’ it for a minnit?”

Snickers, like rat claws against stone, followed this bit of witticism.

Titus’s hand flexed. How he longed to teach these gutter-dwelling troll spawn a lesson! But he was close. And perhaps these. . .men were under the Storyweaver’s protection. The sigil continued to flash, much like a human’s heartbeat, and Titus sighed with delight at the idea of returning to Faery soon. He turned down a side tunnel, following the sigil’s glow, and found himself standing in three feet of filthy water. He cursed under his breath as he felt the water seeping in between his toes.

“Hey! I’m talkin’ to you! Hey! Hey, you! S’matter, you deaf?”

Titus continued walking. His steps never faltered and his eyes never left the sigil.

Running footsteps sounded from behind, and a rough hand grabbed his shoulder, spinning him.

“I said lemme hol’ it for a minn-”

And that was as far as the poor man got. Titus turned on him, pushed beyond all endurance, his eyes burning with the fires of his unfettered hate. The luckless, would-be thief dropped the broken bottle he’d intended to use as a make-shift weapon, and backed away, hands held up in warding. The rest of the pack backed away even faster.

“Hey. Hey. I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry. I don’t want no trouble-”

“How. Dare. You.” Titus spat each word.

“I’m sorry, man! I’m sorry!”

“How dare you lay hands on me!”

Titus drew his sword.

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