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Immortals’
Requiem
Requiem
by
Vincent Bobbe
Vincent Bobbe
Genre: Epic Grimdark Fantasy
There
are beings that live a shadow’s breadth from our reality…
They
are the dreams and nightmares of humanity, the ancient seeds of
fairy-tale and superstition. These are the Immortals, creatures of
magic that should live forever… andthey are fading.
are the dreams and nightmares of humanity, the ancient seeds of
fairy-tale and superstition. These are the Immortals, creatures of
magic that should live forever… andthey are fading.
When
a horror two thousand years dead returns to contemporary England,
creatures long thought lost to myth and legend collide in a scramble
for survival that could tumble civilisation back into the dark ages
of blood and death.
a horror two thousand years dead returns to contemporary England,
creatures long thought lost to myth and legend collide in a scramble
for survival that could tumble civilisation back into the dark ages
of blood and death.
Immortals’
Requiem is
a Tolkienesque grimdark fantasy based in both a modern day city and
vast supernatural worlds. If you like the idea of a drunken elf with
a shotgun, an ancient warrior with a chainsaw and a whole host of
violent supernatural beings you’ll love this gritty
Amazon
Number 1 Bestseller.
Requiem is
a Tolkienesque grimdark fantasy based in both a modern day city and
vast supernatural worlds. If you like the idea of a drunken elf with
a shotgun, an ancient warrior with a chainsaw and a whole host of
violent supernatural beings you’ll love this gritty
Amazon
Number 1 Bestseller.
Buy Immortals’
Requiem to lose yourself in this epic award
winning dark fantasy adventure today!
Or,
Get the Book FREE HERE!
Get the Book FREE HERE!
Vincent
Bobbe is nearly forty years old. When he was about ten, he tripped on
an Edgar Rice Burroughs novel and fell into his own brain. He’s not
quite managed to climb out yet, because the things that found him in
there keep clawing him back in.
Bobbe is nearly forty years old. When he was about ten, he tripped on
an Edgar Rice Burroughs novel and fell into his own brain. He’s not
quite managed to climb out yet, because the things that found him in
there keep clawing him back in.
He’s
happily married with two young children and lives in Manchester,
England. His wife is horrifically allergic to pretty much everything,
so he doesn’t have any pets. This suits him.
happily married with two young children and lives in Manchester,
England. His wife is horrifically allergic to pretty much everything,
so he doesn’t have any pets. This suits him.
Cam stopped pulling and sighed. ‘The Earth is dying.’
Grímnir stood very still for a moment as he absorbed this. Then he looked back at Cam. ‘You will
take me to the Maiden of Earth and Water?’
‘No. But I know somebody who can point you in the right direction. Let’s get back to my place,
out of this rain.’
‘First, I need to fix this,’ Grímnir said, shrugging his bad arm.
‘Fix it? What are you talking about?’ The big man ignored him and walked over to a lamppost. He
held the knobbly part of his broken arm against it and then slammed his open right palm into his
elbow. There was a crunch. Grímnir grunted. His left arm flopped down at a very unnatural angle,
clearly broken.
‘Oh my God,’ Cam gulped, fighting down cheap whisky and Guinness. Grímnir reached around
and took hold of his left elbow. Then he pulled his upper arm out sharply and began to grind it back
up towards his shoulder. It was awful to look at, but it was the sound that made Cam double over
and throw up all over the pavement.
‘That’s not fucking normal, man,’ Cam gasped, wiping vomit from his chin. ‘That is not right at
all. You sick bastard!’
‘What is the matter? Speak in the True Tongue!’ Cam looked at the naked man incredulously. He
was rotating his left arm at the shoulder, looking for all the world like a Viking strongman warming
up to toss a caber, or whatever the hell they did.
‘You are one fucked-up puppy, my man.’
‘The True Tongue!’ Grímnir roared.‘Fine, I’ll talk in your bloody language,’ Cam said in the True Tongue. ‘You masochistic
twatscicle,’ he added in English.
‘What is “masochistic twatscicle”?’ Grímnir asked dangerously, mangling the unfamiliar words.
‘Eh? What? Erm, it means you’re … erm … a brave and honoured friend,’ Cam improvised. ‘Yeah,
brave and honoured friend, that’s right. Look, I’ve just thrown up a good couple of hours’ solid
drinking. I almost feel sober. Come on, I’ll take you back to mine. But no more … of that … whatever
the fuck that was. And don’t fucking touch me … I’m not into that shit. Christ, I need a drink.’
‘It was necessary.’
‘It was not necessary. It was the opposite of necessary.’ Cam paused to think. ‘It was
unnecessary,’ he finished with a satisfied nod.
Grímnir stared at him silently for a moment. Then he reached up and gripped his broken nose
between a thumb and forefinger. He wrenched it back into place with an awful crunch. ‘Oh, you
utter, utter bastard!’ Cam groaned and threw up again.
Grímnir stood very still for a moment as he absorbed this. Then he looked back at Cam. ‘You will
take me to the Maiden of Earth and Water?’
‘No. But I know somebody who can point you in the right direction. Let’s get back to my place,
out of this rain.’
‘First, I need to fix this,’ Grímnir said, shrugging his bad arm.
‘Fix it? What are you talking about?’ The big man ignored him and walked over to a lamppost. He
held the knobbly part of his broken arm against it and then slammed his open right palm into his
elbow. There was a crunch. Grímnir grunted. His left arm flopped down at a very unnatural angle,
clearly broken.
‘Oh my God,’ Cam gulped, fighting down cheap whisky and Guinness. Grímnir reached around
and took hold of his left elbow. Then he pulled his upper arm out sharply and began to grind it back
up towards his shoulder. It was awful to look at, but it was the sound that made Cam double over
and throw up all over the pavement.
‘That’s not fucking normal, man,’ Cam gasped, wiping vomit from his chin. ‘That is not right at
all. You sick bastard!’
‘What is the matter? Speak in the True Tongue!’ Cam looked at the naked man incredulously. He
was rotating his left arm at the shoulder, looking for all the world like a Viking strongman warming
up to toss a caber, or whatever the hell they did.
‘You are one fucked-up puppy, my man.’
‘The True Tongue!’ Grímnir roared.‘Fine, I’ll talk in your bloody language,’ Cam said in the True Tongue. ‘You masochistic
twatscicle,’ he added in English.
‘What is “masochistic twatscicle”?’ Grímnir asked dangerously, mangling the unfamiliar words.
‘Eh? What? Erm, it means you’re … erm … a brave and honoured friend,’ Cam improvised. ‘Yeah,
brave and honoured friend, that’s right. Look, I’ve just thrown up a good couple of hours’ solid
drinking. I almost feel sober. Come on, I’ll take you back to mine. But no more … of that … whatever
the fuck that was. And don’t fucking touch me … I’m not into that shit. Christ, I need a drink.’
‘It was necessary.’
‘It was not necessary. It was the opposite of necessary.’ Cam paused to think. ‘It was
unnecessary,’ he finished with a satisfied nod.
Grímnir stared at him silently for a moment. Then he reached up and gripped his broken nose
between a thumb and forefinger. He wrenched it back into place with an awful crunch. ‘Oh, you
utter, utter bastard!’ Cam groaned and threw up again.
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Thanks for posting this Angie, much appreciated.
this looks very interesting
Hi Ken, is it interesting enough to donwload a free copy and give it a go though? 😀