Bloom & Dark: Book I of The Rorke Burningsoul Saga (The Burnin...

Rorke Burningsoul, Paladin of Weltyr, has been betrayed.With the object of his most recent quest stolen out from under him, Rorke has been left for dead in the treacherous Nightlands: a place hateful to all surface-dwellers, full of things the human--even the elfin--eye has never seen. Gray-faced berich dwarves, frightful half-spider misshapens--and, of course, the sensual and dark-complexioned durrow elves, a race of power-hungry women who live in service to the goddess Roserpine.Praise Weltyr, Rorke is rescued by two such splendid durrow--and told that, in exchange for his life, he must now submit to slavery as, among other things, breeding stud to the female race. He willingly agrees, hopeful that his obedience will help him find a way out of the Nightlands and back to the business of retrieving the lost artifact: but when the Materna of the durrow city decides during his appraisal that she needs a new guard, he is soon surprised to find himself taken, heart and soul, by the exquisite durrow high priestess known as Valeria.But Valeria's need of a personal guard is not just some ruse to keep her new slave in her bedroom without controversy--would that it were. The high priestess's life is at stake, and as her assassins' attacks grow more frequent all the time, she needs the assistance of a man capable of keeping himself alive along with her.Who better than a paladin she's seen in dreams for decades? Mature readers only! This fantasy harem adventure in the style of Dungeons & Dragons contains explicit encounters between the lucky hero and many gorgeous women he encounters on his quest. Use discretion when purchasing.

From the Back Cover

From BLOOM & DARK:IT'S HARD TO call the removal of my breastplate a mistake. Doing so saved me from the acidic blood of the spirit-thief who had just fallen beneath Strife's enchanted blade.Yet when the Scepter of Weltyr stood so near my grasp, and those that had called themselves my allies now pointed spear, axe and crossbow straight at me, I could not help but think that stripping off my corroding armor was the greatest error of my life."Have you three been ensorcelled?" My alarmed cry was my only defense. I was too amazed by the abrupt turn of the trio to think of brandishing my broadsword as I might against a foe."Ensorcelled!" Branwen's fine pink lips, kissed so many times in the darkness of the camp against my better judgment, peeled back from her perfect teeth in a mocking laugh far too cruel for her delicate elfin features. She steadied the aim of her bow on me, and somehow this doubling down--this conscious dedication to shooting her bolt right through my heart--confirmed that this was no jest. A lock of golden hair fell across her narrowed blue eyes and even then I felt the compulsive urge to brush it from her face; to tuck it back behind that long and delicate ear. "Yes," she continued, "ensorcelled, perhaps--by Oppenhir, god of money.""And death," I reminded her, taking no satisfaction in the tension of her mouth or the further narrowing of her eyes.Grimalkin, (who had, of all my companions, been the most unpleasant from the start of our journey at the behest of the Temple of Weltyr), said from within the wild red depths of his beard woven with the runes of his dwarf clan, "That's enough, paladin. Look, you're wounded--keep wasting time and it'll be your wounds that kill you. No guilt for us."His face placid as always, yet in that moment as firm as it had been when we were strangers, one-eyed Hildolfr said in that fatherly tone, "Rorke...be reasonable."I couldn't look him in his remaining steel eye. Instead I focused on the black patch that replaced its missing twin. "The three of you have gone mad. The Scepter belongs to the Temple: to Weltyr, Himself. If you dare misuse its power, as have these unfortunates"--I gestured with my sword amid the tentacled corpses littering the sacrilegious site where we stood--"then, like these unfortunates, all three of you will be doomed to die.""We'll all be dying eventually anyway," Grimalkin said, his take on the common tongue closer to a bark than the usual tones men used to address one another. "Might as well die rich, fat, and well-laid.""You don't have to fight us, Rorke." Though his spear was unwavering in his grip, Hildolfr maintained a steady stare into me until, by some gravity, I was forced to meet that powerful eye. "You could come with us. Claim our private client's reward for the Scepter; split the price four ways."While Branwen and Grimalkin shared a noise of disgust, Hildolfr gestured toward them with his lance's tip. "At this price, a four-way split is still far more than the Temple would have forced us to settle on. Twenty-thousand gold pieces total, five thousand apiece? That's still enough, well-invested, to ensure a happy retirement.""Speak for yourself, human," said Branwen to my terrible pain, her pretty face absent of all the charm that had won me while contorted in a greedy scowl. "We elves live longer than dwarves and men combined--a retirement for you is a happy vacation for us, little more than that. I'd be just as glad if our friend here stuck to his ethics and refused the split."My head swam with not just confusion, but pain. Before its removal, the armor had burned through and permitted my chest to be superficially seared with the blood of the decapitated priest whose head had leaked a hole into the floor. For the first time since I was a boy, my sword trembled in my hand.

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