Fantasy Western Novels & Stories

He had to admit this place wasn't as bad as he'd expected. He let his gaze wander around the shop, taking in things he hadn't really noticed yesterday. The artwork on the walls, for instance. Yesterday, they had been blurs of color. Today, he realized they were great examples of contemporary Western art. The style was very distinctive and arresting. Someone had lovingly painted a magnificent stallion, a small herd of horses galloping across a pasture, a tired cowboy at the end of a long day, and other similar scenes. Whoever this was might have come from Montana like he had, because the essence of the cowboy had been captured perfectly.

The armies kept trying and when they were not able to make a scratch at the two beasts, they decided to retreat, but they could not as Iron was already alive, and he was standing by the road, where stood as the only road they were supposed to pass, he stood and forceful pulled out the last arrow by his chest, and just as said by the priest, the arrow wounded his heart, and that turned around and made him love violent always. He was more than a werewolf his eyes were blazing like fire, the little girl now a dragon, had wing, she must have been a dragon before, and many that went toward the exit were burnt by the fire, the warriors tried all they could, but their strength was not enough, and j

He was fingering his blade again, his lust for blood shed was approaching 10 on the ritcher scale. I shakily got to my feet, glaring at him. What human being does this? Derive satisfaction from terror and pain? He wasn't human. He was a beast. "Why are you doing this? What did I ever do to you?" I cried, stalling him with my question. Maybe I could run away. My spirits sank as I looked around. I was standing on a large acre of nothingness and gravel. I was a running target. He walked up to me, his boots crunching on small stones. His breath fanned my face and the look in his eyes chilled my bones. There was no ounce of sympathy in those eyes.

It is the symbol of the Witch Family of the West. Infamous for their usage of black magic and forbidden spells unknown to the world the Western boundary was limited to other immortals. Living on their own away from the government of the 5 Elite families, why? Why would his mother have a connection with one of the leaders? It was a thought that came across Alkhun's mind. The water dissipated the vision of him when the coy fish pass from his vision. It was a coy fish that has been there ever since he was born. He followed the sight of it and saw it eating crumbs of probable bread.

Immortal Desire - vampire, werewolf, witch - a fantasy-based story with dark romance and erotica (you can take a peek at this if it suits your genre taste) - completed 2. Midnight Feast -werewolf - this is a little dark. I don't know how to say it. See for yourself (I like this so much) -new book/on-going 3. The Deserted Wife -TDB book 2 -Romance/drama -new book/on-going

The drama that was playing on the stage was about the little boy who , a special born who killed his mother, the Luna of the pack. " I hope we are following." Ruckus said, eyeing Derek. He smiled. It was obvious Derek was getting uncomfortable. " The story is about a young special born wolf who took the life of his own mother. " " That's strange." Alpha of the blood river pack said. " Quite sad. The boy mus be a curse to the pack." Ruckus giggled. " I bet he is. Someone like that gas to be a monster that will keep killing without stopping. " He eyed Derek.

She began to fade with the darkness until no trace of her was seen. Lucia jerked away to earth, panting heavily like she had just run a marathon. Strange, she could remember everything she discussed with her mother. In almost all cases, she barely remembered what took place in the dream. That was a sign... The Witch-Wolf is about to be born... "And where are you headed, Jackson?" A voice trailed him as he sauntered through the thick forest after the meeting of his pack in the forest. He felt heavy because like all other times, he had been frustrated, insulted, and used.

The imperial capital was a city of gilded masks and whispering secrets, its marble towers reaching for the heavens while its streets pulsed with the blood of the forgotten. Nia had walked its stone paths before, as a child, holding her mother’s hand as they shopped for food. Now, she walked as an assassin, her every step calculated, every breath measured. She was no longer Nia Wolfsong—the girl whose village had been burned and destroyed. Now, she was "Mist Fang," the most elusive, feared assassin in the empire.

Each was a florid fantasy, not viewed as a tale, but lived in him. He was always the main character, distinguished and adventurous, an illusion of splendor he supposed. Cavin likes them that way, it is much better than ordinary life. So if the thoughts of an insane journey still come, how was he to say he was cured? When even in a precarious voyage of the supernatural, here he was risking his life again. A true fantasy is a fixed mistaken notion that gains traction, like a wheel of a wagon on the road, it propels a person in different paths, often unpredictable and toward catastrophe.

What's a little fun that I can't have? “I'm specifically looking…” he paused as he opened a page in a book and then turned it to me. "For the White Wolf.” The page had a picture of a white wolf in it sitting under a huge moon. This was supposed to be alarming to me, but I wasn't bothered. This might prove Axton's theory of humans wanting more after finding little. Maybe they were the ones that carried the bodies of those lycans, and now they're back for more. But somehow I disagreed with that thought. What if this guy has read some books and done a little research, and now he wants to discover one for himself? That also makes sense.