Vigyázat! Cselekményleírást tartalmaz.
In the Forests of Serre 2 csillagozás
In the magical forests of Serre lives a witch named Brume, the Mother of All Witches, an ugly, dangerous hag that everyone – and every living thing – avoids at all costs. Infamous for her knobby, callused feet that broaden to inhuman size when she picks up her house of bones and carries it, she is said to stew and devour anyone who enters the skeletal cottage.
When Prince Ronan, grief-stricken over the recent death of his wife and newborn child, accidentally tramples one of Brume's white hens with his horse, she lays a curse on him. Ronan will wander aimlessly through the forests for eternity until he captures a firebird, a breathtakingly beautiful creature indigenous to Serre, and returns it to Brume in a golden cage. But Ronan must find his way home as soon as possible. Sidonie, the youngest daughter of the King of Dacia, is betrothed to Ronan and awaiting his return. If Ronan doesn't come back, the innocent girl will be trapped in his evil warlord father's fortress… (tovább)
Eredeti megjelenés éve: 2003
Enciklopédia 1
Szereplők népszerűség szerint
Kedvencelte 1
Várólistára tette 3
Kiemelt értékelések
This is a fairytale, it is told slowly with elegant style. There is not much development. The adventures happen in the Serre forest mostly. Some elements in the tale are recognizable from other fairytales, others are unique and one wonders while trying to imagine them. Although some subjects explored are serious, like loss of the loved one, grief, relationships between husband and wife and between parents and children, loyalty, duty, power and so on, the way in which it is portrayed is light, there is even humor in it in the portrayal of the old witch. This story has a character, it does have a touch of wonder.
Népszerű idézetek
Euan, struggling to pick through a lifetime of marvels, managed only the simplest. “That witch—Brume. Does she really eat people?”
Unciel’s face smoothed; he gazed back, unblinking, at something beyond pain. “Brume,” he murmured. “Never underestimate the power of a tale. What you put aside as fantasy in one land can kill you in the next. As far as I know, she eats anything. Like death, she is always hungry and too much is never enough. Like love.”
Fyriol, he learned that afternoon, was a hot, parched land whose fierce winds laid bare the bones of hills and sculpted them into high, eerie shapes of colored sand and granite. Dragons had once lived there, tales said, and had left the land unfit for human occupation. But the seventh son of a king who was also a seventh son had gone looking for a land of his own to rule, and had claimed Fyriol.
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