My new series...woot......you can find my first series Blood Brothers on Amazon...five books out for it....that will be a nine book series...This will be a six book series..

JD

BOOK 1 HAS ENDED IT'S JOURNEY. IT WILL BE UP FOR FIVE DAYS FOR PEOPLE TO READ THEN WILL BE TAKEN DOWN FOR AMAZON AND KU. BOOK 2 -- YORK HAS ENDED AND WILL BE UP FOR ONE MORE WEEK AS I EDIT AND GET IT FORMATTED THEN TO AMAZON IT GOES.....WILL THEN START BOOK 1 OF A NEW SERIES WHICH WILL BE HERE ON RR. EMBERS & ASH....A GRIMDARK SUPERHERO LITRPG WHICH I WILL BE SUBMITTING TO ACTUAL PUBLISHERS THEN I WILL BE ROTATING BETWEEN MY 3 SERIES.....

GrimDark LitRPG Sci-Fi Supernatural Post Apocalyptic -- Book 1 of the Dream

A world that was devastated by the Great War which not only turned a large part of it into irradiated wastelands but also broke open the sky into a northern lights kaleidoscope that brought a system, abilities, stages of power and oh yes, demons. It was called the Dream. It also brought an advancement that melded magic and tech and the Lanterns, a trained force to keep the demons in check...2000 years later an alpha predator of the human race, the Archon, chooses to merge with a demon lord which leads to the Fall, the ending of humanity's supremacy and the beginning of one where demon/human hybrids are the apex. The Lanterns try to fight back but are utterly crushed.

Twenty years after the Fall humanity hides and survives, the Lanterns mostly dead and gone. Can one of the last Battle Squads of the Lanterns, The War Hounds, do anything in a world that has been taken over by demon/human hybrids? Do they want to?

Excerpt from The War Hounds

"

A man knelt in a lotus position, rain splattering off his unmoving form. Even sitting, his height and presence bell toned impressive to the ethers of being. He wore an advanced looking set of armor with a thick dark trench coat shading its frame. Two symbols could be seen etched upon the armor, one depicting some kind of thick bodied hound, teeth bared in aggression, the other, a lantern shining bright against the night. His head was covered in a helmet with a mirror like full face plate that left nothing exposed and reflected the Dream above and the ruins below.

He stayed silent to the thunder echoing in the distance, like a statue in forever inclination to immovability. It lasted for breath after breath, time, an adversary to fruition of sentiment and sediment, until a voice, modulated by some mechanism in the helmet, crawled through the air in definitive action, a call to herald tombs upon the horizon.

"We are needed.""

Another excerpt from the War Hounds

The threads of a thousand wills are being woven into the mesh of tick tocking clocks a half second from implosion or at the very least striking a monumentous moment in the paradigm of paradise. As the war of attrition sends fangs and claws to the last vestiges of hope and the remnants of humanity becomes an ever downward spiral of countdowns and meltdowns, extinction twists to the forefront as the finishing tag to the carousal. Prayers become a diminishing salvage to what's left in the tanks of survivors chewing cardboard and huddling close as skin to the shift of storms.

A perspective to provincial crossroads, dime store novels at nickle discounts. People hold fingertips, stretched to tearing tendons, at the lips of a fall, to the thin divide between survival and the self perpetual head nod to the Long Night, tantalizingly close, a nectar grasp at meeting its spectral eyes on their own feet, their own providence, a sugar plum of circumstance to no choice at all. The calypso of this ironic twist hop scotch squared to the held breath and laughing reality of freedom casting peepers on options that felt like a short cut versus a long burn.

Strange queries in strange times. Wicked witches of western fables flip candy, crestfallen, to a gaggle of kids with sweet teeth, a honey rush that brings rot in slow enveloping curves. Conflict sows the fear of anything over nothing, meat for demons to string to more heartache and loss. The edge becomes ever more alluring, one step, the dark and that could be all she wrote or a long drawn out ballad with only the slimmest of margins to the happy happy. Flip a silver and spit at the moon. Shit is rolling downhill at a hard tilt.