Títulos em Humorístico

Demonic invasions ripple across the land, and Nathan questions if any moral line in the sand is worth the death of his loved ones. His years of preparation to save Doumahr may vanish overnight as he faces an onslaught intended to end everything. Where the goddess Omria failed time and time again over countless millennia to defeat her tormentors, Nathan must succeed. His second chance in life burns in front of his eyes. There won't be a third. Nathan will either defend his home, or he won't have one.

Picture this: you've somehow come into the possession of a dragon (long story--you can listen to the previous book if you really want to know, but it's kinda embarrassing, so you don't need to). And you need to return that dragon to the place it came from. You've tried putting it on a truck--but it destroyed the truck. You've tried putting it on the train--but it destroyed the carriage. Now you've put the dragon in a warehouse while you figure out what to do, but--You guessed it: the dragon destroys the warehouse.

The Coven King prophecy is a sure thing, and every witch in Fresco City knows it by now. What's more, even the coastal super covens are growing aware. They're not happy. Yet. Give them time to warm up to him, though.

When Perrin was so desperate that he applied for a job with the Bureau of Magic Abuse, there were two things he didn't realise. One, that he might actually get the job and two, that it would involve working with magic sniffers. And what an annoyance the creatures are. They keep him up at night, need to feed on expensive fresh fruit and cause him embarrassment.

Trixie D’Vita didn’t scythe. That was Mom’s gig. Then the Angel Investigative Bureau (AIB) turned up at Aunt Harry’s bar. Seemed the hottest afterlife gameshow in the Mystical Realms was misappropriating newly-departed souls. And Death was a person of interest. When the AIB can’t find Death, they come looking for Trixie, Death’s estranged daughter. Soon Trixie's best friend is in dire peril. An AIB trainee is traipsing towards trouble. And Trixie, armed with nothing but a pocket-scythe, is plunging headfirst into the gaping maw of a trans-dimensional vortex. So not the evening she’d planned.

Welcome once more, friends…back to Berth, back to Lauria, and back to Elsewhere where the spirits ever flow, the insanity comes in healthy doses, and the adventures remain weird, and possibly weirder when time allows. It is Elsewhere after all. And you’re back. Again. Admit it, you’re not here for the booze. And so, with grit, spit, and warmish cheer, we return to the misadventures of Percival Pratchet, our sometimes loveable bard school dropout and more or less “heroic” patron of the mysticalish pub of Elsewhere.

Corin Cadence has been summoned to meet with the Emerald Council, a political summit including the most powerful of all attuned and their closest political allies. His summons came with a dire warning—that war was coming to the nation of Valia. While Valia is no stranger to warfare, the circumstances of this invasion are dire. Valia's visage, Tenjin, remains missing. Many of the nation's leaders were slain during Mizuchi's attack, and others killed or injured through Saffron's machinations. With a critical power vacuum in Valia's leadership, few can be trusted.

Vor drei Monaten habe ich einen Job als Barkeeperin angenommen. Aber nicht in einer normalen Bar – in einer magischen Gilde. Ich bin kein mächtiger Magier wie meine drei heißen besten Freunde. Keine Zauberin, keine Alchemistin, nicht einmal eine Hexe. Nur ein Mensch, der Drinks mixt wie ein Profi und ansonsten seine nichtmagische Nase aus Mythiker-Angelegenheiten raushält. Ich kenne meine Grenzen. Warum stehe ich also gerade in einem Schwarzmagiekreis einem Feenlord gegenüber? Hinter mir kämpfen meine drei Freunde um ihr Leben.

Somebody thought it would be a great idea to send us to the Troll Court. Because somebody imagined I might be the perfect person to help with a certain wild and crazy plan of Their Majesties' concoction. They want to restore the lost city of Farringale. I can only say that I heartily approve. There is the tiny problem of how, of course; but who better to dig up the truth than the Society’s most colourful agents? Off questing we go, armed with a long list of questions, two winning smiles (well, three, if you count the Baron’s — and who wouldn’t?) and a certain Dappledok pup.

Four years ago, somebody pinched perhaps the most valuable book in existence. Merlin’s personal grimoire. And the price they’re offering for its return is the kind we can’t refuse, so it’s Ves and Jay on the case. Except that there aren’t any clues. Seriously, not even a little one. Nothing’s going to solve this case but a Vesper-patented Crazy Plan, and it had better be a good one, for complications are sprouting like daisies. At least it’s a straightforward mission. There’s no earthly way this one’s going to turn my entire life upside down... right?

It’s all very well deciding to build the means to save British magick. Top marks for ambitious goals! ...But there are one or two obstacles in the way. For one, said means does not yet exist, and it’ll take a genius to sort that one out. Luckily, we’ve got one of those. We call him Orlando. For another, nothing at all can be built without materials, and no common-or-garden commodities will do. It’s got to be silver. The impossibly rare, virtually extinct kind. This one’s on me, Val and Jay.

I haven't heard from my mother in six years—which is why I was surprised to receive a summons from her. The peremptory kind. With nothing but a set of map coordinates to guide me, what exactly was I to expect? The short answer? Trouble, for Mother Dearest is in rather a lot of it. And like daughter, like mother, for there’s a shiny artefact in the offing, and only a few gigantic lindworms in the way. Who isn’t up for a minor little challenge like that?

Cast away from the Society (sort of) and out on our own, we've got a big problem on our hands - and an exciting prospect, too. They call it time travel on TV. Is this the big, fat secret the Hidden Ministry's been keeping? What's the real truth behind that wandering tower? Answers must be found — in the face of severe opposition from the Ministry, from Ancestria Magicka, and from every Fae Court in existence. Simple. If only everything wouldn’t keep going wrong.

As an agent of the Society for Magickal Heritage, I, Cordelia Vesper, have an important job: rescue endangered creatures, artefacts, books and spells wherever they are to be found. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to keep British magick alive. So we rescued a valuable book from a long-lost library, only it proved to be unusually... chatty. And it's got a foul mouth, too. What manner of weird magick is this? Somebody else thinks it's pretty interesting, too. Ancestria Magicka, they call themselves. Brand new. Big trouble.

Fresh from an involuntary crash course in the Stranger Arts, I've a new mystery on my plate: the inexplicable reappearance of a particularly fantastic magickal species. Which is great, don't get me wrong. Rescuing magickal beasts is what we do around here. But the Dappledok Pup hasn't been seen since the seventeen hundreds; so how did we find one, alive and kicking, over two hundred years later? And this beast has a talent for sniffing out treasure, no less. Happenstance? Maybe not.

Dispatched overseas — far, far overseas — we're in hot water. Again. Following in the footsteps of a long-lost king, we're on the road to the mysterious Vales of Wonder. The upside? It's a hot-bed of magickal marvels, the likes of which we've literally never seen before. The downside? Danger. Because who ever said adventure would be easy? Fortunately, we have help. One reviled but aggravatingly handy beast specialist: check. One world-famous, awe-inspiring, purple-clad troll scholar: check. One perambulatory, half-mad house with a crush on Jay: check.

Stranded far from home, and unable to return, I am in bigger trouble than ever. I know I say that a lot, but this time it's really true. Not that there aren’t advantages to my particular predicament. If one must put up with a dangerous degree of magickal potency, one is duty-bound to… put it to use, no? Certainly nothing insane, irresponsible and potentially life-threatening. As if. But we'll need every possible advantage in the Hyndorin Mountains. For there, hidden behind layers of secrets, could be the answers we are looking for.

Rumour’s got a lot to say for itself, and the message is clear: the regulator’s ready. You know. The magickal regulator. The bright and shiny thing with which we, Team Improbable, propose to restore magick to a fading Britain. Somebody’s got to test it, and that somebody is us. Which means wading into the depths of a long-dead realm that nobody’s entered in centuries. And I may have had some practice at that, but this time it’s different. This time, somebody’s still home. And they really aren’t happy about trespassers. Looks like disaster’s on the agenda. Again.

Things have been quiet at the Society lately. Too quiet. It couldn’t possibly last. When a griffin appeared in the Yorkshire skies, it could only mean bad news. There’s only one place in Britain it could have come from and that’s the lost kingdom of Farringale. It’s a dire warning, and there’s worse to come. Turns out we aren’t the only people with an interest in the age-old city of the trolls. Farringale lies under attack—and these people will stop at nothing to take control of its treasures. It’s time for a showdown—the deathly serious kind.

Imagine modern Britain without magick. No fae enclaves. No flying chairs. No magick wands. Giddy gods, no unicorns. Who wants to live in that world? Me neither. But with magick on the decline, that's the world we're ending up with. Meet the Society for Magickal Heritage. Our boss is a disembodied voice. Our headquarters is a sentient house. You could say we've a vested interest in keeping magick alive. Can a ragtag bunch of magicians, necromancers and fae prevail against inevitable ruin and decline? Hell yes. Try and stop us.