Josie Nightingale
Josie Nightingale hummed a little tune to herself as she leisurely made her way down the well trod game trail. It was a grim and haunting saga, just as so many of the northmen’s always seemed to be, and it had been stuck in her head ever since she had crossed back into the kingdom of Viborg.
She had been gone nearly two years amongst the peoples of the far north, and she had learned many new songs and tales that she could in turn share with the folk of the south. The primal music of the viking peoples, in particular were always in demand in the fashionable salons of Yorvik. But in Hannsport and Logash? Well, . . . not so much. There they liked to hear the light and airy ballads of the elves. And she had collected a few of those while she was up there, as well.
That’s what she did, after all. She had been known as the Wandering Skald of Viborg for more years now than she could remember. It was a moniker she had neither asked for, nor grown accustomed to. Ever since she was a wee lass, she had loved to sing and dance and listen to the tales and rumors that people always shared amongst themselves when they gathered together. Once she was full grown, she had taken to wandering about the north in search of all of those things that she loved, with a lute in one hand and a rapier in the other.
Her travels had taken her from the parlors of Yorvik to the long houses of the northmen and everywhere in between. And every once in a while, her path led through the little fishing village called Hannsport.
The last time she had passed through was nearly two years ago, not long after the Battle of Darmody Meadows . . .
The village had been half razed during the orc attack. As Davin Kell’s small force met the remnant of the orc horde in the open glades outside the village, a detachment of the invaders had swung around the site of the main battle and assaulted the village, intent on burning and destroying everything they could. The defenders had been prepared, though. The orcs had run straight into makeshift fortifications and a desperate foe. The fighting had been hard, but the people of the village had ultimately prevailed, despite the destruction.
Things had changed quite a bit since then, though. The damage that had been done had not only been repaired, but the town had expanded almost three times in size.
Even so, she was amazed at the sight that greeted her as she crossed out of the woods and into the northern edge of the village. An elven tree tower!
It must have been fifty feet tall, at least!
She was now certain her visit was worth the trouble. Elves! In Hannsport! She had heard nothing of this from any of the clans she had visited! She couldn’t wait to see Markus! She wondered if he knew the residents of the tower, or if he could introduce her to them.
Seeing what Markus had been up to had been the primary purpose of her trip. She had initially thought to head down the River Isunda to Yorvik before it froze over for the winter. But while passing through Logash she had heard from Naissa Mirian that her old friend, Brother Markus, had partnered up with Magda Vyrlich to establish an academy on the premises of the village’s old church grounds.
Naissa had also told her how Dame Astrid had fallen in battle with dark forces, and that Abbey March had inherited her mother’s estate, only to in turn be betrayed by her aunt Jhessa. It was a sad tale, and Josie had stopped in Hillsreach to pay her respects before moving on.
Making her way in a casual loop through the village, she came upon two of the places she’d heard travelers speak of on her way in.
The fortified structures stood opposite each other on either side of the Hawthorn grove that had once been both literally and figuratively at the heart of town. She noted their imposing names-The Chapel of St Cambrace the Redeemer; The Great Hall of the Untainted. Josie watched as tabarded acolytes came and went from each of the formidable strongholds, largely ignoring the devoted of the other faith. She smiled to herself as she walked past toward the stand of hawthorn trees.
She stepped into the heart of the grove and lingered awhile, running her hands over the familiar limbs of each of the sea-weathered trees. The lady of the village had tended the place when she was alive. Even though their lady had been gone for a very long time now, it appeared that the villagers still lovingly maintained the park in her memory. Josie whispered a brief prayer to the spirit of the grove, and then at last headed out for the Academy of the Whispering Wind.
She couldn’t wait to discuss all of the things she had seen with Markus, and she suddenly realized that she might have reason to spend the winter in the interesting little village.
She had been gone nearly two years amongst the peoples of the far north, and she had learned many new songs and tales that she could in turn share with the folk of the south. The primal music of the viking peoples, in particular were always in demand in the fashionable salons of Yorvik. But in Hannsport and Logash? Well, . . . not so much. There they liked to hear the light and airy ballads of the elves. And she had collected a few of those while she was up there, as well.
That’s what she did, after all. She had been known as the Wandering Skald of Viborg for more years now than she could remember. It was a moniker she had neither asked for, nor grown accustomed to. Ever since she was a wee lass, she had loved to sing and dance and listen to the tales and rumors that people always shared amongst themselves when they gathered together. Once she was full grown, she had taken to wandering about the north in search of all of those things that she loved, with a lute in one hand and a rapier in the other.
Her travels had taken her from the parlors of Yorvik to the long houses of the northmen and everywhere in between. And every once in a while, her path led through the little fishing village called Hannsport.
The last time she had passed through was nearly two years ago, not long after the Battle of Darmody Meadows . . .
The village had been half razed during the orc attack. As Davin Kell’s small force met the remnant of the orc horde in the open glades outside the village, a detachment of the invaders had swung around the site of the main battle and assaulted the village, intent on burning and destroying everything they could. The defenders had been prepared, though. The orcs had run straight into makeshift fortifications and a desperate foe. The fighting had been hard, but the people of the village had ultimately prevailed, despite the destruction.
Things had changed quite a bit since then, though. The damage that had been done had not only been repaired, but the town had expanded almost three times in size.
Even so, she was amazed at the sight that greeted her as she crossed out of the woods and into the northern edge of the village. An elven tree tower!
It must have been fifty feet tall, at least!
She was now certain her visit was worth the trouble. Elves! In Hannsport! She had heard nothing of this from any of the clans she had visited! She couldn’t wait to see Markus! She wondered if he knew the residents of the tower, or if he could introduce her to them.
Seeing what Markus had been up to had been the primary purpose of her trip. She had initially thought to head down the River Isunda to Yorvik before it froze over for the winter. But while passing through Logash she had heard from Naissa Mirian that her old friend, Brother Markus, had partnered up with Magda Vyrlich to establish an academy on the premises of the village’s old church grounds.
Naissa had also told her how Dame Astrid had fallen in battle with dark forces, and that Abbey March had inherited her mother’s estate, only to in turn be betrayed by her aunt Jhessa. It was a sad tale, and Josie had stopped in Hillsreach to pay her respects before moving on.
Making her way in a casual loop through the village, she came upon two of the places she’d heard travelers speak of on her way in.
The fortified structures stood opposite each other on either side of the Hawthorn grove that had once been both literally and figuratively at the heart of town. She noted their imposing names-The Chapel of St Cambrace the Redeemer; The Great Hall of the Untainted. Josie watched as tabarded acolytes came and went from each of the formidable strongholds, largely ignoring the devoted of the other faith. She smiled to herself as she walked past toward the stand of hawthorn trees.
She stepped into the heart of the grove and lingered awhile, running her hands over the familiar limbs of each of the sea-weathered trees. The lady of the village had tended the place when she was alive. Even though their lady had been gone for a very long time now, it appeared that the villagers still lovingly maintained the park in her memory. Josie whispered a brief prayer to the spirit of the grove, and then at last headed out for the Academy of the Whispering Wind.
She couldn’t wait to discuss all of the things she had seen with Markus, and she suddenly realized that she might have reason to spend the winter in the interesting little village.
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