User blog:ScottyBlue/Tales from Bowlaynee Castle

=JOURNAL INTRODUCTION=

''The following consists of short stories and accounts written by a resident of Bowlaynee Castle, chronicling some of the more interesting events that have occured there during her lifetime. Some are lighthearted, and some are serious; some are long, and some are short; however, all are written in the third person, for ease of reading. The author sincerely hopes you enjoy these humble scribbles of a simple young haremaid, who has recently felt lead to become a Teller of Tales for future generations.

''Yours Truly,

''A. Bluefleck: Minstrel, Gardener, and Chronicler

Tale #1: The Phantoms
The northernmost reaches of the Highlands were considered by most visitors to be inhospitable country; bitterly cold, stark and wild, filled with innumerable dangers. Beasts standing at a distance and about to plunge into the area often quailed at their first sight of the North. Black, jagged mountains reared their perpetually snow-capped heads from amidst countless smaller, conifer-dotted hillsides; steep, darkened gorges scored the flatter ground between, as if put there by the claws of some malevolent leviathan. Feirce-looking birds of prey soared about, sometimes giving voice to shrill, unearthly cries as they bade each other "Good Day". Occasionally, chilling winds would blow through the mountains, moaning like the spirits of beasts long gone as they threaded their way through the maze of earth and stone, and bringing a frigid blast of the arctic with them from passing over the snowier areas. This last issue was usually the final straw which caused the less adventurous beasts to turn back; many later would tell their kin to "Stay away from the Highlands; t'is a horrible, bleak place indeed!"

However, those beasts who bravely continued into the heart of the Highlands were usually pleasantly suprised at what they found therein. Admittedly, the highest altitudes were bleak and barren of trees, and there were many difficult, steep, and stony areas to traverse in any direction; however, close inspection revealed a certain untamed beauty in the pines, firs, and boulders about. Frigid rivers winding through the canyons, usually beginning someplace with a half-frozen waterfall higher up, added to this beauty; the valleys themselves, and the lower plateaus and ledges immediately above them, were thickly dotted with holly, azalea, and other hardier flora to give color to the scene. In the winter, all of this (not just the mountaintops) was blanketed in a gleaming snow and ice; it was a joy each spring, after each long and bitter freeze, to see the heads of small green plants finally emerging through the snow. Until then, one could only try their best to enjoy the irridescent white beauty, provided they were sheltered against it in some way.

****

Sitting upon a ledge, bundled thickly in a long hooded coat and plaid scarf, a young mountain hare allowed her paws to dangle over space, staring across the gorge immediately below to the mountains beyond. The haremaiden enjoyed the winter, but at this moment wished fervently that the temperature were but a few increments warmer; then it would be possible to make a picture the scene she was viewing without fear of the dyes she used as paints freezing over.

The young creature sighed contendedly; sunrise was just beginning to peek between the two furthest peaks from her; the pale violet light sparkled across the ice-encrusted stones and trees, glittering off the millions of tiny prisms called snowflakes which covered the ground beneath. Light, wispy clouds scooted across the sky, their silvery tops and rosy underbellies testifying to the warming golden orb of the sun pursuing them. It was a sight almost too breathtaking to put into words.

Lost in longing for a means of recording this moment, the haremaid strove valiantly to absorb every detail of what she was seeing into her mind, to be sketched and painted later. So intent was she, she did not even react when a large, feathery bulk descended upon the ledge beside her with a dull THUMP. A massive, ancient eagle preened his chest feathers pensively, peering out across the same view as his much-smaller companion. He sounded a bit worried.

"T'is a gran' day, lass, but not for walking beasts. Should ye not be inside?"

The haremaid waved an absent-minded paw at him. "Oh, give over, Hook; it's me! And ye know perfectly well the cold doesn't bother me."

The elderly eagle was terribly far-sighted; thus, he was forced to squint to bring the creature near him into focus, though her identity was still hidden by the hood of her coat. "Oh, t'is you, Ascotia Bluefleck? Ah thought t'was somebeast else."

The hare turned to face him. Two half-annoyed, half-amused pretty brown eyes looked out from a thickly-furred pale grey face, mottled with slate blue and charcoal marks all over like some sort of conglomerate stone. "Who else would it be, outside the Castle at this so-called 'unholy' hour? And don't call me Ascotia, if ye want to stay seated on this ledge. My name is Scotty, and I'll thank ye t'remember that!"

The eagle stifled a chuckle; he knew the haremaid well, as did most of his species. Inhabitants of Bowlaynee Castle had been allies of the wild mountain hawks and eagles since time immemorial; however, Scotty was a particular friend of the fierce birds, often hiking up into the mountaintops to visit them, and treating them as part of her family. She knew many of the leaders of the hunters on a first-name basis, something not even every hawk, falcon, or eagle could brag about. In fact, this particular eagle was none other than Prince Hooktalon MacSavage, younger brother to the High Ruler of all the Eagles.

Hook, as he was known to his friends, scratched one of his leathal namesakes in the snow, drawing a squiggled pattern. "Aye, lass, Ah should know that. Mah old eyes t'weren't workin' this morning. What are ye doin', anyhow?"

By now, the sun had risen fully, banishing the pinkish hues for the full-on white brightness of a snowy, clear morning. With a sigh, Scotty rose from where she had been seated, dusting snow from her skirts and bobtail. "Until ye came along and ruined it, I was attempting to plan out a new painting to work on. I'd best start walking back, if I'm going to be there by breakfast. Would ye like to come with me, Hook?"

The eagle shook his head firmly. "Nay, lass, be off with ye. Food's scarce enough round here in winter; Ah would'n' dream o' takin' mah fill from smaller beasts' storerooms. A pleasant day t'ye!"

He made an ungainly hop off of the ledge into space, spreading his wings and soaring off on the wind. The haremaid waved until he was out of sight, then began plowing her way back through the deep drifts to the Castle she called home.

****

Far below, in the temperate, fruitful base of the deep valley, a broad river flowed along between frosty banks. Most of the snow had melted in the lower altitudes; however, it was still bitterly cold, as the shivering, naked branches of the deciduous trees showed. It was usually noisy in the Gorge; howling winds blowing above, birdsong and river chatter below. However, on this particular morning, an unusual silence had fallen; the river was coated with a thin film of ice, the winds were not as hard as usual, and, for some strange reason, the songbirds did not feel disposed to sing. Small families and loners who lived in caves and huts in the area would later say it was as if nature knew something momentous was about to occur; that the everyday struggle for survival in the Northlands was about to be disrupted by adventure and intrigue!