Itinerant herbalist, scholar of the earth
"If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields,
To wayward winter reckoning yields.
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall."
- "The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd," Sir Walter Raleigh
A song in the meadow, a shadow in the woods - the wanderess known as Amardal is elusive before anything else. Following the old roads, she can be seen standing in the shade of sun-bleached, overgrown ruins, peering at the sky. While she says little, she smiles easily, though the expression rarely reaches her eyes. If she once had a home, she no longer lingers under its roof; if she has any kin, she does not travel with them.
From Ost Guruth to Trestlebridge and Ost Forod, some know her to be wise in the ways of green and growing things. She has gathered herbs for apothecaries and found forest paths for woodsmen, administered remedies to new mothers, sold roots to dye-makers, and predicted farmers’ harvests. Though she is a lettered woman, her nose is rarely buried in a book; she easily puts aside the niceties and comforts of civilization when she must muddy her hands. Yet her eyes are still trained on the earth and the rain, the clouds and the trees, awaiting the secrets the land might reveal.
Few friends; many acquaintances.
None known thus far.
She claims none.
Songs and stories, children, listening to the rain, and all things that grow.
To follow her path.