(A/N: The following is written with apologies to two people. The first is to my high school English teacher who tried to teach me that epic poetry was interesting. The second will remain secret until the end of the story arc in order to preserve spoilers. I would ask that people that do figure it out avoid mentioning it in comments or reviews please.)

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There is an art form that exists in Skellige that I had not come across before. I thought I had, indeed most of you reading this will think that I am being ridiculous in thinking this. But I promise you that this is different.

That art form is the art of telling a story.

If you live around Novigrad and frequent the Rosemary and Thyme then you have access to one of, if not the, foremost storytellers and musicians of our time in the person of Professor Dandelion. If you know him or get close enough to him to buy him a drink, then you can ask him about the formation of his art-form. You can ask him questions about “who was the first musician” and “who told the first stories”. He will spout a bunch of self congratulatory nonsense about how the first musician means the “best” musician which is obviously himself. But if you persist, weigh, sift and filter his words carefully you will begin to get towards the truth in his words.

I've since read his book on the subject. You will struggle to find it as it's a non-fiction, non-poetry book and the Professor himself went out of his way to ensure that there aren't that many copies of the book in circulation. He wants to be remembered for his music and his poetry after all which I can understand I suppose. But in this book he theorises that the first things that people did to entertain themselves was to settle down and tell each other stories. Before Lutes, Lyres and harps can be invented, first there were drums and before that there were stones and logs that were struck with sticks in order to provide a cadence for the tale-tellers words.

But the words came first. As people stood up, around the earliest camp fires and around the most basic huts. In caves and hollows and clearings men would stand up and start speaking. Just in an effort to take people's minds off the awful terrors that they imagine wait for them beyond the firelight. So were the first stories born. As an escape from the weary drudgery of life, a distraction from the hardships that need to be endured and a reminder that things could be better than they are now.

Then music came as an accompaniment. As people's attention spans got shorter the stories turned into poems and songs. But even the long ones, the saga's like Professor Dandelion's “Saga of the White Wolf” which has brought him so much fame and notoriety, are set to music. The music helping the poet, saga-master and troubadour to shape what he is trying to tell. To help manipulate the emotions of the listener in order to properly get the story across. And so, in order to make a bit more money.

But in Skellige, they do things a bit differently.

I suppose that the foundation of this is the fact that the Skelligans are an aural tradition. They teach each other by telling stories. Yes there are still songs sung and there is still music played but then there is a separate art.

That is the art of the Skald or the Bard.

I will do my best to use the term “Skald” rather than the term Bard because they do different things from what we use them for on the continent. To those of us on the continent, a bard is similar to a minstrel or a troubadour. They are wandering musicians and entertainers. They might do some acrobatics, some juggling or some sleight of hand as well as singing or instrument playing.

But to ask a Bard of Skellige, a Skald of Skellige to do some juggling would be the highest insult. That's not to say that Skald's don't tell stories or that they don't play music. Many of them do but it would be a mistake to think that that's all that they do.

As I say, the Skelligans have an aural tradition. So how do they preserve the laws of the land, the histories of the people and what has happened over time? The Skalds do it.

As I say. I'm deliberately using the term “Skald” instead of “bard” here so as not to get confused.

The Skalds are the law-keepers and the historians. If there is a land dispute about who gets to graze their sheep over which mountain meadow then they call in a Skald. If there is a problem with a genealogy and people want to know who is descended from whom which, again, becomes important when talking about farming or dishing rights. Then they call a Skald in. There is generally at least one Skald per settlement to keep track of these things and maybe, if they have seen a likely candidate, that Skald might have an apprentice that is being trained up in order to be a replacement.

But no Skald is the Skald of the place that he was born. This is, in theory, to help with impartiality. There are also Skalds attached to prominent figures in order to record their deeds. Great mead-halls also tend to have their own Skalds. They reminded me a little of an order of monks in that way. Or maybe it reminds me of priests as one of their functions was to tell the stories of the Gods and how they apply to modern life.

But note that they are not priests. Nor are they druids although they have a lot in common with the Druids.

But where the druids keep themselves separate from society, acting occasionally to advise of course, Skalds are in amongst society. They take wives and have children and their upkeep is paid for by the village, hall or Lord that they are assigned to by the High Council of Skalds.

The High Council is apparently made up of the chief Skalds of the major clans in Skellige. Six men who go to a secret place on an annual basis to discuss important matters. These matters are mostly kept secret and many claim that it's just an excuse to get together and drink heavily. But those things also include the assignment of Skalds in case some of them need moving around in order to further their understanding. New Skalds are also examined to see if they are worthy or not and, I'm told, they also get drunk a lot.

But it also is the responsibility of the Skalds to educate the people on important matters. The people of Skellige don't have time for formal schooling. Life is too hard and children are put to work as soon as they can. So the Skalds sit in public places and tell people about the laws of the land, the history of the people and the danger of foreigners.

But how do you make all of that, admittedly boring, information stay in people's minds? Answer: You make it entertaining.

The festival of the Skeleton ship was upon the islands of Skellige by the time of our arrival and Skalds from all over the islands had gathered in the great halls and settlements. But in Kaer Trolde in particular for the preperation for the ship to pass through the harbour on it's way towards....where it went. This was where the mighty men and women of Skellige would be gathering in order to see this phenomenon, because this was where you could get closer to the ship. So in the hall there was a constant stream of Skalds giving performances on the nature of the Skeleton ship. Giving their iteration of the story as to how it was told in their village or in their halls. Different men giving different speeches about different heroes. On my first passage through the hall I was sick, exhausted and the task that was ahead of me was momentous enough that I couldn't really get past it.

According to what Lord Voorhis told me I essentially had to talk the Empress out of killing herself. But all of that was missing the context of what was actually happening. I just had too many questions so Lord Voorhis sat me down in front of one of the Skalds, a fairly minor one fortunately as otherwise my rapid fire questions would have been gravely insulting. The information was garbled and I had no idea of the awesome majesty of what was about to take place throughout the islands.

But then the Skald lost their temper. Caught between my questions and Lord Voorhis' insistence that time was of the essence the Skald refused to say anything else, instead they stood, seized me by the collar and dragged me back outside.

Yes Skalds are Lore and Law keepers but they also travel with important men and women. Those men and women who ride or sail to war also need accompanying by a Skald. So the Skalds are required to study weaponscraft and to hone their bodies so that, if necessary, they can fight alongside the subjects that they are following.

It is also illegal, punishable by a slow death, to assault a Skald. It gets complicated, as so much of Skelligan life seems to be, but I got the feeling that if the Skald was wearing armour and had a sword or axe tied to his belt. Then he was fair game. If however he was in his robes or wearing his kilt. Then his body is sacrosanct.

A Skald can walk through a battlefield and the armies will part ways before them. A Skald can walk into a village and expect to be fed, clothed and housed. But also, Skalds that abuse this power are cast out of the order and exiled from Skellige forever.

This Skald felt that their laws and traditions were being insulted. In their capacity as a Skald they declared that if I really wanted to learn about the Skeleton Ship then I should listen to a saga. Really listen to it and only then would I understand the power that this vessel has over the Islands. So they grabbed me, ignoring the protests of Lord Voorhis and the attending Imperial guard and hauled me out into the cold where they examined me critically.

It's important to know that this Skald in question was maybe Seventeen years old and a woman. That women were beginning to become Skalds was one of the things that the new Queen of Skellige had introduced. As a whole, the islands had been outraged at this breach of tradition. The High Council of Skalds had found this public outrage rather amusing. Then they had pointed out that the laws stated that the only important thing in becoming a Skald was the knowledge and the craft of passing on that knowledge to the public.

She was also hugely muscled with Long Strawberry Blonde hair, had had her nose broken at least once and pale green eyes that seemed to see everything.

She examined me in the daylight, peering into my eyes before she pulled a bottle from a pouch at her waist and poured it into my mouth, holding my nose until I swallowed it.

It actually tasted rather pleasant.

It also settled my stomach instantly. Shortly after that, my head cleared and I could see and think clearly. Later on, I asked if I could have the recipe for that potion but I was informed that such secrets were to be kept inside the Islands.

Shame really. I could have made the family another fortune.

I was already of the opinion that the Skelligans had a lot more going on for them than the rest of the Continent was willing to admit. They were obviously more intelligent and more cultured than we think they are. They are surrounded by examples of engineering that would make even the most ambitious dwarf pale in fear and now I had evidence that their Alchemy was similarly advanced.

It was not the first time that I had that thought as the days wore on. But anyway.

Then she took me back into the hall and sat me down in front of her master who was just beginning his retelling of the legend.

This is not that version of the story. I had already come into the story part way through by the time I sat down and despite the effects of the little restorative that the Skald had fed me, I was still tired and feeling the fact that I hadn't been able to keep any nourishment in my body for several days. But I remember the spell that the words wove around me. I remember thinking that the words were some form of magic that transported me to another place, another time and that everything that I had experienced up until that point had been the lie.

But I had many opportunities to sit and listen to the stories of the Skeleton Ship during my time in Skellige and although I was never aloud to write down the story as I listened. I was later allowed to go off and write down my own memory of the story. So that it was my own version of the story.

But this is as close as I could make it to what I first heard in the hall that day:

-

The fisher folk are the first to know that it is coming.

It's an instinct really, born out of the days, months or even years spent on the water. For those folk who the salted seas all but run through their veins in place of blood. Men and women who make their living next to the water, who feed their children and feed their communities through the application of their labour. They are the first to know, the first to see, the first to feel.

It is a sudden thing. Just a shift in the wind maybe, or in the way that the fish they spend their lives chasing move, going from land to sea when their time for spawning is not yet done. I once spoke to a man who says that the change is in the taste of the air. I remember asking him what he meant by that and he had no answer for me but that was as close as he could come to describing what it felt like.

The fisher folk are the first to know that it is coming.

They jump to work then. The youngest of their families race to the nearest settlements to pass the word of the ship's coming to the locals, so that the awful news might spread. So that people can be warned, people can be prepared and gird themselves against the coming terror. The men rush out to sea, to catch as much as they can before it comes, that greatest terror that haunts our oceans. The women folk bring in the crops and set to work to preserve the fish that the men catch. Salting, barralling, pickling, everything must be prepared for that time when the very air itself will freeze in terror at the coming horror.

The fisher folk are the first to know that it is coming.

The fisher folk are the first to know that it is coming and only a fool would disbelieve them. There are always fools, those men newly settled to our shores. Foreigners and travellers from distant lands who refuse to heed the warnings of people that have lived on these islands for their entire lives. Devils who come from far away who think to plunder our lives and our lands. Scum who would steal the virtue of this place from us, box it up and take it away with them. Men with no respect for those who have more wisdom than they do.

Fools.

What could they possibly know as they roam around the villages wondering at the sudden burst of industry and laugh at the, so-called, foolish superstition. But we know. We know what is coming and we will be the ones that have to feed and care for these fools, these cretins and imbeciles who will not listen to the fisher folk.

For it is that the fisher folk are the first to know that it is coming.

The other sailors are next. Men who make their living in carrying people between the islands. People, goods and food. Men who ride the waves, men who have learned about the strictness of that most harsh of mistresses. Men whose first love is the sea and their second love is the ship that keeps them safe on those rolling waves. It's the small ship captains first. The transports and the harbour pilots. Men, and women, who are used to their small patch of ocean. Who know the currents and the tides, who know the squalls and the eddies of water. Whose ship is so dedicated to that journey that even a twitch of a sail or the shudder of a tiller can speak to them as though from a lovers lips.

They are next to know that it is coming.

And like the Fisher-folk before them, that knowledge carries them into a storm of energy for there is no time to waste. There is no competition in the face of the coming calamity. No argument over who carries what food, who carries which passengers and who carries what cargo. There cannot be, for it is in the actions of these sailors that the islands are kept moving in this time. There is no longer room for competition, or quarrels or combats. There is no time for bloodline, rank or clan. There is only the ship beneath the sailors feet, the waves that throw it around and the cargo that they carry.

Because those sailors know what is coming.

The word is spreading now. Carried by the ripples of the sea, carried by the winds of the storm and the cries of the gulls. The Queens of the sea are finally informed. The Longships and their raiding Captains. Men whose craft carry the shields, the blades and the might of the Skelligan clans across the oceans until they achieve their rightful place upon the face of the world, until the most feared thing on the horizon is the sight of a Skelligan sail.

The Queens of the sea are they for as any true Captain of such a craft will tell you, they are the slaves and servants to the ships will but even those mighty vessels, even those mighty craft and terrible warriors who have brought blood and flame to shores undreamed of. Even these ships and these men shudder in fear when the news is brought to them. Whether by messenger, flag, shout, or the very feel of the ocean beneath their feet. Even those mighty vessels groan with fear at the coming catastrophe as they race for home as though the very vapours of the eternal frost are behind them.

Because those sailors know what is coming.

Word is carried to the warlords and the warchiefs. To the Queen and her court. To the Clan chiefs and their families so that all may be made aware of that thing that is coming. Messengers fly towards the far corners of the world. Born on the wings of birds or in the hands of brave volunteers who volunteer their ships and their lives so that others might be saved. “Go back” they scream to everyone who will listen. “Return to your port, do not go to Skellige less you meet your doom.”

Many listen, foreign traders who have seen this before, who have passed down this story to their sons and heard it from their fathers. They know that when that note of fear enters the voice of the men of Skellige then there is something to fear indeed. Word of the coming calamity is carried from shipyard to ship dock. From shoreline taverns to trader's halls so that all might know of what is coming. Sailors listen, they listen because they must lest they be claimed by that which comes. Suddenly, press gangs on the quayside call out because there is no-one to be found. Ships are sent out all but empty as hardened sailors refuse births and travel inland so that they can save themselves from that which waits out there.

Because they are sailors too.

And those sailors know what is coming.

They have seen it in the mist. In the distance at night when the late watches are on the verge of exhaustion. They have stood on the rails when they are far from home and have looked out and seen the spectres and the monsters and the things that sail in those oceans so far from land that you might as well be in another world.

So the islands of Skellige wait. They wait but they are not idle. For they know what it means, they know what comes out of the western seas. They know for they have seen it. Livestock is slaughtered until the rivers and streets run red with the blood of slaughtered cattle. The air is filled with the screams of terrified cows and sheep and horses as they are led into the butchers yard. A butcher whose arms grow heavy with the work. Trembling with the weight of the blood tumbling from his blade, splattering his apron and the stone of his yard, steaming in the growing gloom. But he does not complain, a bloody smear across his forehead from where he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and gestures for his apprentice to bring him another pig.

The wives and children are put to work as well, like the fishwives before them, they must preserve enough food for the coming times. Even when the crops are not yet ready, there is work to be done. They need to be harvested, to see what can be saved ahead of what comes. Because the crops will die, the cattle will die. The sheep and the pigs and the horses will die. When the day comes that there is no place left to hide.

Again, some are saved. Some are taken into caves where fires can be lit, and warmth can be preserved. Breeding pairs are kept to repopulate the island. More volunteers load their ships up with livestock. Orders are put in with foreign traders so that replacements can be brought in, for we all know that unguarded lives are lost when the time of loss is upon us.

A slow kind of madness is gripping the islands now. Men climb mountains and trees to look out to the west. Watchtowers are built and manned at all hours of the day and night. Signal fires that have been left abandoned for years are swept out while dry tinder is carefully laid so that all of the islands might be aware of what comes. On remote islands, men carry horns with them to call for aid in case they get caught. Men hurry. Mighty warriors rush from building to building, their eyes searching the horizon for those other men who keep watch, looking for the first spark or plume of smoke. A silence grips the islands as people listen out for the first horn call. Men, women and children strain their eyes and their ears, looking for the first sign of it's coming. For it's arrival. They do not name it for to name it gives it form, gives it substance and gives it power.

But they all know what is coming.

Even the sea knows what is coming. She rages and boils against her coming imprisonment. Huge waves shatter themselves against cliffs and harbours, against quayside and harbour wall.

Men who make their living from the sea, the fisher-folk who first warned us about the coming arrival have placed their boats and their belongings on the backs of wagons and have moved inland so that they might salvage some form of livelihood. So that they might live in a time only dreamed of when the nightmare is over. And they are wise. For the sea shatters their jetty, destroys their home and laughs at that which they left behind. But even the sea's laughter has a tinge of fear in it.

For even the sea knows what is coming.

Longships are beached and dragged as far inland as can be managed by rolling logs. Entire villages pull and carry and push until the mighty Queens of the sea are as safe as they might be against the coming torment. Their oars are stacked and covered. Their sails are rolled up and buried. Their masts are removed and stowed until those longships are but shadows of their former selves. Like warriors cowering before an onslaught that they cannot possibly hope to survive. And they would be right as the sea itself will turn against them.

Because the sea also knows what is coming.

Great winds billow up that shake the trees, rains come and wash away the unprepared. Whether spring, Autumn or summer, it does not matter. Warm sheepskins are passed around as people wrap themselves tight against the coming trials. As though the elements themselves are afraid of what is coming.

People gather in their halls and in their homes. In their fortresses and castles. In inns, stables and huts where they shake in fear. Young children, frightened and oppressed by the mood that is all around them, a nameless and unknown fear pressing down upon their hearts and their souls. They look up at their fathers and their mothers and wonder why they tremble with dread. Then one of them will ask. They step into the firelight, standing before their parents and ask the question that is on young minds everywhere.

“What is it that is coming?”

The father looks at his child for a long time weighing up his answer. Does he hide the knowledge from the child? Does he console the child and tell them that there is nothing to fear?Does he shelter that precious innocence for just a moment longer. Just a moment longer, a moment that they may have wished that their own innocence had been preserved. Then he puts aside his work, for the preparation does not stop, he puts the work aside and takes the child in his arms.

“The Skeleton Ship is coming.” He whispers. The dread in his voice enough to bring the child to tears and the father, the mother and the others who know the secret weep as well at the shattering of innocence. The remembered blow of learning that your father cannot protect you from everything. That your mother is not the keeper of all knowledge and sometimes, no matter how hard you try to fit it back together, but sometimes... The doll remains broken.

The Skeleton ship is coming.

It has had many names over the years. Some have called it the Ship of the Dead. The Ghost ship. The Ship who Weeps.

Perhaps the most interesting name is “The Ghost ship.” In a world where monsters, spectres and spirits are prevalent, we are not unused to seeing the ghosts of ships crewed by the spectres of those men who served aboard them. So what does a ship have to do to be described as The Ghost Ship. As though it was the one upon which all others were based.

But the names keep coming. The ship of Spectres. The Black Ship. The Rotting ship. Other names are more poetic. The hulk of the damned. The ferry of death. The unluckiest thing that ever sailed. All of these are names that have been given to the craft as well as mixtures and corruptions of them all.

But that does not change the fact that the Skeleton Ship is coming.

And it brings with it a cold so profound that some would be forgiven to think that it should be called “The ship of Frost” but that is inaccurate.

We even thought that the Skeleton Ship had been defeated with the destruction and defeat of the Wild Hunt and the battle fought by our beloved Empress where many warriors of Skellige, Nilfgaard and the continent were slain.

But we were wrong.

Because the Skeleton Ship is coming.

We know it, we feel it and soon we shall see the first signs of it's passage.

It comes from the west. Always from the west and it is the westernmost parts of Skellige that feel it first.

For all the other things that happen when the Skeleton ship comes, for all the other things that change, the time of year, the weather, the shoals of fish in the ocean and the position of the sun that first heralds the coming of the Skeleton Ship. The one constant, the one truth, is that it comes from the west.

And the awful cold starts to roll across the islands.

Axes hammer at wood, chopping logs down to rounds, down to kindling to feed the endless fires that need to be kept during the passing of the Skeleton ship. Fires in the dwellings of people. Fires in those caves where the last of the livestock takes their shelters. Fires in amongst the beached and sheltered ships to keep the wood from freezing, warping and even shattering. Fire and warmth is our only defence. Other men laugh. “But it is summer,” they jest. “Surely the cold cannot be that harsh.” But we have no time for their doubts and no time for their laughter. Our every effort is now being pushed into survival.

Just survival.

Men start to shiver. Old folk gather themselves and choose their places by the fire. The air chills and becomes painful to breath in the morning but this is only the beginning as a slow, icy stillness steals over the islands. Always starting with the westernmost peaks. The sea becomes like soup as the ice begins to form.

Desperate men take boats out to try and catch the last few fish that can be caught, defying the raging, freezing seas and howling winds. To try and get home before the ice comes and before all is still. Before the snows seal the mountains and blanket the entirety of the islands in the deadening drifts of ice.

From the west it comes.

From the west and those who watch will see it and light their fires.

Off the islands on the westernmost coast of Undvik there is a tower built. Ancient hands raised it and from the summit of that tower it is said that a keen eyed man can see as far as Ofier on a clear day. But on these days, on these coming days the towers true purpose becomes clear as three brave men. Three monks, priests of some God that they will not name stay and watch. They build their fires and they wait. In so remote a part of the island that even the ice giant himself did not interfere with their duty. Even the ice giant himself did not dare interfere with what those men do.

No-one knows who first gave them that duty but they do so. When Undvik was more populated it was an honour to be chosen to wait there, in that place so that they could serve their island. To serve their Queen. They stay there, in the cold and the damp and they wait for the coming calamity, peering out to the west. They will see it first and then they will light their signal fire. They will use the oils and the wood that the islanders give them. That the Priestesses brew for them in order to keep the fire going, even in the deepest cold. It is their entire lives, the preparation for this moment. This great duty.

The sea is like soup and it no longer surges and seethes. It sucks and pulls. To touch it with bare flesh is to lose fingers and toes. Only the hardiest of vessels will survive in such waters but even they won't go for long.

The people of Skellige are united. The preparations are made. The Lords and the common folk alike shiver next to fires, drinking from their horns of mead to keep them warm as they carefully measure the risk of throwing another log on the fire. Can they live with how cold it is now? Will the trade of comfort be worth it against future possibility? But all are united as they look to the west for that signal. The point of no return as they know. Finally and surely that the Skeleton Ship is coming.

They wait. The young folk feel that they are immortal now. They find ways to enjoy the unseasonable cold. Taking joy in sledging down the snowdrifts that are getting higher and higher. Finding comfort in each others company and it is true that many children are born nine months after the passing of the Ship of death.

I cannot say that I blame them. Such things are vital to our survival and if folk take the comfort that they need then who am I to say that they are wrong.

But all are waiting. Lords station people on the tops of towers and the tops of cliffs. The keenest eyes, the most worthy of hunters. Looking to the west for the first sign of the red smoke the signals the ship of Doom's final approach.

The water seethes. Gentle snow turns into freezing shards of ice that cuts as it falls. People mouth foolishness to each other. “It cannot get much colder,” they say. “Surely it's as cold now as it can get.” But they are wrong. “Maybe it isn't coming,” another will say. “Maybe this time it will pass us by.” This, often said by rich men who want to be back at sea, back at work and resenting those people who are not lining their pockets. But even these fools find their eyes going to the western skies searching for the smoke.

The rains die down. The winds die down. It is a slow thing. A slow realisation, like so much of what has come before. The temperature falls, despite the clear skies and the bright sun it get colder. Doors start to stick and freeze shut. Men need to climb down the ropes in order to break the sheen of ice on the surface of the well water so that people can drink.

But the air is still now. Men and women wrap themselves up in sheep skin and wolf fur as they congregate in village squares and castle courtyards. Hot drinks are made and drunk. Food is consumed and people watch the western skies for what they know is coming.

They wait for days.

Days of cupping their hands around cups of hot soup and hotter wine. Days of listless activity and energy sapping cold. Days of stiff necks and stiffer legs.

They wait for days.

But then it happens. Off, in the distance, a lookout thinks he sees something. The youngest watcher on the walls of the castle. At first, he doesn't believe his young eyes. He thinks that it is just his youthful hope for something, for anything to happen. He just wants to be the first person to see the smoke. He rubs his eyes with his rabbit skin mittens and peers even tighter. He stares into the western sky with an intensity that leads his head to ache and his vision to swim.

It's not there. It can't be there. There isn't enough of it. It's coming from the wrong place. It should be further to the South.

But finally, it can no longer be denied. He has seen something. He calls over his shield-brother who peers next to him. The shield-brother is an older man. More experienced and calmer. Less given to hysteria. He has been training the young guard for several months now, if not years and the lad is closer to him than his own sons are. He peers into the sky looking for the smoke.

Deep down, he knows that this is foolish. He has seen this before, after all, wasn't he in this place many years ago when he was the youngest one amongst the warriors and it was his duty to spot the smoke. Later, he remembered laughing when the plume of smoke became so tall and obvious that it was a beacon for all to see.

He peers out until his eyes water. But then he stops, chuckles quietly to himself and shakes his head. The old veteran, the old man who feels his years now more keenly than he had ever thought possible turns and claps the younger man on the shoulder.

“Away with you boy,” he said. “Away with you. Run, and tell the Hersir what you have seen.”

(Freddie's note: Hersir is a minor kind of noble. Maybe the lord of a village rather than a castle. A captain of a warship or an elevated common man. When I first set out on my journeys, I would have been called a Hersir by the Skelligans.)

The older man watches the boy run off, keeping his balance on the slippery wood or stone with an ease that the old man envies. He looks up at the smoke which is getting larger and taller now and wonders if he was ever that young. If he was ever young enough to see the coming of the Skeleton ship as something that would be exciting.

He wonders if it is time to retire. To take up fishing, or to keep some sheep and whether or not his wife would be happy having him around the house some more.

By now the plume of red smoke is getting larger in the sky. Larger and larger. Taller and taller. The three monks in their small monastery know their task and know how to do it well as the smoke blooms out of their log pile and the three men stand back from their fire and retreat into their caves. Their survival is not guaranteed in the face of the coming cold and they must prepare for that.

One of them shivers as he takes one last look out across the ocean where they saw the creeping ice spreading across the sea. An unbelievable ice forms. An impossible sight that the turbulant waves of just a few days ago could now freeze into an impossible sheet. He watches as he sees the ice stretch out it's fingers towards him through the water and knows that he doesn't have long.

He shivers as he picks up his torch and his bundle but he cannot resist one last look out over the sea. One last look.

They have seen the ice, that killing ice and cold, but in the distance, so far away that it is almost a dream, he sees a speck on the horizon. Not the ship. Not yet. This is the herald of the ship. The huge winged form of the albatross that flies as a herald of the ship. As the guide, or the scout of the ship.

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He watches for a moment longer as the bird hovers in pace for what seems like an impossible length of time. This is the true first sign of the Dead ship. This is the sign that stops it from just being an abnormal freeze.

The sight of that albatross.

One of his fellows tugs at his arm and he realises that his breath is steaming in the air, rippling out of his nose and mouth, like fire leaking from the maw of a dragon, and that his clothing is stiff with frost. He turns and follows his friend through the great door in the tower that will take them through to the vast caverns under the mountains.

The smoke towers above even the mountains now. The wood is trained and conditioned to smoke and the oil is brewed to make the smoke red by the finest alchemists that the temple of the Goddess can boast. Straight up it goes into the chill, frosty air and the entirety of the islands of Skellige breathe a sigh of relief.

Yes relief. Does that surprise you?

Relief because they now know that the waiting is over. The time of The Death Ship is upon us now and there is no longer a delay. There is no longer a wait. Men move with new purpose. There is a snap and an energy to the work being done. The endless rhythm of the axe chopping the wood and the crackle of the flames.

It comes from the west first. That is known. Always from the west but after that, who can tell?

Who can tell?

Not I and I have seen many of these cycles now. Sometimes the ship goes North. Circling Spikeroog. Sometimes the ship goes South, coming round the southern point of Undvik. Sometimes it lingers to the west of Undvik, sailing among the islands off the western coast of Undvik. Around that pyre of red smoke that told of the ship's coming.

Sometimes it drives straight through the islands. Straight through the channels until it comes straight to Ard Skellig and an Skellig.

We watch it. Watch it like wolves eyeing up a meal. Not looking at the ship itself but from the tops of our look out towers and tops of our mountains we can see that mournful herald, that albatross, as it glides this way and that on the currents of the wind. Feeling warmth in the air that is a mystery to all of us. Every so often it will call out and men who hear it shiver at the sound.

For it is a sound of grief and death.

The bird itself is huge. It's wingspan wider than a man is tall. But to look at it is to feel a horror like no other.

For such a magnificent bird to soar the skies should be a wonderful thing. People should be bringing their children out to see it. But the Albatross is dead. Rotting and diseased. Clumps of feathers seem to fall from it's wings and tail as it flies, although no-one can ever find a feather that it leaves. Bone can be seen as it turns in the sunlight which also glints off the metal crossbow bolt that sticks out of it's chest.

It's mournful cries echo for miles around and grown man weep as it seems to them that they saw the moment of their death as the cry echoes in their skull.

Then the ship travels. Sometimes it's visit is a quick thing. A short thing. A short time of biting, killing cold and waiting. But other times it will sail among the islands for weeks or even months at a time. Circling around and around, first one way and then another. Always within sight of land but never too close. Hither and thither it goes. The sea is now still, absolutely still imprisoned in the ice but the Skeleton Ship doesn't care. As well as the Albatross flying far above the top of the Ship's mast the ship has another herald. Another thing that drives children inside to hide beneath beds. Another sound that causes even great men to shake and shiver and moan.

A crack, the crack of ice breaking. As though the ice itself cannot bear to be there when the Skeleton ship passes over it. A crack so deep and terrible that it sounds like the cracks of earth being split asunder. Earth and stone, flesh and bone. It is the sound of the very ocean's pain and the ship just keeps on sailing.

There is a fine line between foolishness and bravery. The last time that the ship came this way it was shortly after the defeat of the Aen Aelle and the Wild Hunt. Shortly after the ascent of Queen Cerys an Craite to the throne of stone and sea. Some men felt that the Skeleton Ship was the returned craft that bore the Aen Aelle to our shores and ran across the ice to face an enemy. Swords and axes drawn and a battle-cry echoing amongst the mighty chasms of ice.

But then they approached the ship itself as it sailed upon the ocean. Through the crack in the ice that it had forced and they looked upon the great black hulk before them.

There is a fine line between foolishness and bravery. They attacked because they were Skelligans. No-one knows what happened then. No-one knows although those six men did indeed return. Two became sick and died from a cold that no flame could dismiss. Another threw himself from the bridge over Kaer Trolde and fell down the side of the mountain until at last his broken body fell into the harbour. Another went mad and ran into the ice and is assumed to be dead. Fallen into the sea when the ice began to melt.

So the truth is that only two survived. One man was unable to speak of what he saw. He would try and try until the sweat tumbled from his brow and his mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air after it has been thrown onto the riverbank. Then he would just shake his head. After the ice had gone, he took a small sailing vessel and went to stand the watch for the next time that the Skeleton Ship arrives.

Only the last man will speak of it and even then he does so in stilted words and fearful gasps. He says that he saw a vast sea with slicks of oil, like what happens when you spill lantern oil on water. He saw things in the water slithering and sliding over each other. The stench of rotting and decay were ever present in his nose and in his mouth. He looked around and he saw the dead. Strange men in strange clothes that he did not recognise and lastly he saw a man. A man in a striped shirt, trousers tied together with rope and barefoot. He had a red scarf on his head but strangest of all. He had the corpse of an albatross hanging round his neck.

He remembered shuddering and falling backwards where he struck the icy water. He claims that it was only that that shook him clear of what he saw.

And the Skeleton Ship just kept on sailing.

Once there was a Witcher hired to look into the matter of the Skeleton Ship. For all of the modern prominence that this has brought our islands, the fact remains that it can be weeks, or months before the weather returns back to it's normal levels. Weeks and months of a cold so profound that villagers are left destroyed, animals and people freeze to death and death stalks the land with it's weapons of ice. Weeks and months before the climate returns to the spring, summer or autumn that it was originally.

But in the meantime, the raiding has been stopped, the livestock slaughtered and the crops destroyed. Then we begin the cycle of recovery again. The Witcher asked his questions. Drank his mead and travelled the lands to find out stories of the Skeleton ship. To see if there was any other clue, any piece of knowledge that there might have been out there.

Then the Witcher saw the ship in the distance. He stood, still as a statue, holding onto that medallion that they all carry, as he stared at the approaching blackened hull and the skeletal albatross floating above it. He stood, like the figure of legend, frost forming in his hair, on his face and stiffening his cloak. Impervious to the cold he was. Immune to the fear that we all fear in the presence of things we can't explain, as he stood and looked out.

Then the Albatross called and the Witcher nodded. Turning on his heel he marched to the hall of the man that had hired him and told the lord to keep his money. That there was no removing the ship. That it was just something that would need to be endured. The Lord insisted at the point of a sword but the Witcher held firm. “The curse is on you all like the storms of spring.” The Witcher said. “You can either bend before it or break”.

And the Skeleton Ship just kept on sailing.

Like the Witcher before him. A mage was summoned. Despite our islands traditional disdain for the magical folk the King at the time was also angered by the damage done to his people and his status. So a mage was summoned. Money was offered and accepted. A contract was formed. Unlike the Witcher, the mage did not ask questions. The mage did not want to know what had happened. He just waited, chanting spells and charms. He worked in the cellar that the King gave over for a laboratory doing whatever it was that Mages do when they are in need.

The day dawned when the ship and the mage confronted each other. The mage had manufactured a Golem. A mighty beast of stone and the two strode across the ice as onlookers wondered if the ice would support the weight of the Stone being. But the mage was confident. Wrapped in his mantle of seal fur he strode towards the ship casting spells and shouting his admonishments. The Golem picked up it's pace and started to run towards the ship. Green fire crackled around the mage's hands. Lightening sounded, storm clouds boiled out of nowhere and the Golem ran towards the ship.

Then the Golem stopped. Dead in it's tracks and toppled over. Where before it had run and moved and fought. It just fell.

Then it exploded in shards of stone. The noise was deafening as chips and pebbles fell among those men watching and the sound was heard for miles around.

The mage roared his defiance and the green fire swept forwards and made to engulf the Skeleton craft. But, like the Golem. The mage stopped dead, his hands handling loosely by his side before simply toppling over. The fire that he had cast had melted some of the ice and so his body slipped below the waves. The corpse washed up on the shore of An Skellig after the Skeleton Ship had departed. The only reason it was recognisable was due to the rich clothing that it wore. Instead of a handsome man in his prime, the corpse was of a dried up old man.

And the Skeleton ship just kept on sailing.

As though it neither noticed or cared what happened around it.

It circles the islands now and we track it carefully. We need to know where it is. We need to know so that villages cam prepare. So that people can escape.

We have been doing this for so long now that we only know the ancient warnings. The ancient threat of what happens in the darkness when the Skeleton Ship is near. The rumour of men coming ashore, of spirits and the dead coming to go through the villages on the edge of the water. Cold figures, slimy hands that poke in hiding places and carry off whoever they find. We have been doing this for so long now that we do not know if this is real. So very long but we cannot take that chance. We cannot risk our people being caught out. As it is, many die in the time of the Skeleton Ship. Most, die of the cold that gets more powerful the closer you get to the ship, sow the warning is needed as people flee towards warmth. But even now, some villagers disappear in the night when the Skeleton Ship passes. No-one survives and so we cannot tell what is happening. So we watch and we warn and we keep people safe.

This is the terror made manifest. The cold and the horror that that cold brings. The cold that ignores fur and grease and alcohol. The cold and the sound of the Albatross, always flying near, always watching.

Watchers race across clifftops. Fires are lit to mark the passage of the ship but that's not what we are working towards now. The build up has happened. The anticipation has passed and now there is only one thing to do. That is the climax of it all.

The ship might sail round the islands. Once, twice, three times more. Some times it goes sunwise. Sometimes it goes against the sun. Sometimes it flits from one side of Skellige to the other seeming to have no pattern. But in the same way that we know where it comes from, we know where it is going and unlike other spectres, it moves like a ship. It might sail to a wind that no-one else can feel. It might ride impossible currents and mysterious tides but it is still a ship. And it sails accordingly. And it comes. After a while, a pattern starts to make itself known. The ship is spiralling inwards towards Ard Skellig.

The ship sails in and out of harbours so that people can see it at a distance, shivering as they look at the hull of so strange a craft. It moves faster now. Flames dance on the mountainside. Partially as a warning against the movement of the ship. But also in defiance of the cold and the ice that comes with it. But all of Skellige knows where it is going.

It is coming to Kaer Trolde

Kaer Trolde. The last refuge of the Skelligan people.

We know where it is going. We know what is going to happen as it has happened so many times before. Soon, the ice will melt, soon the ships will sail and the fish will be caught and soon this ordeal will be over. This ordeal has been going on for a while now and it has become almost dull. Almost routine. After a while, even terror can become boring.

But we know where it will all come to an end.

Kaer Trolde. The last refuge of the Skelligan people.

Other clans might protest this. They might claim that their own fastness protects better than Kaer Trolde but they are lying to themselves. Fine castles, keeps and fortresses all but the truth remains that Kaer Trolde has saves us before and will do so again.

And now the Ghost ship is coming.

The feel of the ship is different now. It is no longer terrifying. The horror and terror that accompany it is beginning to lessen. People see different things now. Instead of seeing decay and rotting things when they approach or see it in the distance, they see neglect and decrepitude. The cries of the Albatross are no longer angry and full of doom. Instead they are sad, mournful cries and the heart breaks to hear it. Now the ship is truly becoming the ship of the dead.

From all over Skellige, men pile families and food onto the back of sledges which race across the ice to where the final passage of the Skeleton ship will pass. Men and women who carefully count the supplies to make sure they will have enough to see the next harvest, or until the fisher fleets can sail again. Carefully the things are counted and everything that is left goes into sacks and into crates before they come here.

To Kaer Trolde. The last refuge of the Skelligan people.

The Lords of Kaer Trolde spend a good portion of their time preparing for the coming times. Even between arrivals of the Skeleton ship. The Lords of Clan An Craite see it as their duty to put things aside to ensure that none will doubt the hospitality of the clan. Huts are built. Tents are erected for all the guests and huge fires are prepared to ensure that all can rest easy. The people of Ard Skellige are aware that this might mean a rationing afterwards and some lean times ahead but it is worth it.

For now comes the time of the dead. That time when all who have lost will gather together. The ship is no longer angry. Dangerous? Certainly but no longer angry. But to an unseen or unfelt signal it turns and heads towards the entrance to the channel at Kaer Trolde.

A mist settles. The ice is melting now as the heat from the sun and the cold of the ice combine to show ice crystals hovering in the air. Shimmering in the firelight.

The men and women of Skellige gather on the shores of the channel. Some stand at the very edge of the water while some climb on the buildings and hang out of windows. Some have tied themselves to the cliff face so that they can see the passage of the Skeleton ship. Most carry a lit brand. Those families who have lost someone to the sea, by common and unspoken agreement, stand towards the front. Stand closest to the shores. Some of these even carry some small memories of the missing.

Memories of the dead.

A father, an old man now, carries the wooden ship that he carved for his son who was lost to sea four months before. The son was a warrior and was knocked from the deck of the merchant ship he was helping to raid. He should not have died, he was a strong swimmer and the raiding was not serious. There were no other deaths on either side but he slipped, tripping on the unfamiliar deck and plunged into the deep.

A mother carries the blanket that she was wrapping to hold her daughter's first born. The daughter was sailing between Ard Skellig and Spikeroog in order to have the priestesses of Freya read the portents for the child. The boat never arrived.

Another Father carries his son's first piece of writing written all those years ago. His son was never strong enough to be a raider and although the father had admitted to being disappointed that the two couldn't go raiding together, he had not loved his son any the less. The father couldn't read or write, figures were a mystery to him but the pride that he felt every time his son exhibited the new knowledge was a blessing and his son never doubted that pride. Or at least the Father hoped he hadn't. The Son had left on a merchant ship bound for Temerian shores never to be seen again.

Over and over the scene is played out. Over and over again the people stand together, united in their grief.

A sister holds her betrothal wreath. She had always been close to her brother. Always, and when he had introduced her to his friend, that he had met on the castle walls of the Jarl's keep, she had known that she would forever owe her brother a debt. For she had looked into the eyes of her brother's friend to see the other half to her own soul. Her brother had known this in advance and had arranged the meeting. No man had shouted louder or with more joy than her brother when the betrothal had been announced. He had been sailing to the markets at Kaer Trolde to buy her the dress she wanted for her wedding day when a mist descended. He could never deny her anything since their parents had died and she had so wanted that dress for her wedding day. Now she just wanted to hear her brother laugh again.

Her husband holds her tight against him. He is older than his wife. Almost too old and he hadn't believe it when the new guard had struck up a friendship with him. He had still not believed it when the young man had insisted that he join the young man's sister and he for dinner. He remembered standing outside the small hut with a bunch of flowers clutched in his huge, clumsy hands. He remembered the woman, the girl really, squealing with delight as she took the flowers and put them in a pot before standing on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. He remembered the flush on his cheeks as his tongue refused to obey his orders and actually talk to this woman who had struck him dumb with her beauty. He remembered the look of utter smugness on his friend's face. He feels the shudder of sobbing in his wife and holds her as tight as he dare. Trying to give her the strength that she needs even though he knows that it will never be enough.

Over and over again. Grief etched on every face.

A fisherman's wife with her husband's favourite rod. Her husband lost in an attack of siryns.

A Shield-maiden's husband who had never cared that his wife was stronger, faster and tougher than he was.

A daughter who did not understand the tears in her mother's eyes or why the pain in her own chest was so large when she thought of her missing father.

They all stand together in grief.

The mist rises and people wonder why they were afraid before. Strangers console each other. Arms are put round shoulders and embraces are traded but all stand and stare towards the entrance of the harbour. They wait. The firelight shining on the ice.

Somewhere, high above there is a lookout. There is no firelight where he stands. No warmth. He must stand vigilant and such things would ruin his night sight. He stands wrapped in furs, his face covered so that his lips and mouth do not freeze and he peers out into the growing darkness. The Ship was approaching the channel when the light began to fade and the lookout knows that the ship still obeys the laws of the ocean despite it's strange nature. He peers out, his eyes sore with the bitter cold. The breath hurting his throat and his chest but then, finally, at long last he sees it. First as a ripple through the mist but then he sees the first signs of the Skeleton ship's approach. It might be the sight of the albatross, maybe the sound of it's cries. He might see the ice moving as it evades contact with the ship. But he knows that the Skeleton Ship is upon them.

He reaches to his side and lifts out the huge horn. The horn that was given to him when he volunteered for this duty. He uncovers his face, licks his lips and blows into the horn.

It doesn't work. The cold has frozen him. He rubs his lips furiously to force some life and feeling into them and blows again.

Still nothing.

He sobs. He had so wanted to get this right. The woman that he loved had been sailing back to Faroe. It was a long planned journey and he had finally summoned the courage to tell her that he loved her. She had smiled in delight, blushed and turned away before looking back at him from beneath long eyelashes. Then she had kissed his cheek before telling him that she would be back in a month's time and that they would talk about such matters then. That she hoped that he would wait for her.

He had so wanted to do this. To blow this horn.

He pleads with his ancestors and pleads to the woman that he still misses despite the fact that she was lost at sea more than twenty years ago. Despite the fact that he met a friend of his lost love at the funeral who had waited for his grief to pass. Who had waited for five years before he was ready to let another into his heart. Despite the five children that she had given him and the love that she bore him and the love that he had for her in return. But he still grieved for his youthful infatuation and one of the reasons he loves his wife is that she grieves as well. Indeed, she is stood below with his five children waiting for him.

He pleads again, groaning with his grief and blows again. At first, nothing happens but then he feels it. In his chest more than in his ears. A deep bass rumble. He blows harder and the note changes until it reverberates in his ears. The horn was a gift from the queen and he blows with all of his might until the tears of grief roll down his cheeks. He throws the horn aside and puts his head in his hands. No longer able to contain his sobbing.

The people down at the wharf look up when they hear the horn call. They look up to where they know the watchtower to be, an involuntary movement before their eyes sink back down to the entrance of the harbour. Conversations cease, subdued to whispers and eventually stop all together. More than one person can be heard weeping in the gentle quiet. No-one thinks any the less of them.

The ice in the harbour cracks. It is an awful sound, made worse by the sudden and unpredictable nature of it. The closest that can be described is that it sounds like that final moment when the tall, impossibly ancient tree finally gives up under the onslaught of axe blows and slowly begins to topple over. But it is a wet sound as well. The warriors in the crowd wince. It makes them think of those moments when a body breaks open to spread the blood out over the snow.

Then another crack, and another and another as the fissures spread. Strange echoing impacts reverberate across the harbour. Children cover their ears while grown ups prepare to shield their own eyes in case the shattering ice sends splinters flying through the air. The sound continues, deepening, until the cracks can be felt through the bodies of the people watching. The sea roars as it is unleashed. Unbound from the chains of ice that had imprisoned it and the ocean seems to roar in it's gratitude.

But then the sea calms. Like an unruly child being calmed by parents.

Then there is a pause. The sound dissipates and silence spreads out across the watchers again. It is a soft silence, a gentle silence, like the feel of a blanket wrapping you up on a cold night.

The mist is total, reflecting the light from the torches in a thousand twinkling stars of rainbow hues but also giving off a soft, orange glow.

The crowd waits but they do not have to wait long.

As it was before, it is the fisher-folk that see it first. Some in built instinct triggers them to look at the water so that they can see the small chunks of left over ice moving. Men who make their living off the sea and whose lives depend on their ability to sense shifts in weather and current.

It really is an instinct, born out of the days, months or even years spent on the water. For those folk who the salted seas all but run through their veins in place of blood. Men and women who make their living next to the water, who feed their children and feed their communities through the application of their labour. They are the first to know, the first to see, the first to feel.

They bend to catch the attention of children. Small folk who have been lulled by the sounds of the guttering torches, the warmth of their thickest and warmest clothes. Exhausted by second hand and misunderstood emotions. They feel themselves shaken back to wakefulness as fathers, mothers, uncles and grandparents point to the entrance of the harbour.

And like their earlier warnings. The warnings that they gave out when the ship was first heralded they whisper the words. “The Skeleton Ship is coming.”

People realise that the mist outside the channel is darkening. It isn't reflecting as much light as it had done just moments before. There is a depth to it now, the shadows thickening. Then a shape begins to emerge. Larger than many had thought possible. Certainly larger than any ship that would normally be sailed into the channel of Kaer Trolde.

There is no longer any doubt. The Skeleton Ship is outside the harbour.

A few of the pilots whose responsibility is to steer ships in and out of the harbour nod to themselves. Whoever is steering the Skeleton Ship is undoubtedly a master of their craft, but the entrance to the channel is not an easy thing to navigate. It takes courage, skill and speed.

And it is a ship. This is not some ethereal spectre. Not some shape that can be seen through. The currents and the eddies of the water prove that. The fact that the ice, which is all to real, splits and bobs around in it's passage proves that as well. It is a ship.

The shadow begins to coalesce into the shape of the ship itself. People begin to realise that they have actually been looking at the ship for a long time. That the hull is black, so deep a black that it seems to suck the eye and eat the light. There is no sheen to it. No formation of ice along the side. It is just a dead, dull black. It is also larger than any other kind of ship that any have seen. Even those that have seen this ship before are always surprised by the sheer size of it. Twice as long as the Longboats of the warriors and half as wide again. You could also stand two hulls, the one on top of the other and you would still not get to the guard rail of the Skeleton Ship. Huge it is and the harbour pilots shake their heads. It is supernatural after all. No captain, no pilot and no sailor could steer that thing into Kaer Trolde harbour.

“Three masts,” shipbuilders whisper to each other. “How does a ship have three masts. How does a craft not tear itself apart under the stresses of the thing. How do they lift the sails into place? How is this possible?”

How indeed, but the Skeleton ship sails down the harbour. Creeping along. The air feels colder in the passage of the ship. Men who can't believe their eyes at the sheer size of the craft peer into the water to see the ripples of the ships wake to see if it really is real. They shake their heads but shiver in the cold. The ice seems to flow from the ship. Not like the aggressive explosions of ice that heralded the Naglfar and the Wraiths of Morhogg. (Freddie: The Skelligan name of the ship of the Wild Hunt is Naglfar and the Wild Hunt themselves are called “The Wraiths of Morhogg)

This was a slow creeping thing. As though the ship itself was colder than ice. So cold itself that the surroundings became colder just by the passage of the ship itself.

The image of the ship itself, although there is no doubt that the ship is real, it seems to shift and shake. Sometimes it's as full and solid as any other ship. Mighty beams of blackened wood, thick ropes and nails of iron made solid in such a way that you feel as though you could almost reach out and touch it. But other times, in the time between the blink of an eye, you can just see the frame of the ship. The masts, the bow boards and the odd splintered plank that makes up the hull itself. No decking, no crossbeams or sails. Certainly no poop-deck or tiller. It is this sight that some say, gives it it's name. The skeleton ship. For skeleton it is.

No-one knows why it shifts like this. Saying it like that seems foolish, there is so little that is actually known about the ship that it seems ludicrous to pick out that one thing above all others. But this is the end of the ship's journey around the islands and people theorise that it is drifting in and out of the world now.

But one thing always remains. Always.

Because as well as the Albatross the flies overhead, the ship has a crew.

There is maybe a score of men standing on the deck, they lean on the railings looking out at the crowd. I've been there, in that crowd myself, several times. Those Crew-members see you. There is eye-contact there and recognition. They look....

They look tired.

Tired, sad and they carry a colossal resentment that does not seem to be directed towards any particular person or towards any particular thing. There is a longing there. A longing that is deep and visceral and that cannot be fathomed.

They look strange as well. Universally they are small men. Much shorter than the average Skelligan male. No more than five foot and a handfull of inches between them. They wear odd clothes, thin, shortsleeved shirts, head scarves and short trousers. Most go barefoot with what skin being visible is covered in strange tattoos and markings.

They are also dead.

Some look as though they are corpses, recently deceased. Pale skinned and blank eyes that stare out at the crowds. Some are in extended states of decay. Eye sockets empty, skin and flesh handing from them. Tufts of hair are standing out while others still are only the spectres of people. Hazy blue-green outlines of men who move and stand with the other sailors aboard the ship of the dead. They move aside and make room for their fellows as they all look out over the faces of those of us that wait for them.

It is a macabre sight and immensely saddening.

The ship drifts gently down the channel. Those people who have lost family to the sea throw their offerings towards the ship. Some land on the deck when it is solid, some fall through the skeletal slats of wood when the ship seems to be in it's rotten state of wreckage. One might even be caught by one of the spectral crew members.

I saw it happen once. A woman threw a blanket to the ship. I never found out who it was that threw the blanket but she had rolled it up tight and tied it with a piece of string. At first it didn't look as though the ghostly crew had seen the incoming object before one of them, a middle aged looking corpse where one of his arms had come off to be replaced by a glowing spectral facsimile. He reached out and caught the blanket. He raised the spectral arm in thanks before breaking the string and shaking out the blanket which he then placed around the shoulders of one of the younger looking crew members. A young boy spectre who had no physical form that we could see. The boy looked as though he was weeping.

I remember that it was the rough affection from the older man to the boy that tugged at my heart. The same way that a man might care for an apprentice who is going through a hard time during that period of a person's life where the boy has not quite become a man.

The ship moves on. Streams of objects are thrown into the channel. Some bounce off the ship. Some go through the ship and strike the cliff face on the other side. Still others fall into the water or on the deck of the ship. Some throw the lit brands that they are holding. Others throw mementos of loved ones. On more than one occasion, people have thrown themselves into the water but people are more careful to protect against that kind of thing now.

The ship sails on gently and calmly with only the lapping water and guttering flame of the fire to be heard.

But all is not well on the ship as they come to the bend in the channel. The dead crew start arguing among themselves, punches are thrown and they look as though they start to scream into the crowd. They are moving around, past the harbour to where the buildings are higher up the cliffs and more can be seen. They are calling out to the crowd. Calling, screaming, begging.

What for? I do not know.

But there are two other people on the deck. Separate from the other crew-members. They crouch towards the back of the ship, heads together whispering conspiratorially. One is a tall, immensely tall figure wrapped in a black robe. The robe is so black that it's almost blue in the firelight. It looks rich, warm and voluminous. The figure has a large farmer's scythe propped against it's shoulder and some claim that there is the shape of a sword strapped to the side of the figure underneath the robe. People say that when the figure's hands are visible, those hands are skeletal. He is crouched on the deck where the tiller would be, just in front of a large wooden wheel that stands freely on the deck turning this way and that without hands to guide it.

With the tall, robed figure is a woman. She is shorter though the distance between her and the observers means that it is impossible to guess her height. She is thin, she wears strange black boots with silver points on the end, tight but ragged black trousers held around her waist with a belt of leather and silver. She wears a black vest leaving her arms bear. Very thin, painfully so and skin as white as milk. Her lips are black and strange black designs on the ends of her eyes as though her eyes are longer with drawings and swirls on the end. A large mop of unkempt hair on her head that stands out at all angles beneath a tall black hat. She wears a silver Ankh symbol around her neck. Unlike the robed figure, she looks up at the assembled crowd and smiles often, waving as though she recognises many of the people on the docks and perched on the buildings.

She is beautiful but in the same way that you might acknowledge that your sister is beautiful. Pretty but without sexual allure. She looks....familiar, like a stranger that you shared a jug of ale with once.

She is playing dice with the robed figure and appears to be losing badly despite not being angry about it. There is a good natured feeling about her losing. A friendliness to her attitude that is undefinable.

The ship sails on.

I said before that there is a fine line between courage and stupidity. Nowhere is this more obvious than when the Ship comes to the end of the town. To the last of the jetties, the one with the deepest draft which is where the ship stops.

Traditions has it that the innkeeper of Kaer Trolde has a duty here. That a desperate ship with a desperate crew must be fed out of the stores of the inn. That bread, Salt and ale must be set aside in the basement for any ship that is so desperate as to to be aware of this tradition and to dock next to the inn. Most ships never get there of course. Most ships in distress would never make it into the harbour. Most ships that are so desperate have been rescued and made safe long before they would get anywhere near the dock behind the inn.

Because there is a dock behind the inn. Just a small one really but that is only part of the dock that the Skeleton ship chooses to use. When the ice begins to form, closing off the far end of the harbour the innkeeper and his sons go down to this wharf with old planks that they keep next to those emergency supplies in the basement. In that fall of water that is neither snow or rain, the innkeeper and his sons work hard, Hammers pounding. In any other situation the current behind the inn is far too strong for the construction of a jetty but now that the ice formations are starting to make the water sluggish, the work can be done. Pilings are set into the water and the jetty forms. The supplies are brought up from the basement. No more than lightly treated barrels of water with just a hint of rum inside to keep it drinkable. Dry biscuits of flour, salt and fat. Jerky so tough and hard that if thrown at a man then it could do serious damage. These supplies are taken down the steps and left on the dock behind the inn.

The dock at which the Skeleton ship stops. The ship has started to fade from view. It is undeniable that it is a solid ship. As real as a ship could be but it is also a spectral thing. A ship from another world that we do not know and cannot understand. It feels as though it is beginning to get away from us as though if we just breathe too hard or whisper it's name to harshly. Then it will vanish from view. Like a dream on the edge of waking.

There is a fine line between courage and stupidity. But there are always some who will try to board the ship. Always some. Warriors who wish to make a name for themselves. Old sailors who hear the call of foreign and alien seas. Men and women who have been deserted for others and their broken hearts drive them to foolishness. There are always some who try to leave on the Skeleton Ship.

When it stops for the supplies which is the only time that the Ship's crew descend from their deck to lift the food that the innkeeper has left for them onto the ship/

But there is always someone. Always someone willing to try to get aboard.

But there is a fine line between bravery and stupidity.

As the cargo is loaded, a few men, and occasionally women, will run down to the docks to try and climb aboard. Cheered on by a few people who do not know better. Shouted at by those who have seen this before but there is always a hope that maybe, maybe this time someone will make it to the deck.

The two figures playing dice at the back of the boar always react instantly and without hesitation. The robed figure looks up, the cowl slipping backwards a bit as he raises his arm and his gaze. Some claim to have seen inside the hood to see what lies underneath. Some claim it is the face of a man, pale skinned like the ragged woman next to him. Some claim it is the face of a corpse or that they see a grinning skull where a face should be.

The woman turns. She looks... cross, disappointed even. Exasperated at the interruption to her game. She glances at those people trying to climb aboard, hand over hand up the many ropes, or over the planks of wood that make up the side of the ship with a sharp glare. Everyone has seen the expression on that woman's face as it turns towards us. Everyone. Because everyone has done something that our mother has told us not to do and everyone has seen our mother's face when she has see the results of our actions. That look of exasperated and loving disappointment.

Then she shrugs.

For those of us in the distance. It would seem that she says something to the cowled figure. He nods. The men climbing up onto the ship, stop as they look around the deck. Some draw weapons although they seem lacking in enemies. The crew of the Skeleton ship either back away from the boarders or are below loading up the supplies.

The cowled figure points his skeletal hand at one boarder. Seemingly at random. The woman nods and the dice roll. The woman shrugs in disappointment in the same way that you shrug when you lose a hand of dice poker for a couple of shaved copper pieces.

The boarder the cowled figure pointed at topples over. He doesn't choke. He doesn't bleed. He just dies.

The skeletal hand rises again and selects another figure. The woman nods and the dice roll. Again the woman shrugs at her loss and another boarder falls.

It has all happened so fast.

One boarder sees the two dicing figures as a threat, draws his weapon and charges, followed by a fellow.

The skeletal hand rises again, the woman nods and the die roll. Another shrug. Another man dies.

The man's fellow reaches the two dice players, pulls back and swings his sword with all his might. The cowled figure reaches up and catches the sword in mid stroke. The man falls, struggling to keep his feet after the expended energy. The cowled figure negligently tosses the sword over the side of the ship before gesturing at the attacker.

The woman nods and the dice roll. The woman shrugs and the attacker dies.

Realising that they had made a mistake, desperately, the remaining boarders leap over the side. One lands badly and breaks his leg. The other is running.

Nothing more terrifying to a warrior than a death that you cannot fight.

The cowled figure gestures. The dice roll. A man dies.

Another gesture. Another roll of the dice. The man, still running and pushing through the crowds falls dead at the feet of his friends.

There is one boarder left. An old man, a sailor, a widower, a man who just wanted to sail the seas. He stands proud, resigned.

The cowled figure points at him. The woman nods. The dice roll.

The old man dies.

The cowled figure looks around for a while. To see if there is anyone else that they might want to play for before he shrugs for the final time and they return to their original game. There is a feeling to them both that they feel almost bored now. Disappointed as though they had been looking forward to something else.

Looking forward to doing something else.

Why do people climb aboard the Skeleton Ship?

I do not know. No-one has survived the attempt in my lifetime, or in my father's lifetime. There are rumours of course. There are always rumours but no-one can say for certain whether anyone can confirm those rumours. Legends are the least of things.

Legend has it that Grymmdjarr limbed aboard the Skeleton Ship when he was looking for a place to build his castle. Legend says that in his case, the woman won the dice toss and asked him what he he wanted to know. He asked and she answered.

Legend has it that Asturr Karsson climbed aboard and the woman won the dice roll. That was how he learned the correct technique to reliably navigate to the continent and then, more importantly, come back safely.

Legend also has it that the Svein whom men called Manbreaker asked how to be strong.

But they are legends and although you should always learn from legends you should also learn from truth.

No-one has survived climbing aboard the Skeleton Ship in years. Centuries even. Do not listen to rumour. Do not listen to those who will say that the purity of the question, or the intent of the question has an effect. No-one knows the rules of the dice game that the two figures play. No-one knows how to survive. All that we know is that those who climb aboard the Skeleton Ship are doomed to die.

The crew finish their task and climb back aboard. The youngest of the crew waves to those of us still watching. The crowd is shocked at the sudden deaths and we mill around in confusion at the suddenness of it all. We look to each other and shake our heads at the stupidity of the young.

The Skeleton Ship pulls away from the dock. A bell rings, it's sound deadened by the mist and the weight of the moment. It sounds...hollow somehow as the Skeleton Ship sails on.

Only those who stay the longest, those men on the bridge of Kaer Trolde who watch what happens below. They see the ship edge away over the water as it sails through the narrow channel. Only just clearing the cliff face on either side as it slips out to open sea. Silence reigns as it goes, sailing out into the deepening darkness until it is just a thought on the edge of shadow. The Albatross that still circles overhead calls again. Calls mournfully and sadly before it too vanishes from view.

The Skeleton Ship is gone.

Many celebrate. The ale casks are opened and food is eaten. Many people feel that their lives have been affirmed and indeed, life will return back to normal again. People drink and tell tales. People are remembered and the dead rest that little bit easier as our tales carry them across the rainbow bridge of swords into whatever hall awaits them. They deserve that celebration for life is hard on the islands and especially hard during the time of the passing of the Skeleton Ship.

But for those of us who watch, listen and wait. We wonder when the Ship will next come our way. When will it next sail through our waters. When will the next time be that our seas freeze and our people die of that awful cold?

We don't know of course. All that can happen is that we set our watchers and set our guard to the west. To that great expanse of blue-green sea that tosses and turns like the body of a dreamer.

And we wait for the sight of that sail again.

And the sight of the Albatross.

-

The written word doesn't really do it justice.

As an art form, it's not just the swords spoken, it's also the tone of voice, the different voices used as the Skald impersonates different people from a querelous and grumpy old woman to a young boy, back through the hardened warrior and steadfast noble lady.

It's also the movements of the man. The shouting of battle cries, the whispering of intimate secrets meaning that the entire audience leans forward to try and catch what is being said.

The written word also doesn't capture the crowd's laughter. The odd joke or comment coming from the audience and the Skald's rebuttal. The cheers or the screams or the gasps of fright. It doesn't grasp the feel of the place. The smoke from the burning oil in the torches. The lofty, draughty ceilings or the held breath of dozens of people hanging on every word that the Skald said. Waiting for every gesture and movement like children waiting for their parents to tell them that it's time to go to bed.

I should say that what I have written up here is not the version of the story that I heard on arrival, it's more an approximation of what I heard. I have heard the story many times since that first listening as I was there for a reason, with a mission to fulfil.

As an example, the Skald changed the story for his audience. The character of a Witcher only turned up when Kerrass was listening or when another of the guests of the Empress was in attendance. You could tell how the Skald felt about Witchers depending on the Witcher in questions placement in the story. Sometimes the Witcher was proud and noble in bearing as they listened and acted according to wisdom. Sometimes they were a figure of comedy and sometimes they were amongst the dead that the “cowled figure and the ragged woman” played dice for.

What I do remember was that after the story had been told I was struck dumb. I sat in my seat as though someone had hit me with a hammer, my mouth hanging open in shock, both at what I had heard and the manner in which I had heard it.

Kerrass had been sat next to me throughout and leant forward at the end of the story, stroking his chin and thinking.

Lord Voorhis approached me and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Now do you understand?” He asked. “We have to talk her out of climbing aboard that ship.”

I didn't respond. I was still taking it all in.

“Lord Frederick?”

I turned to face him, my mouth hanging open. I had absolutely no idea what to say.