Lost Tales of Ga'Hoole

hear all about her meeting with Sig tonight. That made her feel a little better.
    Brunwella Plonk sat quietly in her nest. She was thinking about her da, Berrick. He was a healer, had been since the war. These days, he was often away from the hollow. She wished she could see more of him. She and her sister were near mating age and soon it would be time to leave the nest for good. She wondered what her da was doing right then. Collecting herbs, no doubt, and maybe making a poultice for some poor injured owl. Brunwella guessed that her father now and again even helped to heal wounded soldiers from the Resistance, but she and her sister never talked about it openly. To do so would be dangerous. Sympathizing with the defeated Kielian League was one thing; assisting the Resistance was quite another. It was considered an act of treason against the victors. Whatever her da was doing, Brunwella was certain it was very noble. She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t even hear as her stepmum approached the hollow.
    “HA! She’s dead!”
    And with that, Rodmilla Plonk, Brunwella and Thora’s stepmother, broke the peace as she flapped into the hollow. She had been out with friends, and had clearly brought back a juicy bit of gossip.
    “Old Melvonia Plonk has finally sung her last little ditty,” she continued. “Oh, darlings, did you hear me? Melvonia is dead! The singer at the Great Ga’Hoole Tree is DEAD!”
    The very pitch in which Rodmilla squawked, which is to say, so high that it was beyond the hearing range of some older owls, could only mean that she was extremely excited. Melvonia was known in the Northern and Southern Kingdoms alike simply as Madame Plonk, the esteemed singer of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree—the chosen one of her generation. And the death of the great tree’s singer was big news indeed, for a new singer would have to be chosen.
    “Mother, I wish you’d show some sympathy,” Brunwella said. She, too, had heard of the news earlier that night. “I heard she died suddenly, and she was so young. I think it’s quite sad.”
    “Oh, shush up, Brunwella. What do you know? Where’s your sister? She needs to hear this! Thora? THOOOR-RAH!” With that, Rodmilla flew out of the hollow that she shared with her mate and her two stepdaughters.
    Odd… Brunwella thought; Thora wouldn’t care one bit about the death of Melvonia, the singer of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. Why was Rodmilla so intent on telling her? If anything, Brunwella would be the one most affected by the news. She had long been considered a very talented singer of her generation and had been primed nearly since hatching to sing at the voice trials that would decide the next singer.
    “Where has that stubborn owl gone off to?” Rodmilla screeched when she failed to find Thora.
    “I haven’t a clue, Mother,” Brunwella answered, although she was almost certain that Thora was off with Sigfried again. And Sigfried, bless his gizzard, was exactly “the wrong sort of Snowy” according to her stepmother. “She’s probably just out hunting,” Brunwella added casually, trying to cover her little lie.
    “Hunting? Well, that’s the last thing she should be doing. That girl needs to cut back on those plump little snow mice this time of year—and attend to her figure!” Rodmilla stopped fretting for a second and eyed her younger daughter up and down. “You ought to think about cutting back, too, dear.”
    There it was again: “cutting back.” Both Brunwella and Thora were awfully thin. It was a harsh winter and food was scarce. Brunwella knew that “cutting back” was her stepmother’s subtle way of reminding her and her sister that it was time for the two of them to leave the nest. When Thora had left the first time, Brunwella could tell that her stepmother was secretly pleased, though when she came back, Rodmilla had acted overjoyed.
    “Oh, I do wish that girl would just stay where I can find her,” Rodmilla continued to fret.
    Brunwella rolled her yellow eyes. Mother sure is fired up today. When the moon had started newing, they had gotten word that they would be receiving a special visitor come full moon—a visitor by the name of Henryk, Marquis Henryk VI, to be exact. Although most owls in the Northern Kingdoms had done away with such titles ages ago—they were next to meaningless, after all—some families still clung to them. Generation after generation, they prided themselves on being direct descendants of one