Weathered stones rest round ‘n crumbled,
of that old broken tower tall ‘n noble,
there a weary eye might catch a glimmer,
of long satin robes that wave ‘n shimmer,
a glowing face bares timeless eyes,
‘n gossamer hair brushes ghostly thighs,
a beautiful form fair ‘n striking,
a hollow visage doth easily frighten,
do not tremble for our good white lady,
count again omens give kindly,
for should she smile broad and clear,
know you are ever welcome there,
O’ though should she frown ‘n glance to you,
heed her warning ill fortune comes due.
– Ballad of the White Lady, circa 400 E.R.
The Lady of the Hill
Estae 17th, 639 E.R.
Laurel heard the clatter of little feet coming up the stairs in great haste. It was hardly warning enough for a six year old to grab hold of one leg, nor her sister in turn to glom onto the other, nearly toppling him in the process.
“Laurel,” Kiannae began in a panic, “there was a lady in our room.”
“But she wasn’t all there,” Katrisha added.