FICTION
The White Lady
Shadows filled the Raven’s Roost, but in the furthest corner was the most mysterious shadow of all.
They said he came up from the south earlier that day, leading a chestnut mare, and he had been at the tavern ever since.
The tavern keeper anxiously rearranged bottles of ale in the dim, flickering candlelight.
It was not often the tavern keeper opened his doors to strangers before opening hours, but he knew that it is not wise to deny men from the south refuge.
The southerner sat unmoving in the shade, peering out of the window with cold eyes. As the sun sank, a wave of black passed through the sky.
‘The ravens’ descent,’ he murmured, draining the last dregs of his ale.
The tavern keeper, who was checking the beer taps, took notice and lifted his head.
Outside, the ravens spilled down from the sky like a noxious tar filling the ancient ash tree.
The southerner got to his feet and stepped forward into the pale light. He was an unpleasant looking man with hair as red as flame. His skin was white, and it clung so tightly to his skull that his every feature seemed as sharp as razor blades.
‘So, you are to be going then?’ the tavern keeper asked nervously.
