 Although the attendant nursemaid had protested, sprites had transported the boy on shiny, brittle wings to a stone tower in the glade of Bran where she reigned as Mistress Kalyb, Lady of the Wood. During the years that followed, the young prince was tutored by the Queen; to him she imparted the art of the hunt, the lore of the forest, the wisdom of woman. And as he grew to manhood, the youth once named George fell under a seductive spell, each day a welcomed opportunity to yet again fall down in adoration of Kalyb's flashing foot, to shine her plated heel with his hot breath. Many were the loving tributes he dedicated to her person, many were the ground-length, red strands of her tresses that he wove through his fingers whilst prostrate atop an earthy carpet of moss and needles of pine. Bitter then, indeed, was the morn George awoke to find himself alone in his keep, merry snowflakes dancing beyond slit in stone, no poke of a lance to remind him of his place. "She has deserted me, " he moaned aloud, "that Bless'd Damosel. Without her here, this Paradise is akin to living Hell." Resolved to seek out the lady and find his salvation, the erstwhile squire buckled on gauntlet and breastplate, helmet and spur. The faeries saddled his steed and the knight departed on an holy assignment - for her cruel regard was more precious to him than any treasure of lore. The patrol proved to be fruitless; no Kalyb did George track. After weeks of pure anguish, the youth returned, broken-hearted, to a desolate glen. As the knight neared her forbidding tower, a spectre appeared. A fiend protected by black armour, more frightful than Death; smoke issued from the jaws of a wide visor while hideous adders provided helmet with dark, sinister plumes. "Kneel down," cried the wraith, "your tribute is mine. No Kalyb will save you, return to mankind." "Begone," ordered George, "foul dragon, damned beast. This sword that she carried will be your defeat." The devoted retainer of Kalyb rushed forward to prove the merit of his intent. Flames darted from the threatening gape, though George did not falter. Backwards, into the bowels of the rocky fortress, he drove the wicked blasphemer. An elf brought forward a key and the prince promptly locked-up the menace to the sacred glade. Quite proud of his defense, the hero departed, renewed in his faith that Kalyb awaited, somewhere, for her loyal slave. "Ah, George," sighed the prisoner, removing serpentine shade, "you have fulfilled my dream without being paid. Henceforth you will ride all the days of your life, tormented beyond reason, a brother to strife. Your fame will be mighty, all will speak of this deed, that you conquered the dragon, but tell me, who stands here, in its stead? Then Kalyb, happy convict of her own house, took up pen and decreed: One day will the legend of George be avenged, For a poet to queen will rise up among men. He will write of this day and record my fair game, And the soul of his mistress my spirit will flame. You will know that I live in her beautiful frame, For her hair will be scarlet, Gloriana her name. Yet, the sign that will blaze as a comet of light, By which you will know me and pledge her due fright, Is the snake that coils up the length of her sleeve - Kneel down, kiss her hem and Kalyb you please. Then the Lady of the Wood laughed a low, fearful laugh and gazed into the scrying mirror that her otherworldly subjects produced.  
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