Long had it been since she bore Arthur unto Avalon. The knights who once gathered beneath his banner had faded into dust, and the spirit of the land once called Britain dwindled with them.

Rita held no hatred for those who wandered near her waters. Yet grief lingered within her all the same, for the people who once revered the hills, rivers, and sacred groves of Kernow were vanishing year by year; some bent the knee to the Saxons, while others abandoned the land entirely.

Their tongue had become strange upon her ears. The speech of the invaders was harsh and prideful, a language carried by men who measured strength by conquest alone. She loathed it. More than once had Saxon blood stained her blade in defense of the old folk and the remnants of her kin. Yet despite her efforts, they still fled westward, or vanished into the sea-mist of memory.

This day seemed no different from the countless before it. Rita watched silently over her secluded realm, ever wary of foreigners who strayed too close to the lake.

Then she saw him.

By the water's edge stood a lone traveler, foreign in garb and bearing.

Without a ripple upon the dark waters, Rita emerged from the depths. Pale cloth clung lightly to her form as she advanced through the shallows, sword drawn and gleaming with droplets of black lakewater.

"Who are you," she asked coldly, "to disturb my dwelling?"

Her stance lowered. One more step, and she was prepared to strike.