Ask Not For Whom the Banshee Wails

The cailleach passed through the doorway, and through the door itself, like mist rolling over a moor.

As before, she floated slowly to the center of the Great Hall and hovered over the Caomhánach coat of arms mosaic on the floor. She keened briefly but stopped.

“Now.”

Men at arms sprang forward to secure the spirit quickly using cords laced with silver. Thanks to the argent cord, they were able to manipulate her otherwise incorporeal form. They then secured spirit and cording in a silver-lined chest.

“The new silver tiles in the mosaic worked as you’d hoped. What shall we do with the banshee?”

“Deliver her to Clan O’Brien.”

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110 words. Written for Microcosms (12), prompts “banshee/castle/fantasy” (but I slept through the deadline, doh.)

That’s ok, it’s too Irish-jargony as written (wtf is a “Caomhánach” or “cailleach”?)