Broken into three portions and missing its base entirely, the tapering slab measures just under one and a half metres in length, narrowing from roughly 59 centimetres at the top to 41 centimetres at the base. Its surface has been worn so smooth by time that almost nothing legible remains. Almost nothing, that is, except a faint incised cross-shaft and, along both edges of the slab, the ghost of a medieval inscription.

The lettering is Lombardic script, a rounded, formal style of Latin lettering used widely in ecclesiastical stonework from around the twelfth to the fourteenth centuries, often chosen for funerary monuments intended to convey permanence and dignity. On this slab, the permanence has outlasted the legibility. Of whatever words once ran down the dexter and sinister sides, only a handful of characters can now be made out: fragments that read something like ...V.O....IIT..T..... The name of the person commemorated, the date of their death, whatever pious formula the carver inscribed, all of it has been consumed by wear. FitzGerald, writing in the early 1900s, noted the Lombardic letters but offered no transcription or translation, suggesting the slab was already in a poor state by then. Maher, documenting it in 1997, could draw no further meaning from the surface.

There is something quietly unsettling about an inscription that was clearly carved with care, in a script chosen for its authority and readability, now reduced to a scatter of consonants. The Rock of Cashel draws visitors for its round tower, its Romanesque chapel, and its Gothic cathedral walls, but this slab, lying in the choir, asks a different kind of attention. Whoever was buried here once warranted a formal, inscribed monument on one of the most significant ecclesiastical sites in Ireland. That identity is now, in all likelihood, gone for good.