HLoM: The Firebird, Chapter 2

[NeoTiamat]

When Lena came to, she had a good-sized bump on the back of her head. This was presumably because when one falls into a dead faint on stone cobbles, one is liable to hurt oneself. It was possible that Lena had a concussion.

In any case, Lena sat up with the help of the dashing young acolyte, though even the bard couldn't make sitting up and groaning look attractive. She did, however, catch the last bit of what the other acolyte had said.

And there had been...

Lena's mind recoiled from the thought. That was not what happened. Clearly not. Not that such things ever happened in Barovia. Of course not. Lena had just fallen, gotten a concussion, and this was her mind giving her weird dreams. And frankly, if any place was liable to have weird dreams, it would be Castle Tristenoira. So there was a rational explanation for all of this.

...Lena didn't believe it either.

"W-would it be possible, sir, to hear the story of St. Brangain and St. Marcel from beginning to end? From the... from the source?" Lena said vaguely. She looked around for her fox. Ushka was the firm point in Lena's universe just now.

[Nathan of the FoS]

The anchorite makes a “wait a moment” gesture to Lena; once you have emerged from the chapel where the relic is housed, he says, “I’d be happy to, Baroness von Zarovich. This place has been sacred since pagan times—the old gods were worshipped here, and it’s always been a place of spiritual power. There’s a whole cycle of stories describing how St. Brangain’s grandmother received the Shield for safekeeping from the Iron Lord in his beatific guise, and how her father was cursed by an evil druidess to be a living man by day and a ghost by night, but that’s not Brangain’s story exactly, I suppose. She was a visionary from an early age—her mother was very devout, though of course she worshipped the old gods—but her father was against the old gods because of his curse, which he kept from general knowledge, and then even more because a druid murdered his son and escaped. St. Brangain learned of her father’s curse and wanted to appeal to the gods for help, but he forbad her and locked her away. But the Lady and Lord heard her prayers and sent St. Marcel and his companions to rescue her, which they did despite the machinations of the druidess—er, sorry, I think I forgot to mention that the druidess who cursed the Laird ApBlanc was a restless spirit who haunted the place and who tried to interfere with the rescue. But St. Marcel and the others were able to save her. They found the Shield in the place where the angel had told them it lay, and did many miracles with it that were instrumental in converting many of the Forfarians to the faith, and even some of the Hazlani, though of course they’re more inclined to talk of the Lord and Lady than of the Lady and Lord, as the saying goes. She penned the Fourth Book of Ezra a few years later. St. Marcel, of course, became her stepfather and was a great missionary in his own right…um…would you like to hear about his ministry?”

[Isabella]

For the sake of narrative, assume Richard stays to hear the whole story out; for sake of speeding this on back to Hazlan, I am going to do my various stuff here and now.

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There were wild roses, in the forest. Not the cultivated kind of the gardens back home - simple, single petaled roses, a rich pink that was almost red. It felt silly to pick them and lay them down not far from where they'd once grown. Richard had little else to offer. The niceties of life had been left behind, not brought to a realm of despair and death. Now this was a place of peace, and he was a poor fit for it. He made sure to at least drop a few coins into any offering box the stone chapel had.

"It... it seems you found, found some roots at last," he said, to the air around him. "Though I-I-I am still so very sad to lose you. You were a-a great man. It feels good to-to see it recognized. Are you still- are you still here, I-I wonder? Can you hear me, Marcel? Brangain? Rual? Laird Tristen?"

Richard carefully set the flowers down against the castle wall, watching the wind sway the petals. "We had our-our-our differences, didn't we, Laird ApBlanc? The others say you still walk these woods, sometimes. Will you listen to an-to an old foe?"

"Your mother loved you, Tristen. More... more than I-I can ever say. And I-I-I wish... I-I wish you both happiness. Maybe-maybe you've already found it."

Richard sat down, his back against the stone walls, and paused a moment to draw in a breath. He gave a wan smile, lifting an imaginary toast to the chapel.

Of all the money, e'er I had, I spent it in good company,
And all the harm I have ever done, 'Alas it was to none but me.

And all I've done for want of wit, To memory now I can't recall,
So fill to me the parting glass, Goodnight and joy be with you all.

So fill to me the parting glass, And drink a health whate'er befalls,
Then gently rise and softly call, Goodnight and joy be to you all.