To the townspeople of Rosenfell, their lives were made resplendent, their futures secured, and peace reigned supreme, when the hag’s eyes stared - at long last - unblinking, at the mighty Queen Briar’s blade: Stillmaker.

House Briar’s rose banner went up in every window, the dead were honoured with songs that echoed across the valley, and, as the sun rose, all of Rosenfell looked up.

Queen Briar stood atop a stone block, Stillmaker raised high, haloed by the sun.

The town held its breath.

“I promise you,” proclaimed the Queen, “I shall let no harm come to Rosenfell for as long as I am your Queen!”

And the town rejoiced.

Until all trade stopped, for the gates were barred, and the crops dried up in the fields, for Queen Briar thought poison lurked in the soil, and children were taught to be vigilant against insurgence, though they did not understand the word, only the beauty of Queen Briar’s armor-clad figure and the way her voice rumbled like thunder, and they denounced parents, neighbours, one another; so that Stillmaker was never idle.

For, Queen Briar reasoned, no harm could ever come to Rosenfell if nothing - and she would make sure of this - ever changed.

And so she keeps vigil, the dead hag’s stony sepulchre her vantage point, though her beloved people have long shrivelled up, perished brittle and bone-dry as the land; in time, the hag’s lingering magick seeps through the crudely-made tomb, (for even stone must eventually crumble and change) intertwining with Queen Briar’s desire to love and care for her kingdom, and roses of deepest red burst forth to caress their Queen, their scent a repellent of death, extending her life so she may keep her promise to Rosenfell forevermore.

And thus a new hag is born.