Hydaelyn Role-Players

The ballroom was an unpleasant amalgam of heat and noise, blaring with the light of the roaring fire and the harsh glow of far too many candles. The gentle melodies of harp, lute, and cello seemed to harmonize with the chaotic din of revelry. Glasses of spiced wine clinked with flagons of rich mead. At least for tonight, there existed no barriers of class.

While the inauguration ceremony of the new Temple Knights had been a predictably somber affair, the nobility were quick to latch onto any excuse with which to flaunt their affluence. This wasn’t an event that Ashur could have ever expected to attend, yet luck and circumstance seemed to be on his side. A friend of a friend of a friend happened to be a nobleman’s son, one thing lead to another and eventually the entire company was invited to attend the banquet, though only a few of them were actually newly-ordained.

Though normally a feast of this magnitude would be a more formal affair, the food had been hastily rearranged to a buffet, either out of consideration or condescension for those knights like Ashur who were common-born. Gilded and silvered antelope heads, fresh fruits, and a whole roast sheep presented extravagant contrast to the usually meagre knight’s bread that they had subsisted on for years.

Many had taken it upon themselves to ask ladies to dance, and the jovial melody swiftly changed to an elegant waltz. Ashur quickly excused himself to join the other wallflowers at the edge of the ballroom, scooping up another glass of spiced wine in the process.

“You appear to be out of your element, lad.” A Wildwood Elezen, aged and grizzled, startled Ashur by slapping the Hyur’s back roughly, nearly sending the spiced wine on an unfortunate journey to some poor noble’s doublet.

“A-ah, well, perhaps a little bit, Ser Praihaux,” Ashur coughed. Instinctively, Ashur began to raise his fist to his chest in a salute before Praihaux’s hands stopped the salute in its tracks.

“We are technically equals now, you know, Ser Vaye.” The Elezen paused before his eyes lit up. “You best hope you are never asked to perform reconnaissance, or else the jests about having to Ser Vaye the landscape will never stop.” Praihaux let out a hearty chuckle at his own pun, while Ashur merely raised an eyebrow in disapproval, which caused Praihaux’s laughter to increase considerably.

“I appreciate your patronage in every way, my lord, but I will be happy to be rid of your particular brand of humour,” Ashur grumbled in a tone of lighthearted disdain. Praihaux tapped the Hyur’s back again affectionately.

“You were a fine squire, Ashur. One could hardly ask for a better one. I’m certain you will be a fine knight, as well.” A kind, genuine smile split the aged Elezen’s face. Ashur was uncomfortable with such praise, and so he merely offered an awkward nod and a mumbled word of thanks.
The dancers were elegant, pirouetting across the dance floor. It was both wondrous and rather intimidating how coordinated everyone was. “Have you received official assignment yet?” Praihaux inquired idly, to which Ashur shook his head.

“The Second Commander will coordinate assignments first thing in the morn, so I am told,” Ashur said thoughtfully. His assignment had been something he’d been curious about ever since he became a squire. Something away from combat would be preferable, but never unavoidable given how the course of the war seemed to be coming closer and closer to Coerthas. The Knights Hospitalier, perhaps, or the Order of the Friars Templar.

Praihaux again clapped Ashur on the shoulder, sending the Hyur’s glass of wine precariously close to slipping to the ground. “Well, you enjoy yourself, lad. This knight is yours to celebrate, after all.” The Elezen’s wink induced a tired groan from Ashur, who raised his hand to shoo the Elezen away.

“Yes, yes, get on with it, my lord,” the Hyur said with mildly amused exasperation. “There’s a dance I should be pretending to watch.” Praihaux merely laughed again as he walked away.

Though he did feel painfully out-of-place and underdressed, Ashur would be lying if he said he never wanted to attend such an event again. The world of nobles was several spheres above his own, and this party was a rare glimpse that a commoner like him would rarely ever witness. Perhaps it would be fun to learn to dance like they did.

A snort, and Ashur shook his head. Not like such a skill would come in useful anyway.

--

What Ashur remembered most about the party was the aroma. The cloying scent of fragrant incense had mingled with the light of too many lanterns. The ballroom had been a frenzy of saccharine perfumes and stuffy colognes, battling with the more tender fragrances of the impeccably-prepared feast. It had been his first banquet, much less his first noble banquet. Would he be able to experience something like that again?

“Biasts!”

The draconian screech shook him out of his reverie. Ashur’s helmet felt stifling and claustrophobic; the memories of the perfumes and colognes were swiftly overpowered by the stench of steel and sweat, and yet the roars of the basilisk-like biasts and the flailing of claws stymied any urge the Hyur felt to liberate himself of a valuable piece of protection. The bloodthirsty howls of Dravanians mixed with the battle cries of those who were fighting, and the wails of those who were dying. The deep, thunderous bellows of cannonfire split the air in earth-shattering booms.

The Steps of Faith was littered with the bodies of dragons and knights alike, with the Dravanians’ massive siege dragon lumbering forward towards the wards, each colossal step causing the Steps to tremble. Temple Knights mixed with adventurers in the melee beneath the siege dragon’s bulk. Escaping from the brawl were four large biasts, rushing a straight line towards the cannons.

“Load! Load, damn it!” Ashur couldn’t recognise the voice over the din of battle, only that it was an authority his very soul felt compelled to follow.

Fuelled almost entirely by adrenaline, his hands fumbled with the cannonball, shakily pushing the round shot into one of the barrels of the Bertha cannon. The knight on the opposite side of the cannon gave the barrel a hard slap to indicate that the other barrels were loaded. The biasts rushed forward, eager for flesh.

“Fire!” The commanding voice roared.

All four barrels of the Bertha convulsed with titanic force, the trail of the cannon screeched against stone from the recoil. The upper half of one of the biasts had all but evaporated under the barrage, the rest of its body slumping over like a slab of meat as its lifeblood spilled on the Steps.

“Reload!” The knight-captain called.

“We’re out of shot!” Another knight cried. The captain grimaced underneath the full visor of his helmet.

“Close combat! We’ll engage them directly. We only need to keep them delayed until the dragon killer is ready!” The other knights gave a somewhat shaky nod, reading their shields and weapons. Ashur, unable to locate where he had dropped his lance, drew his sword and joined the front line of the shield wall as the knights assembled into a tight rectangle to meet the biasts Flickers of flame occasionally erupted from the maws of the biasts as they rushed forward, attempting to overwhelm the firing line of cannons. His hands were shaking, an ominous chkchkchkchk sound indicating that Ashur’s shield was violently rattling against those of his fellows.

Would he die here? There were so many corpses littering the field. Out of the corner of his visor, he could see one of the dragoons futile reaching out for help, before the massive claws of the siege dragon caused the fallen knight to shatter beneath an explosion of gore.

Ashur’s breathing was heavy and laboured. His vision was beginning to blur, and all he could smell was blood and his own terrified sweat. The biasts roared again, full of fire and fury.

Dragonflies swarmed another knight, tearing limbs off with wild abandon as the man screamed. An entire squad was incinerated, armor and all, by the igneous fireball of a diresaur, their cries of pain as brief as their lives.

No. No. No no no no no no no no no no no no no

His mind retreated, to better places.

--

“Tired of the nobles already, baby brother?” A heavy hand clapped on Ashur’s shoulder again, a gesture the Hyur was getting tired of. The Forgotten Knight was even busier than the banquet of the nobles. Ashur peered at a face that was much like his own, but ten cycles older and wearing a smile.

“Just making sure you don’t hurt yourself, Al. I’m the one who has to drag you back to the barracks at the end of the night.” Being the responsible sibling was always a chore, so Ashur thought.

Alric clasped a hand over his chest in mock horror. “Are you possibly suggesting that I lack restraint? I will have you know I am a knight!” With little warning, he leapt on top of the table. His hands were each armed with two tankards, and he struck a pose of an overdramatic noble. “Thy common rabbelries know not of whom they speak! For it is I, the mighty Ser Alric Vaye, the great swooner of fair maidens and slayer of all things winged and scaley! I do not allow such insults!” Alric began to thrust his tankards into the air, fighting off an invisible dragon as his mockery brought forth uproarious laughter from the boisterous and clearly-inebriated patronage.

Ashur squinted. He was fairly certain that “rabbelries” and “swooner” were not words, but wasn’t certain enough to protest.

Alric set his tankards down, ruffling Ashur’s hair as a...

--

...firm, gauntleted hand clapped him on the shoulder. The knight-captain tore his helmet off as it clattered on the stonework. Ser Praihaux was not wearing his usual smile or cracking his terrible puns. His grimace was one of pure, unyielding discipline.

“The Fury is our protector and our shield!” Praihaux was famed for a proud and booming voice, and yet Ashur could barely hear the voice of the captain over the roars and ring of steel, though he recognized the prayer. Unconsciously, his lips moved in sync with the words in his heart. A biast tackled into the shield wall, and Ashur felt his knee digging into the stonework. The knights behind the shields swiftly impaled the biast with thrusts from several lances, and the knights in the front tossed the body to the side.

A stream of dragonfire from another biast enveloped the front line of the shield wall, a terrifying inferno that even Ishgardian steel was hard-pressed to stand against. Ashur glanced away, coughing as the heated air seemed to sear his lungs, his hands trembling to keep a hold of the superheated shield as if Ashur were holding onto the sun itself. Another biast tackled the shield wall, collapsing its considerable bulk against the front line, and Ashur could see himself crushed underneath it like the fallen knight had been crushed by the siege dragon.

“Blessed are we, for Halone watches over us!”

As soon as the flame ended, he felt his body moving on his own. In unison, the front line of the wall forced the biast off as the lances thrust forward into its scaly hide, straight and true.

“Blessed are we, for the faithful shall forever triumph over the faithless!”

A diresaur broke through, a beast too large and too savage to hold with a shield wall. Though Ashur was missing his lance, the unit scattered to draw the diresaur into a semicircle of spears and swords. Though his mind was in tatters, Ashur felt his body move smoothly, as if possessed by the Fury herself.

“Blessed are we, for Her voice delivers us from the whispers of heretics!”

The diresaur made a wide swing of its claws. An ambitious knight made a leap with his lance before being backhanded over the edge of the Steps.

“Blessed are we, for Her devotion delivers us from the claws of the dragon!”

Ashur made a wide slash on the diresaur’s flank, provoking the flanged tail to smash into his shield, sending the Hyur across the Steps.

“Blessed are we, for--”

The Hyur coughed, struggling for breath. Something in his chest was clearly broken, as his vision began to cloud. A wyvern was flying away from the steps, with Praihaux’s head in its talons. A massive claw smashed down onto the steps next to him, the siege dragon advancing ever forward…

Though he could not force his lips to move or his lungs to expel air, the last words of the prayer fell upon his lips.

Blessed are we, for our faith in Her fury.

--

((To be continued, probably.))

Much like the party and much like the battlefield, what struck Ashur first was the smell.

His eyes flew open, and on reflex he attempted to sit up, only to receive a sharp, painful reprimand from what was left of his ribcage that caused him to collapse backwards onto the cot. The pungent aroma was from a traditional but increasingly rare poultice mixed from the gentian plant, originally native to Coerthas but mostly wiped out due to the everwinter. In a fit of irony, the only place one could reliably find the herb these days was in the wilds of Dravania.

It wasn't the most appropriate time to be thinking of herbalism, no, but doing so helped his mind focus on things other than the aches. Ashur blinked as his other senses began to return. He twisted his head on the pillow to get his bearings. This was the infirmary in Ishgard. Hospitaliers and chirurgeons alike shuffled between the cots, attending to the injured. Judging from the fact that he was indoors and not among the triage encampments, at least Ashur could take confidence in the fact that no one thought he was dead or dying, though the occasional pained wail rang through the infirmary. His torso was wrapped in bandages and a padded cloth had been affixed to his forehead, but other than that he didn't seem to be missing anything.

The battle? The Steps of Faith. The last thing Ashur remembered was being struck square in the chest by the vengeful swing of a diresaur's tail. Even recalling the incident made him wince. He placed the back of his hand over his forehead, his thoughts about to drift off in contemplating until a voice interrupted his reverie.

"Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling?"

Peering over him was a Midlander woman, dressed in the white robes of a chirurgeon. Somewhat distressingly, her robes were marred in a few fresh blood stains, though this didn't seem to affect her demeanor at all. Warm brown eyes carefully scrutinized Ashur for anything out of the ordinary, and her chestnut-coloured hair was tied back in a tight, neat bun. Her sharp, angled features were accentuated by her serious expression

"Like I've been trampled by a herd of chocobos," Ashur groaned slightly at another attempt to sit up, although the chirurgeon's hand firmly pushed him back onto the cot. "Although, not dead."

The chirurgeon smiled a grim, humourless smile, as if the gesture was more of a reflex than a genuine expression as she knelt down and wordlessly began to pull off Ashur's bandages before being stopped by his grip on her arm. "Wait. This is a gentian poultice; you shouldn't waste it." Perhaps it was because of his upbringing in the Brume, but this chirurgeon's apparent lack of frugality in medical supplies was instinctively disconcerting to him.

"The gentian will regrow, in time. The same cannot be said of you if these wounds of yours are beset by infection because you wanted to save some poultice." Her lips were drawn into a tight line, although the glint in her eyes suggested anything but politeness.

Unable to form an adequate response, Ashur merely sighed and gave a slight wave. As the chirurgeon pulled off the bandages, the knight was greeted with an ugly, patched bruise across his chest. All things considered, it was remarkable that such a grisly wound looked worse than it felt. "Well then," Ashur muttered. "Thank the Fury for Ishgardian steel."

The chirurgeon, in the midst of reapplying a fresh set of bandages, seemed to bristle at his casual comment. "Your gratitude better spent on the ones who pulled you off the battlefield and away from the brink of death. Halone is busy enough claiming the souls that were 'offered' to Her."

Ashur blinked, not expecting his mild praise to provoke that kind of venomous outburst. He winced and gave a short gasp as the chirurgeon tightened the new set of bandages around his torso. A closer examination of his caretaker showed more detail; dark bags were under her eyes, and the bloodstains on her robe...triage doctrine demanded that any healing magic be used on those who can be saved, and since this chirurgeon didn't seem to be able or willing to use conjury, Ashur could only assume that most of her time had been spent trying to save or comfort the dying ones who had no hope.

The knight had a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue, but his expression softened the more he thought about it, and he let the matter rest.

"You'll have to stay here for at least a few more suns until you're well enough to move," the chirurgeon said tersely, brushing an errant strand of chestnut hair out of her eyes. "Unfortunately, there won't be a scar." With that, the chirurgeon stood up to leave.

"All the better," Ashur grunted. "A man with scars is just a man who was stupid enough to get hit in the first place."

She paused, the corner of her lips daring to curl into a slight grin. "That's...a good way to look at it," the chirurgeon said lightly before stepping away to check on other wounded knights, but was again interrupted by Ashur clasping the ends of her robes. She turned her head, with any levity on her face replaced with some annoyance.

"Er..." Ashur suddenly felt uncertain about this, judging by the pointed glare the chirurgeon shot at him. However, what she said about spending his thanks resounded with him. "May I...know your name? I'd like to better spend my gratitude. However briefly."

The chirurgeon seemed somewhat taken aback by his request, though her mask of composure affixed itself to her face with remarkable speed. "Stella," she replied, her own severe countenance softening.

Ashur gave a short, affirmative nod. "Thank you for saving my life, Lady Stella."

Stella simply returned his nod with a small one of her own, before moving down to another aisle of cots, and Ashur felt a wave of exhaustion come over him as he relaxed into the cot for some needed rest.

"Ah, there you are!"

A boisterous voice rang through the infirmary, and Ashur was greeted by a familiar sight. His brother, Alric, was nearly ten cycles his elder, yet their relation was plainly evident; the two shared the same broad, angular features, the same mess of sandy blonde hair, and the same amber eyes. Alric was considerably more worn and weathered, though that didn't prevent him from wearing a broad smile.

"Recovering well, baby brother?" Alric asked cheerfully, nonchalantly sitting on the edge of Ashur's cot. The latter winced slightly at the sudden rumble of motion. "I'm sorry I couldn't see you sooner. The commander needed all hands on board for tedious labour, and unfortunately mine were idle enough to qualify." Alric gave his younger brother a quick look-over. "No scars?"

"You remember what Father said about a man with many scars," Ashur said dourly. "All things considered, I made it out mostly unscathed." As if to illustrate, he gestured to his bandaged torso. "Nothing but some ugly bruises that will vanish with proper mending."

"Unfortunate," Alric said, clapping Ashur on the shoulder. "Scars make for great conversation pieces. They'll be what attracts you a gorgeous noble wife, one day." Alric tapped a small scar on his cheek, mirroring Ashur's earlier gesture.

Ashur rolled his eyes. "I doubt you'd attract any noble ladies if they actually knew that that scar was from that time you tried to 'feed' a stray hound by headbutting it."

"It's not about what actually happened, it's about what they think happened. Which, by the way, happens to involve a deadly dragonfly scratching at my face. At least, once I'm done coming up with the story." Alric laughed before pausing. "How soon can you leave?"

"It'll be at least a few suns," Ashur replied, wincing in pain as he attempted to roll his shoulder to gauge how the bones in his chest were mending. "Did you see Mother before you came here?"

"If I did, she'd have just told me to march over here to check on you first anyway. Hells, she may have decided to come herself," Alric chuckled. "You missed the battle, baby brother. The lines were breaking, but those adventurers--you should have seen them! Commander Lucia had them snare that great siege wyrm in the snares, then pow, ten fulms of dragon killer steel rained on its head!"

"Well, I was busy being unconscious, but I'm sure it was a sight to see," Ashur grumbled before sighing. He recalled the memories of the battle once more. "Oddly, I was thinking of my inauguration during the battle."

"I'm assuming you mean that posh noble banquet you were invited to?" Alric inquired thoughtfully, raising a gauntleted hand to his chin. "That was years ago. If you were paying more attention, maybe you wouldn't be stuck in the infirmary for a few more suns." He clapped his hand on Ashur's shoulder again, retracting quickly once the latter gave a hiss and a wince of pain. "You've been a knight for...what, six cycles, and you're still daydreaming on the battlefield?
The joviality had fled from Alric's face and been replaced with one of stern reprimand. "You might not be so lucky next time."

"Ser Praihaux is dead, Al," Ashur murmured somberly, the memory still fresh on his mind. "A wyvern. Saw his head carried off and everything." Ashur had seen fellow knights die before, of course. It was war; that sort of thing was inevitable. Still, Ashur had served Praihaux as a squire since he was a teenager, and the Elezen had given off a certain air of being indomitable.

Alric's expression softened, though the smile didn't leave his face; it instead shifted from one of cheer to one of more subdued kindness. "You did him proud. I'm certain you did." A sigh, and then he stood up from Ashur's cot. "Just make sure you recover quickly, aye? I don't want to have to deal with Mother's hysterics any longer than I have to."

Ashur only gave a slight nod in response to one last affectionate pat from Alric before the latter stood to leave.

The intermingling scent of blood and poultices filled her nostrils. It amazed Stella that her nose continued to work as it did; three straight suns of handling the wounded, the dying, and the dead had left the chirurgeon drained beyond measure.

Beneath her was an Elezen, one of many knights heavily wounded in the Steps of Faith. His stomach had been torn open by the claws of a dragonfly, and while magic had brought him back from the brink, it would be Stella's hands that made sure he stayed in the realm of the living.

She was tired, yet even now, with even-handed restraint and mechanical discipline, she proceeded to sew the gash in the Elezen's stomach, his entrails having been carefully refolded back within his body. His mouth had been somewhat forcefully stuffed with bitter roots to stem the pain. The metallic smell of blood permeated his entire being, and he groaned with each new incision made to accommodate the silken threads that comprised of the stitching.

The Hyur glanced over to see if the knight was still conscious, and whether it was from the roots or the pain, the Elezen had passed out.

With a few more minutes, her work was finished, and with a sigh she closed the lid on her surgeon's kit and stood up to leave.

Despite delicate hands and a feminine demeanour, Stella carried herself with the confidence of a warrior, and as far as she was concerned, a warrior she was. Her battles were against Halone herself, fighting the Fury to prevent the reclamation of Ishgardian souls fallen in battle. Her weapons--unlike the immaculately crafted staves and wands of the conjurers--were the thread and needle, the knife and the tourniquet, the saw and the splint, for she had not been blessed with the talent for conjury.

Stella had never step foot on a true battlefield, but in truth she never needed to; the hastily constructed triage ward of the infirmary had all of the sounds and smells of one. The screams of a man who's flesh had melted from a biast's flame, the cries for mercy from those who had been trampled or clawed by a diresaur, the smell of blood, entrails, and evacuated bodily fluids from those who were one step away from death's door. A wife or mother wailing over the body of a dead knight, as it was carried away to be prepared for a proper funeral.

Such things were little more than background noise and odd odors, now, as noteworthy to Stella as the sun rising in the morning.

A light touch tapped Stella's shoulder who, in her exhausted state, whipped around. A young male Elezen regarded her, dressed in the same white robes of a chirurgeon, though his were covered in considerably less blood. A brief glance at the bags under Stella's eyes caused the Elezen to tut. "You've done more than enough. You should be going home now, Stella." He placed a hand on the side of the Hyur's face, as if tracing invisible wrinkles.

Stella snorted derisively, slapping the Elezen's hand away. "You worry too much, Eaufault." She was, however, thoroughly startled when Eaufault suddenly grabbed her left hand, which had been trembling. Almost instinctively, Stella willed her hand to cease its trepidation, though the damage had been done as Eaufault's eyes narrowed into the closest thing the soft-faced Elezen could muster into a glare.

"You know more than anyone that treating patients while exhausted will do you more harm than good," the Elezen said sternly, reaching out to take a hold of Stella's surgery kit.

The Hyur recoiled almost violently, her eyes alight with fiery pride, half at Eaufault's attempt to grab her tools, and half at the knowing indignation that Eaufault was completely right. She had been at this for far too many bells, with only the tiniest lapses of sleep to comfort her; it was amazing that she hadn't made a critical mistake thus far. And yet, the idea of returning to the empty house was just as abhorrent to her as justifying Eaufault's patronizing tone. "I do not believe I require your permission to perform my duties," she snapped testily.

Stella knew what she should do, but Eaufault's condescension re-ignited her stubbornness. Wordlessly, she turned away from Eaufault and marched onwards towards the inpatient ward.

In sharp contrast to the triage ward, the inpatient area was considerably more light and airy. Though it was still far too cold among the everwinter of Coerthas to have open windows, it was lacking the heavy atmosphere of death and decay. The knights here--those who were awake--were weakened, but had been deemed to recover quite steadily. Some citizen volunteers were handing out bowls of warm porridge or stew to those who were awake.

Perhaps it was just because of her exhaustion, but even thinking about Eaufault's condescension incensed her. With that in mind, Stella marched up to the first patient she saw.

It was a Hyur; he could not have been much older than three or four cycles than Stella herself. His sandy blonde hair was somewhat disheveled, but fortunately he didn't seem to have any significant external wounds. The upper half of his torso was carefully wrapped in bandages.

She knelt down and reached out to begin changing the bandages--not necessarily because they needed to be changed, but because Stella needed to do something to engage her discipline and calm her frayed nerves--when the man's eyes flew open and he tried to reflexively sit up, only causing him to immediately groan and fall backwards onto his cot.

"Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling?" Stella asked methodically, more out of habit than out of genuine concern. Not that she wasn't concerned, but if this knight was in the inpatient ward he couldn't be too badly injured, affording Stella some room to relax, if ever so slightly.

"Like I've been trampled by a herd of chocobos," the Hyur groaned again. He attempted to sit up once more, causing Stella to place a firm hand on his shoulder to force him back down onto the cot. Wordlessly, she began to pull the bandages off of him, but now it was his turn to clasp her arm.

"Wait. This is a gentian poultice; you shouldn't waste it," the Hyur said.

On the one hand, it was intriguing that a common knight seemed to be aware of the mixture by scent alone--the mark of a practised herbalist or, perhaps, just an odd upbringing. On the other hand, Stella was quite annoyed whenever someone attempted to tell her how to do her job, particularly when that someone was an uppity knight who couldn't even sit up on his cot because of broken ribs.

There were few things more irritating to her than patients attempting to play backseat chirurgeon.

"The gentian will regrow, in time. The same cannot be said of you if these wounds of yours are beset by infection because you wanted to save some poultice," Stella said testily, her lips drawn into a thin line. Whether it was her logic or her mildly threatening tone of voice, the man relented, laying down to allow her to pull the bandages off his torso.

The bruise on his torso was ugly, but looked worse than it actually was. The knight seemed to offer a small prayer underneath his breath. "Thank the Fury for Ishgardian steel," he muttered.

Before Stella could stop herself, she snapped. "Your gratitude better spent on the ones who pulled you off the battlefield and away from the brink of death. Halone is busy enough claiming the souls that were 'offered' to Her."

The exhaustion was wearing on her. Stella knew that she'd been awake for far too long and working far too hard, and internally she winced at the bitter, spiteful tone she heard herself speak with. And this was a stranger, as well. Yet the knight's small prayer brought to mind those chirurgeons in the triage ward still working to save lives, and those who had stepped onto the battlefield to bring the wounded to safety...and those who had not returned from the battlefield at all.

"You'll have to stay here for at least a few more suns until you're well enough to move," Stella said brusquely, pushing her exhaustion and her more venomous thoughts to the back of her mind and brushing an errant strand of chestnut hair out of her eyes. "Unfortunately, there won't be a scar." That was a particularly baffling piece of male posturing that Stella found indelibly idiotic. The Temple Knights particularly were far too eager to show off some wound or other, as if the mere act of boasting about being nearly killed would enlarge--

"All the better," the Hyur grunted, examining the newly-applied bandages. "A man with scars is just a man who was stupid enough to get hit in the first place."

Stella paused, the corner of her lips daring to curl into a slight grin, mentally filing away that observation for use as a retort on the next knight lamenting the lack of scars. "That's...a good way to look at it," she said lightly. Stella stood up and turned to leave, but not before feeling something clasp onto the edge of her robes. At first she was irritated, but her expression softened almost immediately.

"Er..." The knight on the cot seemed to struggle with whether or not he should speak. "May I...know your name? I'd like to better spend my gratitude. However briefly."

The request caught her off guard. Quite simply, no one had ever asked her name before. To most of the Temple Knights, though they were grateful for the chirurgeons and Knights Hospitalier both, they latter two were merely a service. Healing and recuperation was just part of the process of going back out into the battlefield to get killed, and the chirurgeons and hospitaliers were just nameless functions of that process. In short, some part of Stella had firmly believed that no knights would ever care about the names of those who struggled to save them from Halone's grasp.

Stella paused, searching the knight's face for any sign that she was being made the fool. There was, however, nothing but earnest gratitude.

"Stella," she replied. The chirurgeon felt exhaustion begin to settle upon her like a heavy blanket.

The knight nodded gratefully. "Thank you for saving my life, Lady Stella."

Stella simply returned his nod with a small one of her own, before turning to walk away. All of a sudden she felt some embarrassment; surely it was one of the knight's fellows or a senior chirurgeon who had pulled him off the battlefield, and yet he saw fit to thank her? Perhaps the man was simply a fool. That was a distinct possibility.

The thought of returning home to rest came to her mind again, though Stella took her time in pushing that thought back as she moved to another line of cots.

The streets of the Pillars would always be unfamiliar to Ashur, and the Hyur ran a hand through his blonde hair in mild frustration as he glanced at signs and lanterns, looking for any landmarks. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten lost looking for home, and if this excursion was any indication, it wouldn't be the last, either.

Though this was only the lower end of the Pillars--low enough that it might as well still be in the Foundation--it was still designed with the upper class in mind. Small stone dwellings fit snugly together with bare ilms separating the walls of one house from the walls of another, primarily to conserve space--a commodity that was husbanded carefully within the confines of a walled city. Bricks of gray, sturdy stone provided warmth amongst the everwinter of Coerthas, and all of the houses looked alike.

What separated these homes from the shanties of the Brume that Ashur had grown up in was an oft-overlooked luxury: windows. Homes in the Brume could barely afford functioning hearths, much less the glass and insulation needed for windows, and were often in various states of disrepair. That was without mentioning the fact that on the lower levels, windows letting in the chill could spell one's death sentence during particularly harsh seasons.

Despite--or perhaps because of--these luxuries, Ashur could barely tell whose house belonged to whom. Each house looked nearly identical, and even during this time of chaos, the streets were so clean and polished that it was nigh impossible to tell where exactly he was.

It was some time later, with some added luck, the Ashur finally spotted the house with the name "Vaye" printed on a sign attached to the door. He briefly fumbled for his key, when the door flew open, and Ashur felt a pair of thin arms thrown around his neck, a slight, slender woman hugged him fiercely and wordlessly.

"Careful now, Mother," Ashur said, laughing as he returned the hug. "I'm still technically recovering!"

The woman, Emilia, merely frowned in silence as she released her hold on him. Even in her age, Ashur's mother maintained a sense of robust health. Streaks of silver were beginning to show in her braids of straw-coloured hair, and wrinkles were becoming evident under her cheeks and on her hands, but otherwise she stood confidently and solidly, giving Ashur a careful, cursory inspection.

"Well, everything seems to be in place," Emilia huffed, before her face split into a relieved, gentle smile. "You'd best believe I'd have the Dravanians fleeing all the way back up the Spine if I saw even one hair out of place." She reached out to give Ashur another hug and an affectionate kiss on his cheek. "I am glad you had the time to come home, Ash."

Ashur returned the hug again and tapped his fist to his chest on a mock salute. "All in a day's work, though I am sorry for worrying you." He ducked his head slightly to enter the dwelling.

Though the Vaye family was technically noble by claim thanks to Alric--and later Ashur himself--achieving knighthood, the dwelling was small and modest. There was a second floor of bedrooms, but the main floor was quite small, consisting of a small kitchen folded into a living room, and a back room for storage. Yet despite the tight accommodations, there was an indelible air of luxury, owing to the beautiful decorations adorning the dwelling. Kites of varying sizes and rich colours sparkled in the light of the conical hearth built into the center of the living room. The floor was covered with thick, immaculately embroidered rugs.

"How soon do you have to return?" Emilia asked, glancing upstairs as if wondering if she should make the beds.

Ashur's jovial mood hardened somewhat, as he remembered the fate of his former commanding officer, Ser Praihaux. The images of the Elezen's head being carried off by the wyvern flashed in his mind's eye for the briefest of moments, though he was careful to keep a gentle smile affixed to his face. "I will be re-assigned when I report in tomorrow, but I should be okay to stay the night. Did Al say when he would get in?"

Emilia shook her head as she withdrew fresh linens from the storage room before heading upstairs. "Only that he'd try to make it today. I am not sure what the Commander is keeping him for, but it had better be important! More important than our first proper family gathering in a year!" Ashur grinned as he could hear the irritation in his mother's voice as she carried the linens up stairs.

The kitchen was in a state of chaos, indicative of Emilia's hurried attempts to prepare something. Though she wasn't on the main floor with him, Ashur raised a hand to hide his smile nonetheless. His mother had never been the most organised person--in fact, Ashur had learned to cook quite well at a young age to spare himself, Alric, and their father from a relentless plague of "Everything-that-was-in-the-pantry-at-the-time" stews--but that was something that, at this point in time, he continued to find somewhat endearing.

While the house was equipped with a rudimentary oven--another incredible luxury--it'd have taken far too long to prepare something via baking. A simple but hearty fish soup was easily prepared with everything Emilia had taken out, and so Ashur wordlessly set to work, pulling off his gloves and quickly dusting off his gambeson. He swiftly extracted a filet from the dried fish--a Bianaq bream--while simmering parsley, onions, and nutmeg with butter in a pan. The spices gave a savory, pungent aroma, while Ashur mounted a pot of light broth to boil in the hearth.

"What is it you were exactly planning to prepare, Mother?" Ashur wondered, more to himself than to Emilia, as he glanced around the kitchen. There was also tomatoes, popotos, fresh rolanberries, sweet cream, and cinnamon. In fact, the disconcerting variety of ingredients on display seemed to indicate that had Ashur arrived just a few bells later, "everything stew" was exactly what he was going to get. And while it wasn't necessarily bad--sometimes Emilia was just lucky enough to create an edible combination--it was certainly something that was owed more to chance than any actual culinary skill.

"Have the noble ladies been sharing anything worthwhile?" Ashur asked idly as he prepared a teapot on the other stove.

"Those shrill harpies only care about two things: crocheting and gossip!" Emilia's irritated yell resonated from the upper floor. "Oh, hearing Lady Ennelfeaux complain about receiving the wrong leather satchel from Gridania or bragging about how well her La Noscean oranges are growing in their 'orchard'. Bah!" Emilia stormed down the stairs, thoroughly worked into a frenzy. "A single tree doesn't count as an orchard anyway, you pretentious old bat." She frowned as she sniffed the aromatic scents of Ashur's cooking. "I had the food well in hand, you know! If this is the only respite you get, you should be spending it resting. You wouldn't want to re-open your wounds."

"There's nothing to re-open, Mother," Ashur corrected with a light tone of mock irritation. "Blunt force, no cuts." That wasn't entirely true, of course--though Ashur was cleared to return to action, the chirurgeon that had released him was quick to warn him that additional trauma would mean a much longer recovery time.

Emilia huffed at his correction, retreating into the storage room as the front door flew open.

"I smell something edible! So that is definitely not 'everything stew'!" Alric bellowed boisterously. The older Vaye was still dressed in his chainmail, though his helmet was tucked underneath his arm, leaving his other arm free for some particularly flamboyent waving. Alric glanced over at Ashric, dressed in his gambeson and poring over the simmering vegetables, patting the latter heartily on the back. "Ashur, my boy, you've saved us from culinary catastrophe, as always, as I knew you would! I'll be submitting your name for sainthood to the clergy immediately!"

"The Church only declares saints after they're dead, so I'll thank you to postpone on that," Ashur said, rolling his eyes and flicking Alric in the forehead.

"You boys are the most ungrateful lot I've ever had the misfortune of raising!" Emilia hollered from the storeroom.

Alric laughed, putting his helmet on the dining table and pulling up a seat. "Now, now, mother, didn't you hear? We became knights just to escape your cooking! Why, put Nidhogg in a kitchen with you and he'd be dead before the day was over!"

Light laughter filled the abode, and Ashur was filled with a sense of ease he'd not felt in a while. While the inauguration banquet--and the rowdier tavern party--had been pleasant, the feeling of homeliness was what he'd missed the most. While Emilia was in good health, ever since their father had died of the pox she was prone to loneliness. As much as she complained about the pretentiousness of noble company, those noble ladies were likely the only real interactions she had. Both he and Alric were constantly away, either out on assignment or sleeping in the barracks awaiting more assignment. Though their knighthood had raised their family from the Brume, there were times where Ashur wondered if it had truly improved their lives.

He glanced around at the kites adorning their rooms as Emilia and Alric bantered with one another. Though the stipends they received were more than enough to sustain them--since they more or less went entirely to Emilia--it was clear that money was not what was occupying her worries. Emilia firmly believed a superstition that kites were good fortune. The fact that their dwelling was absolutely covered in them, with each kite growing more elabourate and colourful than the last, was an obvious indicator of how their mother was doing.

Ashur shook his head. Now was not the time to fret about such things. What mattered was that they were all together, for at least this day. He carefully basted the sauteed fish with the fragrant butter and sliced it into chunks, carefully distributing the chunks in polished wooden bowls before filling the bowls with hearty broth.

He drew up a chair to join them at the table, and things were good for a time.

Ishgard's respite was brief.

Almost immediately after Ashur had been re-assigned to sentry duty within the Foundation, the Dravanian Horde attacked once again. With the wards at the Gates of Judgment disabled as a result of the battle with the siege wyrm, the city was now vulnerable. Several wyverns had broken through the defenses and made it inside the city proper. The battle was bloody but brief, and though the wyverns had not dealt excessive damage, the tension within the city was palpable. The return of Ser Aymeric from Ul'dah was but a small comfort, as the Lord Commander's presence was no guarantee that this storm would pass quickly or easily.

The wounded knights assigned to the Gates of Judgment were beginning to stream in, and it was thus that Ashur had been hastily called upon to assist the chirurgeons and the hospitaliers. "On your feet," he grunted, helping an Elezen to his feet. The Elezen's breathing was laboured and ragged, the chain links on his armour torn by a wyvern's talons; Ashur didn't need to be a hospitalier to know that the Elezen was about to be reclaimed by the Fury.

As he entered the infirmary, the Elezen had gone ghastly pale, and Ashur spotted a familiar face; chestnut brown hair tied back into a severe bun, and pure white robes that was already stained with blood. It was Stella, the chirurgeon that had been tending to him when he awoke after the Steps of Faith; she was busy reorganizing a new batch of medical supplies as chirurgeons dashed to and fro. Ashur wasn't entirely sure what compelled him to drag this wounded knight over to her; he barely knew anything about her. Perhaps it was the implicit trust that came with recognising a familiar face, no matter how recent the acquaintance. Perhaps it was the confidence with which Stella seemed to carry herself. Perhaps he came to her simply because Ashur didn't know what else to do.

"Your gratitude is better spent on the ones who pulled you off the battlefield.."

"Lady Stella. Lady Stella!" It took Ashur a few calls to catch her attention, though as soon as he had her attention he could see her warm brown eyes sharpen with discipline and purpose. She needed no explanation, no warnings or requests. She quickly strode over and began examining the Elezen with a careful, practised eye.

Whatever judgment Stella made, she didn't voice. Instead, she glanced up, locking eyes with Ashur. "You--"

"Ashur," the knight said, quickly providing his name.

"Ashur, lay him down on that cot and pull his armour off as quick as you can, but don't force anything." Wordlessly, he began to undo the straps and buckles holding the Elezen's chainmail together. Stella turned and snapped her fingers at a younger chirurgeon. "Eaufault! Give me light, water, and brandewine!"

The Elezen was white like candlewax, his lips turning a pale shade of blue, his forehead damp with sweat. When Stella placed the back of her hand on his face, the Elezen rattled and grimaced in pain. Ashur was careful to move him as little as possible as he undid the last of the straps and pulled the hauberk over the Elezen's head, then using his knife to cut open the knight's gambeson. The younger Wildwood chirurgeon, Eaufault, came forward carrying a lit candle, a pail of water, and a small metal flask attached to a leather strap around his neck. Stella pulled up her sleeves, flexed her fingers, and undid the latch on her surgery kit.

The light of the candle illuminated the severity of what they would be working with. A deep, jagged gash had been opened across the Elezen's ribcage, revealing fleshy innards glowing ruby red.

"Stella--" Eaufault began, falling silent when she shot him a venomous glare.

"Stanch the bleeding as best as you can," Stella directed, handing a soaked cloth to Ashur who did so without question.

Though Ashur was no stranger to wounds and gore, this was the first time he'd really seen a chirurgeon work. As he held the wet cloth to the Elezen's gaping innards, Stella calmly and resolutely checked for any signs of internal bleeding and damage and washed around the wounds with alchemical mixtures. Just as she was about to begin suturing the wound, however, Eaufault grabbed her hand.

"Stella," Eaufault said firmly. "He's too far gone."

Ashur glanced up at the other knight's face. All of the colour had drained from the Elezen's face, and he had ceased to breathe, his eyes frozen open in an expression of pain.

It was odd, how quickly one went from living to dying. One second this knight was a living, breathing entity, and now he was little more than several ponze of flesh. Ashur glanced down at the blood-soaked cloth in his hands, still warm from the knight's lifeblood spilling from his gut. Somberly, he put the cloth down and closed the dead knight's eyelids.

"The Fury keep him," Ashur murmured, though he was suddenly startled by Stella suddenly flipping the lid to her surgery kit closed and sauntering off. He found it bewildering. She was a chirurgeon, yes, and there were other wounded to attend to, but it felt too...impersonal, too callous to just abandon her patient so quickly. He was sure that Stella had her reasons, but it disturbed him how quickly she seemed to forsake the dead. Were there no rites or prayers to be said? If Ashur himself were to be taken by the Fury in this infirmary, is this all the honour he would be afforded after giving his life in defense of Ishgard? Nothing but pain and a clumsily-applied wet cloth holding in whatever was left of his blood?

Some part of his distress and consternation must have shown on his face, for the other chirurgeon, Eaufault, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Do not mind her. She is simply...brisk, is all." With few more words, Eaufault stood up and followed Stella, who had already begun attending to another wounded knight.

Ashur was left alone to finish whatever prayer had been on his lips for the dead knight, but as he stared at Stella's robes flitting into the triage wards, the prayer went unspoken.

The feeling of the cold, wet cloth on Stella's forehead was a brief reprieve. Though the everwinter was rarely a forgiving environment, the heat of so many bodies permeated the inside of the infirmary, and that combined with the stress of caring for so many wounded had left the chirurgeon sweating more than usual. Once again, she'd lost track of how many bells she had been awake or how many bells she'd spent in the infirmary.

"It'll take you at least a full moon to recover," the Hyur said sternly as she finished a suture in a knight's thigh. "Don't expect to walk during that time; if you have to move, use crutches or ask your fellows for help." The wyvern attack had shaken Ishgard, but the number of wounded were thankfully few. The chirurgeon sighed and the latch to her surgery kit made a soft click. At least this one would live. Stella enjoyed a secret moment of victory, basking in a brief mental image of her standing in defiance of the Fury. Halone would claim one less soul today. Perhaps it was time to rest.

Stella's discrete elation was interrupted by a gauntleted hand tapping her on the shoulder. She fully expected there to be another knight looking for something or other, and that was an annoyance she could have happily gone without.

The chirurgeon turned and to her mild surprise, recognised the knight that deigned to bother her. Though his uniform was the same as all others, he had solid, handsome features, and a mane of sandy blonde hair complemented his amber eyes. The easygoing and apologetic smile on his face drained some of the tension out of her somewhat. It was...odd. This was only the second or third time she had interacted with him, and yet something about his presence felt almost relieving.

"Ser...Ashur," Stella said politely, fumbling slightly to recall his name. The exhaustion was beginning to set into her bones and despite her reluctance to return to the empty house, a comfortable bed would not go without gratitude. Yet, she couldn't find it within herself to rebuff whatever it is Ashur may have had in mind. "Is there something I can help you with?"

Ashur cleared his throat, as if unsure of what to say, a gesture that immediately sparked some of Stella's ire; she'd highly prefer if he didn't waste her time.

"The Lady Traidelle is here and heard that you were the chirurgeon helping her brother." Ashur coughed into his gauntlet, as if embarrassed of the nature of the request he was making...or as if he wasn't certain how Stella would react. "Though Ser Traidelle--ah, the Elezen I carried in--though he has passed, she wanted to speak with you before he is taken for interment."

It took all of Stella's willpower to resist groaning aloud, though she did afford running an exasperated hand through her bangs of chestnut-coloured hair. This was likely a purely ceremonial function, and a pointless one at that. Ser Traidelle was dead, and nothing anyone dead would reverse that. Halone had claimed him, and the Fury was nothing if not a stingy and jealous patron.

It was a habit of noble patrons to speak to the chirurgeons who had been treating their dead or soon-to-be-dead family members to thank them and offer prayers and for the chirurgeons in question to offer condolences and platitudes, a habit that Stella found wholly tiresome and completely unwelcome. She'd suffered through such weepy affairs before, and though she was quick to give Eaufault's name in order to escape previous occasions, to her misfortune this seemed to be the one occasion where Eaufault was nowhere to be found. Not to mention that Ashur was there when this Ser Traidelle died, and if he was as infuriatingly honest as the other Temple Knights, he'd have given her name regardless.

Ashur paused, and Stella suddenly felt uncomfortable beneath his scrutinizing gaze. She suddenly felt irritatingly self-conscious underneath his amber gaze. Were the bags under her eyes showing again? Hands trembling from weariness

"I can tell the Lady Traidelle that you had retired already, or that I could not locate you if you prefer," the knight said abruptly.

That sudden proposal startled her. Such a courtesy was uncharacteristic of most Temple Knights that Stella had dealt with before. Most of them, while polite, were still stubborn unmoving zealots; they'd beat the Dravanians to death with copies of the Enchiridion if they could. When Ashur had brought the subject up, Stella was fully expecting him to politely but firmly insist that she help minister a rite of passage, despite her not being remotely related to the Church in function or status.

Still, while Ashur's considerate suggestion was tempting, it put Stella in another predicament. For one, her pride would never allow Ashur to lie in her place--though she was tired, she was not so waifish that she would pass out if she didn't head home immediately--and for two, the fact that he was considerate to begin with made her feel somewhat guilty for leaving him with the duty of comforting the likely hysterical Lady Traidelle.

"That won't be necessary," Stella said. Now it was her turn to clear her throat. "I will see her."

Ashur gave a curt nod, leading Stella over to the cot where the Elezen knight had died. Ashur had carefully folded the dead knight's hands over his chest, his eyes closed. Again, Stella felt a twinge of annoyance at the meaningless gesture. This knight had died in pain from a wyvern clawing open his intestines; prettying up that fact this way was ultimately meaningless.

Standing beside the dead knight's cot was a noble Wildwood lady, dressed in black. Stella noted with some mild disdain that despite the news that her brother was dead, the Lady Traidelle had apparently still taken the time to apply blush and other frivolous makeup, with an immaculate silk handkerchief to keep the tears from smudging her eyeshadow. The whole spectacle nearly caused Stella's eyes to roll straight out of their head.

What a farce this all was.

Lady Traidelle clasped Stella's hands in her own. "Halone bless you for your efforts, Madam Chirurgeon." The Elezen placed a hand on the dead knight's cheek. Was this how all nobles acted, or was this particular Lady simple overacting? Stella would never know.

"Your...brother was very brave," Stella said awkwardly, folding her hands behind her back and doing her best to sweep the blood-stained ends of her robe behind her shins. "He faced the Fury with dignity." A somewhat sadistic part of Stella felt the slight temptation to reveal that Ser Traidelle had died in groaning agony; death was never a pretty affair, and it was about time certain people learned that.

Still, she wasn't that malicious, though she glanced at Ashur to see his reaction. To her ire, his eyes were closed and his hands clasped together in solemn prayer, his lips moving to some unknown hymn or litany. This was why she hated such superfluous functions. The ceremony did nothing to change the circumstances.

"My condolences for your loss," Stella affirmed stiffly, wishing the whole thing could be over as soon as possible. She'd have thanked Halone for splitting open the infirmary with one of her spears right about now.

"No, no, he is with Fury now. Her grace and Her radiance will keep him safe, now and forever," Lady Traidelle sniffed.

With his prayer presumably complete, Ashur gently placed a hand on the small of Stella's back, as if to ferry her away. The chirurgeon needed no further encouragement, and it took most of her will to prevent from sprinting away, lest any other enterprising nobles ask for her presence so they could weep in public.

"Do you have a place to stay?" Ashur asked, suddenly aware that he didn't actually know where the hospitaliers and chirurgeons actually slept, or how often they managed to sleep at all. Stella was visibly worn down, though something about her--her willpower or a defiant spirit--did its best to mask that fact. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't concerned about her state. "The Lord Commander has declared a state of high alert for the entire city. It'd be best that you not get caught up in the patrols."

Stella seemed to hesitate before answering his question. "My family's estate in the Pillars. I am not on duty for the night, else I would stay in the barracks with the other hospitaliers."

Ashur did his best to conceal his surprise. Was she nobility? Suddenly he felt somewhat uncomfortable. Though technically they were both equal in status thanks to his knighthood, Ashur felt lowborn through-and-through; many highborn knights continued to look down upon him and Alric.

He coughed into his gauntlet, suddenly feeling underdressed despite the fact that Stella's unkempt chirurgeon robes were stained with blood. "I will escort you regardless, Lady Stella. Better safe than sorry, and my patrol rounds require my presence in the Pillars anyway." That last part was a lie, but Ashur couldn't very well leave her to walk home alone as the sun was setting, and just after a wyvern attack.

Stella shot him a sharp glare. "You can drop the 'Lady' title," she responded dourly. "And I am quite capable of making it home alone. You're dismissed, or however your superior would put it."

Now it was Ashur's turn to frown, though he didn't return the glare. She's some part nobility, alright. He recognised the dismissive tone with which Stella seemed to try to shoo him away with. It was the same disdainful tone the other squires had teased him with upon finding out he was from the Brume, and it put him on edge.

"I'd be remiss if I allowed a lady to return without escort in these trying times," Ashur replied dryly. Two could play at that game.

The two of them stared at each other for a time in silence, as if testing each others' wills, before Stella sighed and ran a hand through her hair in defeat. "Do as you wish," she muttered with exasperation. Proffering a slight grin at his petty victory, Ashur followed her as they made their way to the Pillars.

Still, some part of Stella bothered him. She was certainly a strong young woman with iron will, but her basic lack of respect regarding Ser Traidelle and the rites was...unusual. Even Ashur, a lowborn, had the Enchiridion instilled within him from an early age--it was a necessity to prove one's devotion to the Fury to become a Temple Knight, after all. Was it her upbringing? Was it the nature of her profession? Ashur had to admit that he might have a harsher view of Halone if he was in her position, but still...

Some part of his expression must have showed his curiosity, because Stella huffed and abruptly stopped before turning and glaring at him again. "If you want to say something, then say it. You look like an overripe melon about to explode with that kind of face." With that, she spun on her heels and began walking again.

"D-did I look like a melon...?" Ashur wondered aloud, caught off guard by the sudden inquiry. He quickly caught up to Stella and coughed. Well, she did say...

"I was wondering what your opinions were on the Fury," the knight asked. Almost immediately he regretted it. What a stupid way to ask that question!

Evidently Stella thought the same thing, for she merely scoffed. "Are you asking for a debate on theology, now of all times? I don't much care for it."

"No," Ashur responded, somewhat emboldened now that his thoughts were more organized. "But most chirurgeons I have seen offered the rite of passage to those who...well, pass while under their care. You don't seem to have the patience for such things." Well, okay, again that was not the best way to put it, but...

Stella visibly bristled at the comment. "I apologize if my lack of superfluous ceremony disconcerts you, Ser Ashur," she replied sarcastically. "I'd much rather focus on saving the living than honouring the dead."

"You don't believe that such rites have any importance?" Ashur inquired, somewhat surprised. Were most chirurgeons as lacking in piety or was it just her?

"I believe there are more important things to do than singing the praises of a sky fairy into the ears of a dying man," Stella snapped.

Ashur wasn't necessarily the most devout man ever--he'd fallen asleep at more than one Halonic sermon, and he and Alric had regularly used their copies of the Enchiridion as makeshift projectile weapons in their youth--but he was still raised as an Ishgardian, with an earnest if clumsy belief in the Fury. Her words startled him. Stella was a strong woman, but he hadn't been expecting her to be so...prickly.

"They aren't empty praises," Ashur said earnestly. "Halone provides us with Her grace and protection--"

"You mean Her protection that leaves men spilling their guts out in the infirmary? That protection?" Stella scoffed.

Now it was Ashur's turn to bristle. There was a difference between lacking piety and merely being ignorant! "She is not all-powerful; the Twelve oft do not manifest in the realm of mortals, and even then rarely. Yet She is a protector. She guards our spirits and our resolve so that we may guard our bodies, and those of our fellows." The more he thought about what to say, the more he frowned. "Those rites aren't empty words. They allow the living to move on after their loved ones have passed. The dead may not hear them, but those who are left behind certainly do."

Truly, though, Ashur had to admit that Stella had something of a point. He remembered bitter memories, asking Halone where Her grace was when his father was claimed by the pox. When another freezing night swept through the Brume, there was little comfort to be found in the Enchiridion.

Still, despite such moments of weakness, Halone was Ishgard, and Ishgard was Halone. Faith in one meant faith in the other.

It seemed some part of his words resonated with Stella, or perhaps she had simply gotten tired of arguing. "You may be right, but I would still prefer to spend my time on this world doing rather than praying." It was a sentiment the knight had no proper response to. Ashur recalled Stella's words from the other day. "Your gratitude better spent on the ones who pulled you off the battlefield and away from the brink of death."

He could imagine it being frustrating serving as a chirurgeon, working with the wounded, the dead, and the dying, and hearing only praises to the Fury. Though Ashur still earnestly believed in the place of the rites and Halone, perhaps Stella's irritation was not so unreasonable. As she said, she worked to save everyone she could, and if her time could be spent saving another...

Would he want her to waste time on prayer if it were him or Alric at stake? Ashur couldn't think of a truly honest answer.

The two walked in silence until they stood in front of a large estate. It was a house many times larger than Ashur's own, and yet there were no lights or any indication of activity. Again, the knight was reminded of the considerable gap in status, and shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

Stella turned and gave a curt, practical nod. After some brief hesitation, she spoke. "...thank you for the escort, however unnecessary it was," she said tersely.

Ashur returned the nod, though before Stella opened the door, he called out to her. "Lady Stella."

"I told you to drop the stupid title," the chirurgeon said, turning around with a frown.

"Ah. Apologies. But...thank you for what you do. Truly." Ashur gave a low, deferential bow. Was there a reason he was doing this? Again, he thought of her words. The Fury was a protector, but surely that meant the chirurgeons and hospitaliers were the conduits of Her mercy. Again, were he in her position he might feel quite frustrated if Halone received all the credit.

Stella didn't respond, only giving another slight nod as she retreated into the estate, shutting the heavy door behind her.

As soon as she was out of sight, Ashur was punching the bridge of his nose. "Well, that was...probably disastrous," he murmured to himself before shaking his head to clear his thoughts. Hands were clasped behind his back as he sauntered off, struggling to recall his patrol route...

Heretics.

No, Ashur was not the most devout man, nor would he consider himself a fanatical zealot. Though he believed in the Fury and he believed in the sanctity of the Church, he was not a man who would think to reprimand others for misquoting the Enchiridion or blaspheming the Archbishop. There were others to do that kind of rigid policing.

But heretics, on the other hand...that was an evil that was easily understood, and easily punished. Though Ashur had heard fearful whispers of the innocent being punished by the auspices of the Inquisition--ever were such tales used to frighten children into obedience, especially in the Brume--he firmly believed that heretics were a true blight.

A thousand years of death inflicted upon Ishgard from the blind rage of Nidhogg and his brood, for no reason and for no purpose. Ashur recalled the struggle to survive the frigid nights of the Brume; the cursed everwinter, too, was the product of a mad dragon, Bahamut. A thousand generations and more of innocents suffered beneath the wings of all dragons, and heretics were no better than the beasts they consorted with. Cultists seeking power, outlaws seeking revenge, all aiding the cause of the eternal foe and slaying countless good people in the process.

His grip on his sword hilt tightened as the Coerthas everwinter offered its own punishment to the line of shackled men and women in the form of a frigid breeze. Heretics, the lot of them.

Ishgard had formally opened its gates to outsiders, and Ashur had been re-assigned under the command of one Ser Marat. A veteran of nearly forty cycles, Marat was a severe man with an even harsher temperament. The Elezen was as unbending as the steel that comprised of his arms and armour, and while his rigidity and discipline were both feared and respected, he exuded courage and unwavering resolve that was reminiscent of Ser Praihaux.

Such it was that Marat's cohort, alongside a squad of hired sellswords, was sent to patrol the Western Highlands, and it was not long until word reached them that dragonkin were attacking a military convoy. The foe were not dragonkin, but heretics; men and women, armed and armoured, seeking to ransack the convoy for themselves. Ashur recalled the detail with disgust; those willing to consort with dragons were acting as common bandits. He looked at the battlefield, at the carnage that had been left: the chocobos dead, the wagons overturned, blood permeating the drifts and already being consumed by more snowfall.

Ashur glanced through the visor of his helmet to gauge the reaction of the mercenaries. He shared Marat's skepticism of fighting with outsiders, but their martial skills were acceptable, if undisciplined. Moreover, they were extra hands that could be used for tedious labour.

Those heretics that had survived the battle or otherwise been taken alive were shackled to one another, in abject misery. "Line them up!" Ser Marat barked. The sellswords roughly pulled the heretics to the side of the road, stumbling across the manacles that bound their ankles together. The knights, Ashur included, lined up behind them, and a curt nod from their commanding officer lead to a cacophony of blades being withdrawn.

Beneath his helmet, Ashur scowled. Kneeling under him was an Elezen man. Was this man an Ishgardian? A foreigner? Did he have a family? What was his profession? Such thoughts didn't fill Ashur with pity, but with righteous anger. How many had this heretic killed in his lust for dragonsblood? Who had he abandoned for those sickening beliefs? How many of his brothers and sisters in the Temple Knights would this heretic threaten if he was not ended now?

The knights glanced at Ser Marat, awaiting the command to pass the sentence.

Ashur's scowl turned into a frown as he noticed Ser Marat, who seemed to be arguing with one of the mercenaries down the line. The mercenary was a fair Midlander Hyur, heavily armoured, with fiery crimson hair and a steely demeanor. Ashur snorted. Sellswords. She was probably trying to argue for higher pay or other such nonsense.

Marat raised his hand, and the knights laid the soles of their feet against the back of the heretics' knees, forcing them into a kneeling position. With the flat of their blades, the knights exposed the napes of their necks.

This was justice.

Or at least, it was supposed to be justice.

As the knights looked to their commander for the final order, a shrill hunting horn echoed even through the frigid winds. A cavalry unit marched on the road, adorned in brilliant azure barding and immaculate silver armour. Their riders wore not the modest chainmail of the Temple Knights, but ornate, detailed plate armour, stamped with the crest of Ishgard on their breasts. Leading them was what could only be an Inquisitor, and a high-ranking one at that; the lead rider was concealed by a hood, but there was no mistaking the robes of the Inquisition fluttering beneath his silver-trimmed cerulean cloak. The lead rider seemed to examine the line of heretics before sniffing disdainfully and beckoning his chocobo towards Ser Marat.

Marat was now near Ashur's end of the execution line, close enough that the latter could hear the conversation. "Come to witness the sentencing, lord Inquisitor?" Marat grunted. The knight-captain sounded equal parts irritated and honoured, if such a thing was possible.

"These heretics are to be released directly under the judgment of the Inquisition," the leader said gruffly.

Marat frowned, more confused than angry. That was a sentiment Ashur understood; the heretics would face their deaths one way or another, and while he didn't relish in dealing death, the Inquisition was not usually one to intervene on an execution in progress.

"My lord--" Marat began to protest.

"That is Inquisitor Bellamont to you, ser," the leader growled impatiently. "Do not forget your place, or do the Temple Knights see fit to interfere in the affairs of the Holy See?"

Marat stiffened at that. What kind of madness was this, Ashur wondered? The Temple Knights were the arm of the Church! Still, it was not as if Marat could protest. For one, these were heretics; who were they to protest what kind of gruesome death the Inquisition was likely to subject them to? And for two, though they were technically nobles, the aristocracy paled beneath the power and influence of the Orthodox Church.

"Of course we will comply, Inquisitor Bellamont," Ser Marat affirmed, before giving a deep, deferential bow.

A second rider -- a lean, aged Elezen -- rode forward, dark eyes narrowed with disdain as he looked down the length of his long nose. He, too, was dressed in the cerulean robes of the Inquisition, but he was lacking in the first inquisitor's shroud. His hawk-like features glared balefully at the execution line, and it was impossible to tell if his scorn was for the heretics or the knights. “Give praise to Halone, for the bell of your death has been belayed.” His eyes swept the row of heretics, many of them who now looked upon him with an expression of shocked relief. “All these transgressors are under arrest by the authority of the Inquisition. Rise to your feet, sinners. Some of you will be afforded the fortuity of atonement. Raise your voices in both praise and sorrow for the tribulations you shall face, for should you conquer them, even you may be redeemed.”

Wordlessly, Ashur and the other knights sheathed their swords. Well, the heretics would be punished under the gaze of the Church. It didn't really matter, in the end. They pulled the heretics to a standing position, whereupon one of the armoured riders took hold of the chain connected to their manacles. Though their feet were shackled, leather collars were affixed to the necks of the heretics.

“Where there is fear, we carry light.” The Elezen’s cold voice rang clear as a bell as he and his armored soldiers disappeared into the snowfall along with the heretics.

"Damned bastards," grumbled Ser Loren, the knight standing beside Ashur.

"Do you mean those heretics or the Inquisition?" Ashur responded, to which Ser Loren merely shrugged, as if to silently say both, of course.

"Don't look so disappointed, boys," Marat grunted. "There'll be plenty of days to spill heretic blood. Let the Church have a few of the pickings."

That much was certainly true. There seemed to be no end to the dragons or those heathens that followed them. Marat gave an authoritative wave to the knights and sellswords both. "We're moving out!" Ashur heard the command, but felt his gaze lingering on the road where the Inquisitor and the heretics had vanished.

The Forgotten Knight was one of the more popular establishments of Ishgard. Though most of the highborn--the aristocracy and the clergy--turned up their noses at the place, there were few drinking taverns of similar quality available to the common people. Off-duty knights, merchants, and porters were quick to crowd the location whenever they could, and the lower levels that served those unfortunate souls in the Brume often became equally packed.

It was here, a few days later, that Ashur decided to share what happened in the Western Highlands.

"The Inquisition?" Alric's eyebrows shot upwards in alarm, though his exclamation was somewhat difficult to hear over the din of merriment being produced by the Knight's patrons. The Hyur glared at a porter that had bumped into him, causing some of Alric's ale to slosh over the side of his tankard.

"Aye, nearly twoscore of them by my counting," Ashur nodded, taking a swig from his own tankard. "In full parade armour, no less! What in the hells where they doing out in the Highlands in getups like that?"

"Maybe they meant to blind the Dravanians, posh gits," Lantrenel muttered next to Alric before shoving a spoonful of mashed popotoes into his mouth. The Elezen still had some smudges of dirt and smog on his face, a pair of workman's goggles hanging around his neck, indicative of his work as an engineer at the Skysteel Manufactory, though somehow Lantrenel's neatly-combed sideburns remained immaculate despite the coal and oil he was working with on a daily basis.

"Well, as long as none of them noticed you, baby brother, all's well in my book," Alric said with a smirk.

"I don't think any of those preening lords have time to acknowledge the footmen," Ashur muttered. "Still, why would they come out all the way over here? We were just about to execute those heretics as well, but this Inquisitor swoops in like some kind of holy spirit! It doesn't sit right with me."

Alric tapped a gloved finger to his chin. "You think it has to do with those rumours about the outsiders? That seems like the kind of thing that would have the Church on edge."

Briefly, Ashur thought about the red-haired sellsword arguing with Ser Marat. "Do you mean those mercenaries? They've been hiring more and more of them, especially out on the Whitebrim Front."

"Nah, he's talking about those other outsiders," Lantrenel grunted. "They're sponsored by House Fortemps. Couple of them swung by the Manufactory once. Pretty suspicious lot, I think."

"I don't know about you, but if I were a member of the Church, I'd be a little wary about whether any of those outsiders are heretics," Alric said in a low voice.

"There's already rumours floating around of heretics within the city," Lantrenel added.

"Impossible," Ashur responded flatly. That kind of thing was impossible. Outside the city and among the frontier, heretics were free to roam, but within the walls of the Holy See? Unthinkable.

"Well, the Manufactory's at full steam, and those rumours have got everyone wound up like a spring," the Elezen said gruffly. "Entire city's on full alert and gearing up for the worst. I'll tell you that the Church is going to be even stricter."

"Well, as far as I've heard, they haven't arrested any outsiders yet. Like those sellswords. What did you think of them, Ash?"

Ashur frowned. "The company I fought with had competent enough fighters, I'll grant them that. But they're all profiteers, every single one of them. Wildly undisciplined, too. Ser Marat had a hell of a time getting some of them into a formation." He took another sip from his tankard. "I know we need the manpower, but it feels wrong to be spending Ishgardian coin on fodder like them. And like you said, there's no telling if there are heretics among them. I know Ser Marat feels the same way, but...if we have to endure them, I suppose at the very least, it'll give the Dravanians another target besides us."

The Hyur raised an eyebrow as one corner of the Forgotten Knight began singing some silly, nonsense song, though to the mob's credit they at least managed to stay on tune despite--or perhaps because--of their inebriation. "I don't trust them, though," Ashur continued. "How can someone fight without any kind of conviction except to gil? I doubt people like that will be around to endure the darkest times and the bloodiest fights. As soon as the Horde shows up, they'll all be fleeing with their purses. Can't trust them."

Alric grinned. "Not a fan of mercenaries? I could see the appeal in that kind of life, to be honest." He planted a foot on the table and Ashur rolled his eyes. "Roaming the world, gaining a reputation as the knight-turned-wanderer, charming the ladies with my courtly graces and getting rich in the process! I could see myself getting used to that."

Ashur roughly grabbed his brother's belt and pulled him down. "Gibrillont's going to yell at you for standing on the table again," he said with some irritation. A dark-haired serving maid clattered another messy plate of mashed popotoes onto their table, which Lantrenel was quick to greedily claim.

"You've never thought about leaving Ishgard, baby brother?" Alric laughed.

Ashur gave it some thought before answering. The mob in the corner had switched from singing to arm-wrestling, judging by the sounds and clatter of chairs. "Where would I even go? You and Mother are here." For some reason, Stella's face flashed in his mind for the briefest of moments. "Perhaps if, impossibly, the War ends within my lifetime I may see the world, but until then there's not much to do out there as long as the Dravanians are threatening my home and hearth."

"You did enjoy those trips we took with Father though, didn't you?" Alric said, clapping Ashur on the shoulder. "I took you for more the adventurous type.

"You are the one who inherited Father's sense of adventure, Al. I was too young to understand how dangerous those trips were," Ashur replied, shoving Alric's hand off his person. "I barely remember Ul'dah, except that it was far too hot and muggy. And the Shroud is where you got bit by that massive insect. You were wailing for entire suns."

"Details, details," Alric chuckled, turning to his Elezen companion in order to change the subject. "So what's House Haillenarte got you doing, Lantrenel?"

There was no response from Lantrenel for several long seconds save for the scraping sounds of the spoon scooping up more popotoes. "Master Stephanivien's got some fool idea in his head about firearms," Lantrenel grumbled. "He's had a few of us working day and night on some prototypes based on firearms from Limsa Lominsa."

"Oh?" Alric sat up, intrigued. Even Ashur leaned in a little. Was this going to be some new weapon to use against the Dravanians? The cannons and the dragonkillers were effective, but they couldn't win the war for Ishgard, that much was certain.

"Aye. I don't understand all of his ramblings--I'm not even working on the blasted things, really--just some bits about aether and lightning. It's off the books, too, so I'm thinking he doesn't want the Count to know."

The mob was growing louder and louder, and Ashur abruptly pounded his fist against the table. "Some decorum would be appreciated, gentlemen, thank you very much!" He shouted, thoroughly vexed by the fact that he could barely hear Lantrenel over the din. The mob didn't quiet down completely, but there was an ever-so-slight lowering of volume.

"What's decorum?" A voice mumbled from the mob.

"I think it's like hanging pictures and stuff on the walls," another voice said with some bewilderment. Ashur's eyes nearly rolled out of his head as he turned his attention back to the Elezen engineer.

"Well, I'll certainly be looking forward to whatever you cook up for us," Alric said cheerfully, offering his tankard forward for a casual toast, to which no one responded to. Without missing a beat, he drained the rest of his tankard. "I think it's about time I report back for now, though."

Ashur looked at his brother with some puzzlement before a mixture of fear and anger clouded his face. "What about your side of the--" Before Ashur could stop him, Alric had planted the tankard on the table, re-fastened his helmet and his sword belt, and dashed up the stairs out of the establishment.

"...tab," Ashur groaned to himself.

He dared to shoot a glance over to Gibrillont, who did nothing but wordlessly tap a gil coin against the side of an empty tankard.

Though that atmosphere in the Foundation had been tense, the Pillars were remarkably peaceful. A rare gap in the clouds meant that the Jeweled Crozier was awash with precious beams of noon sunlight. A foreigner to Ishgard might assume that because of the nation's closed borders, the markets would be sterile and lifeless, though nothing could be further from the truth. Despite Ishgard's strained situation--rumours of a new offensive mounting had quickly spread among the nobility--the marketplace buzzed with activity.

War was a time of profit, and Ishgardian merchants were quick to take advantage of that fact. The fragrant odors of fresh herbs and roasting meats mixed with the sounds of haggling from dozens of stalls. Cloth of every kind, from serviceable wools and cottons to extravagant silks and satins were hawked from noisy tailors, and though most of Ishgard's arms and armour were sold to the Temple Knights, there were more than enough pieces for the local smiths to display on their stalls. The cookshops were always popular venues for those merchants looking for an easy meal or off-duty knights seeking something other than the bland fare of the barracks.

One particularly enterprising peddler was busy creating dragons from folded pieces of paper; the peddler would then throw the dragons off the edge of the Crozier where they would gently glide towards the chasm below, and children would pay with coin from their harried mothers to try to shoot the dragons out of the sky with the peddler's selection of handmade slingshots.

Stella frowned at that particular display. A precocious idea, and not necessarily a bad way to entertain children, but a part of her worried that romanticizing the idea of dragon slaying to children so young was not the best avenue to go with.

The chirurgeon sighed, running a hand through her hair, her basket of groceries rustling slightly as she did so. She didn't have time to worry about how Ishgardian children. As Stella began to pore over the herbal selections of the apothecary, her mind was focused on a more anxious matter.

The Convictory needed chirurgeons, as the ones that had been stationed there were dead, wounded, or too exhausted to be of any help, and the head chirurgeon in Ishgard--a humourless old Elezen--had assigned Stella to be a part of the next convoy, alongside a few other chirurgeons. No amount of pleading, favours, or threats--direct or indirect--could convince Eaufault to take her place.

Nevermind the fact that she abjectly hated field work, the Hyur had to worry about whether or not this would jeopardize the assignment given to her by her patron. She couldn't afford to be away from the city for too long, but what if she ended up indefinitely assigned to the Convictory? Ishgard was cold, harsh, and full of blind zealots, but as much disdain Stella had for the empty house, the creature comforts like the hearth and the fur-lined blankets were things she would sorely miss, and being out in the Highlands reminded her of things she would very much rather forget.

"Madam? Is aught amiss?" the apothecary asked politely as Stella stared blankly at a sprig of coriander in her hands. Shaken out of her reverie, she shook her head.

"I will take these," Stella said stiffly, paying the merchant for the herbs, though she wasn't entirely sure she needed them.

And on top of everything else, the cohort she would be travelling with was led by one Ser Braucandeaux. Even the thought of him made Stella's face scrunch up in subconscious disgust. Ser Braucandeaux was ostensibly a noble and had relatives in the Church, but the only thing noble about him was his title, and there was certainly nothing chaste or holy in his bloodline. Stella had been forced to politely reject his brazen and uncouth advances for nearly two moons now. It was likely that if Stella were stationed at the Convictory, he would pull whatever oily strings he could to be stationed alongside her, and from that point it would only be a matter of time before Braucandeaux would be found dead with Stella's dirk through his skull, which would certainly put her ventures in Ishgard to an end.

The chirurgeon's mind wandered as she began to walk down the Crozier to return to the Foundation, attempting to think of a way out of this predicament. Eaufault was the closest thing she had to a "friend", and even that term was loose; it would be more accurate to say that Eaufault was the one most willing to tolerate her. If Stella were a hospitalier, things might be different, but as a chirurgeon she had very limited influence over military matters. Protesting too much might cause too much of a stir, and if the Inquisition caught wind of someone acting too uppity...

Stella stopped on her heels. Standing in front of one of the merchant's stalls was a Hyur; though he was not wearing the chainmail, he was identifiable as a knight through the plain beige gambeson embroidered with the sigil of Ishgard. His striking mane of sandy blonde hair looked familiar.

What was his name? Ashton, Ashcroft....Ashur, that was it. Could he help her?

Ashur picked up one of the swords that the merchant offered, the blade looking more fanciful than effective. Even Stella, who had no eye for such things, could tell that the "jewels" encrusted on the hilt were nothing but glass. He gave the sword a few practice swings, before he was suddenly holding nothing but the hilt, as the blade snapped free and went flying, narrowly missing a drunk peddler who was attempting to enjoy a bowl of stew.

Stella sidled closer, unsure of whether or not to approach him. Ashur was a knight, yes, but she knew almost nothing else about him. She had never seen him command any men, and even if he could, it was unlikely that he wielded enough influence to outdo whatever Ser Braucandeaux promised.

His amber eyes narrowed in disapproval as the merchant did his best to look utterly surprised. "Huh!" The merchant grunted. "Now that's never happened before."

Stella snorted despite herself. The merchant almost sounded sincere. "You've a keen eye for your weapons, good ser. Now take a look at this beauty. You won't find another like it in--"

"In all of Aldenard, yes, you've said that before," Ashur finished, declining the proffered sword which was even more ostentatious than the first.

The merchant nodded so briskly that his multiple chins wagged as he continued to hold the weapon aloft for Ashur to inspect, though the knight had already decided on looking at other wares. "That's right--in all of Aldenard!"

Stella found herself watching intently as Ashur picked up a clear vial of violet liquid. The merchant folded his hands together in satisfaction. "A broken heart, ser? You have a keen eye, a very keen eye indeed! This is my best merchandise, the last of it, in fact! It's a love potion, guaranteed to make the object of your affection fall swooning into your bed!" Stella covered her mouth to keep the audible scoff from her lips, and to conceal the amused smile from Ashur's offended expression.

The knight instead picked up another vial, this time of translucent yellow liquid. "Ah, good ser, you are a true warrior. I can tell! This is an incredible salve from the alchemists of Ul'dah, certain to heal any wound in battle, from an arrow to the throat to a dragon's claws without leaving so much as a scar!"

This seemed to get Ashur's attention, but with a sigh, Stella decided it was time to intervene. With her basket of groceries tucked in her elbow, she marched up to the merchant's stall, startling both the merchant and the knight. She forcefully confiscated the vial from Ashur's hand and popped open the cork, recoiling from the stench. From his expression, he did not recognise her right away.

"This is nothing but bear grease," the chirurgeon proclaimed loudly, dropping the vial on the pavement and causing it to explode into shards.

Ashur's frown deepened, his feet shuffling. "Where are you from, merchant?" he demanded, a hand on his sword's hilt. "We do not take kindly to charlatans within the Holy See. You are no better than a common thief, or perhaps you seek to poison someone? A heretic, are you?"

"Oh, I doubt that's necessary," Stella said, a smug smirk crossing her lips. She almost felt sorry for the merchant who fell against the back of his stall, apparently trembling from the word "heretic" being thrown at him. She glanced at Ashur, whose face was now lit up from recognition.

"Lady--er, Stella," the knight said politely, quickly correcting himself when Stella herself instinctively frowned upon hearing the title. "I thank you for lending your expertise."

Stella shrugged nonchalantly. "You are off-duty, yes? It would be a shame to waste your time on such offal as this one. Alert your fellows, and we can be on our way."

Ashur's face morphed between several expressions as though he couldn't decide between which question to ask. After some hesitation, he gave a slight nod to her and a considerably severe nod to the merchant cowering in his stall.

"Stay right there," the knight commanded, thoroughly unamused. "You are welcome to attempt to flee, but I assure you it will not go well." He turned to the chirurgeon. "L--Stella, may I burden you with a request?"

Stella gave a mocking sigh, though the smirk was still on her lips. "Yes, I will fetch your fellows for you," she said lightly, turning around and walking towards the front of the Crozier to find the nearest knight.