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.â€
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.
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.â€
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.
