Nero

Some time later... The shrill cries of seagulls were what marked the mornings of Limsa Lominsa. Ashur woke to find sunlight streaming in through the tiny attic window, and he became gradually more aware of the other sounds mixed in with the gulls. The steady ring of hammer on anvil, the tinkling of merchant bells, the bustle of people. The salt-scented wind swept through the open window, and the city was awake for the day. It would be difficult not to be cheerful on such an inviting day, but Ashur managed. Ashur sat up in the bed, promptly banging his head on the roof beam. Real estate in Limsa Lominsa was scarce given its status as--and Ashur would consider this description generous--a ramshackle collection of islands and shipwrecks occupying the coast of Vylbrand. He'd been unwilling to pay the regular rates for a long-term stay at an inn, and so he'd settled for a tiny storage attic in the Drowned Wench rather than a proper room. He dressed himself, worked out the kinks in his neck and back as best as he could, and went downstairs for a breakfast of plain, unsalted oatmeal. Life as a mercenary had not been especially kind, but Eorzea was at least receptive to this kind of work--"adventuring". It was a far cry from his previous steady duties as a knight, but it was easy enough to make enough money to sustain himself. At times, Ashur would also use his skills as a smith as a subcontractor at Naldiq & Vymelli's, and though he wasn't a member of either guild, they were willing to shove their more mundane tasks to him and others like him during times of dense work orders. So it was that he began to saunter across Limsa Lominsa, on his way to meet with a client. The request was odd; it was anonymous and had been addressed to Ashur personally, by name. Already, the sturdy iron bridges of the city were teeming with people. Rowdy pirates, merchants deep in discussion about goods delivered, workers carrying lumber and metal, and various riffraff skulking about. Ashur made his way down to the lowest level of the docks, down to the warehouse where he had been called. Warily, he placed one hand against the handgun in its holster affixed to his waist, his eyes narrowing as he pushed his way into the warehouse. To his surprise, it wasn't a dusty or dank kind of place one might expect an underhanded ambush to take place. Instead, it was a well-lit, almost cozy parlor, furnished in an Ishgardian style. A colourful rug was draped across the hard wood floors. Resting in one corner of the room were two stuffed chairs, drawn near a fireplace. A little wooden table between the two chairs offered a convenient place to set a book or a mug. "You needn't be so cautious," a voice called out ominously. Ashur whipped out the handgun at the sound, his thumb smoothly pulling back on the weapon's hammer with a satisfying click. Stepping out into the open was a tall Elezen, dressed in drab but well-made gray clothing. The heavy Ishgardian style of his clothing looked ill-fitted for the temperate coastal temperatures of Vylbrand, but what unsettled Ashur was the plain wooden mask the Elezen was wearing as he gestured to the chairs and the tables. "You may relax, ser. If I wanted to harm you, I wouldn't have invited you here. I wouldn't let you be armed, for that matter. I am the client requesting your services. Have a seat, why won't you?" Ashur stared at the Elezen with a hard, suspicious gaze. A knight? A member of the Inquisition? As if Ashur's thoughts were being read, the Elezen chuckled. "You need not be so suspicious. Though I know what you have done in our homeland, I assure you I am not here to prosecute you on behalf of any Ishgardian authority. In fact, your actions are what caught my interest." "And what would you know about my actions?" Ashur replied with a scowl. The Elezen simply made another casual gesture towards the pair of chairs and the table. Ashur could almost sense the smile beneath the plain wooden mask. Ashur kept his handgun pointed straight at the Elezen as he walked towards the chair, sitting down on the cushions that had been stuffed far too generously. He felt ill at ease in the warm intimacy of the room. From the corner of his eye he noticed the intricate artwork on the walls. The paintings varied from simple portraits of unknown nobles to one huge motif of dragons circling a white, glowing spire. The Elezen, seemingly unperturbed by the firearm pointed at his head, also sat down. A bottle of wine was present on the table between the chairs, but neither of them reached for it; Ashur had no interest in drinking, and the Elezen wouldn't be drinking through his mask. "Talk, then," Ashur said tersely. "I represent a certain group of nobles in Ishgard, and we have a vested interest in the state of our fair city. Recently, an...important relic, purely ornamental in nature, was stolen from us." The Elezen slowly reached into his coat. Ashur's finger tensed on the trigger, but he relaxed slightly when the Elezen withdrew a piece of folded parchment. The Elezen unfolded it on the table, revealing an impeccably detailed sketch of some sort of stone hemisphere. Ashur glanced down at the picture, lowering the handgun slightly. "I'm guessing you want me to retrieve this." "Of course. It is very important to my peers. You won't be the only one we've hired, though. For the reasons of...thoroughness, we've hired several adventurers, mercenaries, and treasure hunters to track this object for us. We cannot rely on just a single individual for this task, you realize." "I'm not sure I do. It sounds like you're willing to hire anybody for this job. Why me, specifically?" Ashur's eyes narrowed further. "Because of your...unique history with our city, of course." The Elezen crossed his legs and steepled his fingers. "My peers and I are aware of you. You are accused--falsely--of being a heretic who killed his entire cohort. You are, for all intents and purposes, a public enemy in the eyes of Ishgard. I, for one, do not believe that. Whatever your reasons, I believe you were justified, and it was Ishgard that was wrong." Ashur clicked his tongue. "None of this answers my question," he said with growing impatience. The Elezen sighed. "Simply put, I believe you would perform well in this task because you would have good motivation. That is, we would pay you handsomely. And not just that, we will offer you something no other client can offer." Ashur tilted his head. "We can wipe your presumed 'crimes' clean, and you would be able to return to Ishgard as a free, innocent man. Even resume your service in the knighthood, if you so choose." Ashur raised a brow. Who was this Elezen? A member of the High Houses? A member of the clergy? Perhaps someone even higher? To do what he claimed--to restore the innocence of one who had been accused a "heretic"--was no small feat. It would require enormous influence, which meant this client, or rather the nobles backing this representative, especially powerful indeed. The Hyur, however, was careful to hide his interest, but he did lower his handgun fully and placed it on his lap instead. "And what exactly is this object you're looking for?" Ashur asked, picking up the illustration. "As I said, it is purely ornamental in function, but it holds enormous value for those who know its meaning. It is a...keystone of sorts. I trust you need no further explanation than that," the Elezen said coolly. Ashur scowled but said nothing. True, he didn't really give a damn what this object was or what it did, if it did anything. All that mattered to him right now is that if he could retrieve it and bring it back...he could have his life back. His knighthood back. He could expose the crimes of Loren and the others, he could tell the Lord Commander everything about the day the Gates of Judgment were forced open from the inside. "I presume you're not sending us on a blind chase. You have some idea of where it is, yes?" The Elezen nodded. "The continent of Othard. Should you accept, we've already booked you and some others passage aboard the Soldier Dance. It is a fast ship, and it should get you to Othard in a little over a moon's time." Ashur stared at the parchment a bit before nodding slowly. "I'll need an advance payment. You understand. Job security, and you have so many of us competing for this object." I may have to kill a few competitors before this job is done, he thought to himself. The Elezen produced a sizable sack of gil, placing it on the table and pushing it towards Ashur. "Of course. This should be enough to cover for you while you are on Othard. You need not fear; their usage of gil is well known. You can be assured they will accept this currency with ease. Look for Captain Garalt at the docks; I believe the Soldier Dance will depart in one week's time." Ashur wordlessly picked up the sack and the parchment with the image, giving only a slight nod before turning and walking out of the warehouse.

The Lord Commander had made assurances that the threat of the heretics had subsided for now, but of course the High Houses were not so easily reassured, and as the primary Ishgardian fortification outside of Ishgard, Camp Dragonhead was duly reinforced by what knights could be spared. Straight, conical tents stood arranged in neat lines in the courtyard of the fortress, its sides marked by the stains and frost of the eternal winter. As dusk began to fall and sunlight absorbed by the canopy of gray clouds ahead, the temporary shelters lined up in gray anonymity. Though Ashur had planned to confront Loren sooner rather than later, he was careful to keep his demeanour casual so as not to alert his quarry that something was amiss, but the knight was not particularly used to such deception. The time came, however, when the Wood Wailers of Gridania apparently made a request to chase some bandits that were attempting to escape the Shroud into Coerthas. Ashur was quick to position himself by Loren's cohort, and for the moment, it seemed the latter hadn't picked up on his intentions. Ashur kept Lantrenel's package wrapped tightly and tied to his belt, and though it had earned him some odd and occasionally suspicious glances, no one seemed to question it as anything other than personal effects. The knights were arranged in a standard patrol formation of two columns, though the rough terrain and the trees of the Shroud made it difficult to maintain such a stringent arrangement. With the sun just passing its zenith overhead, there was a moment when both Ashur and Loren were on the last row of the patrol that Ashur decided to press the question, his hand tightened into a fist. “I haven’t seen you use your dagger lately, Loren,” Ashur said as casually as he could, watching Loren from the corner of his eye. What came next was not what he expected at all. “I already know that you know, Vaye. You have my dagger, don’t you?” Loren replied with an unsettling amount of ease. “I killed Alric at the Gates of Judgment. You couldn’t have made it easier to tell what you’re thinking if you had it written on your forehead.” Ashur couldn’t help but flinch at how quickly Loren seemed to admit it, and he couldn’t stop his muscles from tensing. His eyes darted to the knights ahead in the column. None of them seemed to hear. Or if they did, they didn't care. Ashur took a deep breath, staring hard at Loren while he did so, though Loren was quick to say Ashur’s thoughts for him. “I wouldn’t be too hasty, if I were you. I’m sure you must have quite the urge to do something unseemly, and it wouldn’t look very favourably on you to kill a fellow knight.” “You’re not even denying it,” Ashur muttered through grit teeth. Loren barked a short chuckle. “What do I have to be afraid of? You’re not going to kill me. If you do, you’ll be branded a heretic, stripped of your knighthood. Your family will be suspected as complicit. And even if you have evidence, it wouldn’t do you any good.” Loren glanced at Ashur in contemplation. “You were the only one who didn’t know, after all. Alric, myself, and Ser Mayhard were ordered by the Revered Archimandrite to open the gates to the heretics.” Ashur’s hands were clasped so tightly together his knuckles were starting to ache. The Revered Archimandrite? Ser Zephirin was the leader of the Heavens’ Ward, the personal guard of the Archbishop. Did that mean the attack that day...was some sort of false flag, planned by the Holy See? But then why was Stella there? Was she working with Loren? The commoners must have been there to distract the knights, to prevent them from suspecting sabotage... “Alric, though, didn’t want to follow orders. I guess that’s to be expected when the knighthood raises a damn commoner to heights where they can’t think properly,” Loren continued. Ashur couldn’t even begin to tell what he was feeling, other than a mix of shock and anger. “It doesn’t even matter that you know. No one worth a damn is going to listen to one crazed knight grieving over his dead brother. There are higher powers than us at work in Ishgard. To be frank, there is nothing you can do. Same as Alric. Your best chances are to keep your head down, and not to pursue this.” Loren was right, of course. That’s why he felt secure enough to say anything. Ashur reflexively touched the leather-wrapped parcel at his side, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. Loren admitted not just his involvement, but the involvement of the highest authorities of Ishgard planning to sabotage the city they ruled. And what could Ashur do? He had no evidence, only a hunch. And even if he did, would the High Houses risk upsetting the balance at such a tumultuous time? More importantly, revenge would do nothing. Emilia...with Alric gone, if Ashur was branded a heretic for the murder of another knight, his mother would have nothing, perhaps even be thrown off of Witchdrop in retaliation. What if Loren was lying? It was true that Ashur didn’t have any proof, but in equal measure, Loren had no protection from the Archbishop or the Heavens’ Ward. “Why should I believe any of this?” Ashur said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. Loren shrugged. “Think about it. The Gates of Judgment are impenetrable. No land force has ever threatened Ishgard. Even if they breached the gates, the Steps of Faith are a choke point that the knights are trained to hold. How could heretics possibly reach all the way into Ishgard without inside help?” Thinking logically, it made sense, in a way. In a thousand years, heretics had never managed to properly threaten Ishgard from the outside. All of the threats were internal; if the heretics had the capability of breaching Ishgard, they wouldn’t have to resort to such subversive tactics as using cults or dark magic. The Inquisition’s explicit purpose was to root out heresy from the inside; they wouldn’t be necessary of the heretics were nothing more than a military threat. “There’s nothing stopping me from just accusing you of being a heretic. I would be perfectly justified in killing you right here,” Ashur growled with malice. Loren merely smirked. “True, I suppose you could try to kill me now. You might even succeed, though I doubt it. And I’d very much prefer not dying. But nothing would change. Since I was ordered by the Revered Archimandrite to open the gates, they would very much like it if I disappeared underneath the accusations of being a heretic. The ones who truly killed Alric would have nothing to worry about, since you cleaned up their evidence for them.” Could it be true? Ashur and Alric had spent most of their lives defending Ishgard...was it truly the Heavens’ Ward, nay, the Archbishop himself that ordered the opening of the Gates of Judgment that day? But why? To secure power? Strike fear into the hearts of the people, and have them huddle even closer to the warm embrace of the Church… It was nothing short than a betrayal of the highest order. Ashur’s lip was bleeding merrily from being bitten, not that the Hyur noticed. His mind’s eye flashed to Alric’s frozen, bloody body left on the pavement on the Steps of Faith. Stella’s desperate, angered pleas. Is this what they were fighting for? Is this what so many of his fellow knights had died for? "What if it was your brother? Your mother? Is it heresy to protect your loved ones?" “None of us liked your brother at all. It was easy on my conscience to take him down while he was distracted.” Loren’s face split into a sadistic grin. “My family worked to become noble through four generations, and he’s elevated to knighthood in three nights through that farce of a melee. A commoner, the son of a smith. His presence was a damnation of the prestige of the knighthood. And his posturing...Halone save us from his blathering. What right did he have to say anything about heroism with the bloodline that he had? That same detestable bloodline you have.” Loren’s gloating was interrupted by sparse laughter. Ashur was ready to draw his sword then and there when the cohort suddenly stopped in its patrol. The knights slowly turned. Ashur stared each of them in the eye, their grim stares glowering beneath their helmets. They formed a semicircle around him, their hands resting on their weapons. Loren rested his hand on his sword hilt. “Though, it’s better to be safe and sorry. The Archimandrite doesn’t want you going to the Lord Commander, after all. It would...cause problems. You understand, right?” Ashur wasn’t listening any more. Seven, eight, nine...it was only a limited cohort. This was either the only ones in on the plan or they felt that they didn’t need any more knights to deal with one errant do-gooder. if any of them escaped and reported back, then Emilia would be threatened. Ashur was certain his mother couldn’t survive being accused of birthing a heretic. At the very least, if Ashur vanished here now, she would be safe for a time. “What do you say?” Loren continued. “Why not do us a favour and lie down, make this easier on the rest of--” A large crack like the booming of thunder echoed through the Shroud, causing all manner of birds to flee from the canopy. Loren didn’t finish his sentence, on account of his jaw suddenly hanging off of his face in chunks of bloody sinew, gore splattering the dead knight’s chainmail as Loren fell over like a felled log. At Ashur’s waist, the aetherotransformer hummed with energy. In his right hand, the double-barrelled handgun emitted wisps of smoke. Skysteel's newest invention would even the odds. The other knights drew their weapons, though not before another crack of the handgun bellowing another slug felled another of the knights. Blessed are we, for Halone watches over us. Ashur parried a strike, thrusting his blade into the narrow eyeslot of the knight's helmet. Blessed are we, for the faithful shall forever triumph over the faithless. Reloading was a simple matter. Ashur felt himself tingle as the aetherotransformer generated the lightning-aspected energy. Lantrenel hadn't been able to explain much, but what matters was that it worked. Blessed are we, for Her voice delivers us from the whispers of heretics. Two more explosive lightning-strikes resonated through the shroud. Another fell dead. Blessed are we, for Her devotion delivers us from the claws of the dragon. The sturdy barrel of the handgun made a decent bludgeon in a pinch. With his sword he parried the thrust of the lance, placing the barrel of the handgun just underneath the offending knight's chin and pulling the trigger. The loud sound and the explosive force of the barrel startled the other knights that had begun to close distance. That second where they flinched was all Ashur needed. The aetherotransformer hummed again. He could see why Stephanivien wanted to keep the invention a secret. It was a quick and simple device, and despite Ashur's lack of training, at this short range he couldn't miss. The handgun resonated twice more, and the Shroud was quiet.

Some time later... The days seemed empty. Each morning, before the sun rose, Ashur rose early, a metal flask tied to his hip. He would travel the length of the Steps of Faith in what was becoming a regular pilgrimage. Had any member of the clergy cared enough to observe him, they might have been impressed by the knight's apparent piety. Just before he reached the Gates of Judgment, Ashur emptied the contents of the flask into the abyss below. He would often stare at the stones on the floor, with only a barely visible shade of amber remaining as a reminder of the blood that had been shed upon it. An ultimately meaningless ritual. Emilia had not taken news of Alric's death well, though after her initial outburst of grief she was too proud to show it. No longer did she idle the days away on gossip with frivolous noble ladies, taking part in their casual fetes and sewing circles. To forget her sorrow, Ashur's mother had thrown herself wholeheartedly into trade after trade. One day she was a seamstress, the next her kitchen would be occupied with far too many foodstuffs in an effort to cook. At one point, Ashur had to physically restrain Emilia from marching all the way to the smelters located on the lower levels of Ishgard. Share in her sorrow though he might, Ashur couldn't afford to be overly distracted by her. There had been no sign of Stella: her manor was empty and all trace of her had vanished. It was more than likely that she left in the company of the heretics. Though her exact role was something of importance to him, Ashur could not afford to let himself be distracted by her either. The knight stared across the abyss before casually flinging the flask off the side as well. As he began the long walk across the Steps, Ashur's hand returned to its habitual movements; thumbing the pommel of the dagger in his belt. It didn't belong to him, but the dagger's owner was very much the only thing on Ashur's mind. He had found the dagger at the Gates of Judgment, looking for Alric's sword. Ashur had forged the blade himself; it was originally intended to be a gift for Ser Praihaux, but the older Elezen had been quick to hand it off to Alric, converting the sword from a gift to a gesture of brotherly affection. The sword, however, was nowhere to be found. What was there was the dagger, but two fulms away from Alric's body and coated in the knight's blood, matching the gash that had been driven into the back of Alric's neck. A dagger that belonged to another Temple Knight. Had anyone else found it, the dagger would have been meaningless; just a weapon abandoned in the chaos of the melee. Ashur, however, had always been saddled with armory duty due to his experience as a smith, and had over time learned the quirks and trademarks that revealed themselves on the equipment of his fellow knights. Ser Marat favoured the left stirrup when mounting his chocobo, Ser Mayhard was had poorly re-wrapped the handle of his sword, and Ser Loren... Ser Loren had his initials carved into the bronze pommel of his dagger. To most people, it was only clearly visible whenever light reflected on it, and no one would have found it if they didn't know what to look for. Except for Ashur. Other than the dagger, there was no definitive proof that Ser Loren had been the one to kill Alric, save for Ashur's instincts. Alric wasn't just a knight: he was a tournament fighter, the best combat fighter that Ashur knew, with a cohort of his fellow knights at his side. As grim as the odds were at the time, Alric should have been able to make a coordinated retreat from the Gates of Judgment. There were a handful of survivors from the initial battle at the Gates of Judgment who'd successfully made it back to Ishgard alive, but far too few. Alric's armour was undamaged, and his corpse only had the single gash to the back of the neck. As for motive, Alric's presence was deeply unpopular among many of the noble-born knights: as a man of common birth, his presence demeaned the prestige of the knights, or so they felt. There was no proof. But ever since Ashur had found the dagger, there was a growing well of suspicion in his stomach. Ashur returned to the Forgotten Knight to greet the only other person who knew about his suspicions: Lantrenel, one of Alric's friends from the Skysteel Manufactory. "Any word?" Ashur asked, his eyes peering at the Elezen over a mug of warm water. Since the battle, Ser Loren had since been transferred to another cohort, and so Ashur had no way of finding out where the other knight was. He could only rely on Lantrenel's contacts. "Loren's cohort is leaving for Camp Dragonhead in two days. The claim is heretic activity." The hubbub and bustle of the Forgotten Knight provided apt camouflage for these kinds of discussions: the rowdiness and the din of festive knights made an adequate screen of noise, though Ashur and Lantrenel practically had to butt foreheads in order to hear one another. "And what I requested...is it going to be ready?" Ashur murmured, to which Lantrenel nodded grimly. "Stephanivien won't be happy when he finds out...but if you're absolutely certain, I'll have it for you when you need it." Ashur gave an affirmative nod, and with nary another parting word the men left. Camp Dragonhead in two days.

So, Gaius van Baelsar is alive. That's a thing. That happened. I'm taking bets on who the next "definitely dead villain" comes back to life in the next patch. Livia sas Junius? Archbishop Thordan? Why not Teledji Adaledji, just for old times sake? No one we kill stays dead any way, so who cares. Though technically, Raubahn is the one who killed Teledji so he might actually be off the table. Opinions on Yotsuyu? I liked her character right up until they brought her back to life. Tsukuyomi's design was...okay. Music was good. Music was less good when my PuG group wiped on normal mode five times, but still. And hot off the presses of Reddit, shamelessly stolen: Samurai is so bad that even Gosetsu switched to monk.

The heretics flowed through the Steps of Faith like a rushing tide, yet there was a dam ahead that would stop it in its tracks: not a dam of stone and soil but of sword and shield, faith and fury. A small but ever-growing phalanx of Temple Knights stood ready to meet their foes. As Ashur raced into the fray, he felt a fear that was new to him. He was confident enough to fight these enemies; slaying heretics was but a small part of a knight’s duty. He’d done it many times. But he had never taken on so many foes with such doubt in his heart. The events were a blur. Ashur was little more than a ball of violent instinct, swiping his sword left and right, hearing the barking orders of a knight-captain to retreat into the plaza. Had he been of sound mind, Ashur might not have been worried at all; the heretics numbered barely a hundred and fivescore. The knight had no idea how many heretics he had slain. His chainmail was drenched with blood and his own sweat. His sword cut swath after swath of blood and pained cries. One of the heretics made a swing with a massive battle-axe, which Ashur blocked neatly with his shield and kicking his foe in the stomach. Seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours. It was an all-out melee in the Foundation now, the heretics having broken the knights’ line through suicidal zealotry and brute force. The sword felt heavy in Ashur’s hand, that it might as well have been a boulder with a handle. His muscles ached with weariness, relying only on adrenaline to swing the weapon. Other knights were busy fighting skirmishes around the Saint Reinette Forum, struggling to regroup. Ashur had abandoned his shield long ago, having thrown it at an onrushing heretic before removing the offender’s head with a single clean sweep of his blade. And then he heard it. A feminine voice, full of confidence, as clear as ice and just as piercing. “Nidhogg is dead, my friends! He who bore such hatred towards Ishgard is dead!” Almost immediately, the melee stopped. All eyes, heretic and knight both, turned. Very few knights had seen Lady Iceheart and lived to tell the tale. She was proud in all of her pale beauty, holding her arms wide. “Let his hatred die with him, I say! Let us sheathe our swords and go in peace!” Beneath his helm, Ashur’s eyes widened with incredulity. He felt his sword go slack in his hands. This was far too much to process in too short of a time. Nidhogg is dead? Ashur glanced around wildly, as if he were desperate to see some, any affirmation that he could continue fighting, continue killing. Yet no some indication came: the sounds of combat had stopped. “Have we lost!?” another voice rang out, hoarse and ragged. Lady Iceheart shook her head, lowering her arms. “No, my friend, far from it! At long last, the peace for which we have so desperately fought is within our grasp! And I for one would not forsake it!” The knights and the heretics looked at one another silently, some of them murmuring. Slowly, warily, as if each movement could collapse the entire city, the heretics began to sheath their weapons. As they began to walk away, the knights followed suit, though there were many who were visibly tense, clearly eager to continue the fighting. It felt like the first time in years that Ashur had time to himself to think. Where was Alric? Why was Stella at the Gates of Judgment? Nidhogg is dead...was he, truly? She’s a damn heretic! Loren had shouted. Heretic. What did that mean? But ten suns ago, the answer to that question had been so crystal-clear, so certain, so simple. A heretic was an enemy, a foe, a monster to be slain. The images, the sounds, were like daylight in his mind. The citizens marching on the gates. The vengeful, bloodthirsty gazes of the heretics just outside the gates. Stella trembling as she called on them to open the gates. Alric’s shouting. Wordlessly, his gaze turned towards the Steps of Faith. To the Gates of Judgment. ----- At the Gates of Judgment, there was only one knight there who wasn’t wearing a helmet. This particular knight had never liked helmets; they chafed, they were stuffy, and they hid your face from the crowd. His sandy-blonde hair was caked in blood; it would take forever to wash out, but then women did like battle-scars for being masculine. This would be but one of many exploits he could share at the Forgotten Knight, the defense of the Gates of Judgment. It would be a hero’s tale; he’d stand on the table and get halfway through the story before Gibrillont yelled at him to stop putting his boots near the ale. “Isn’t that right?” Ashur said, as he collapsed to his knees. His gauntlets rattled with his trembling hands. “You’re...going to have one hell of a tale to tell. All of the noble ladies will swoon, the Archbishop himself will make you one of the Heavens’ Ward. Right?” The light was gone from the dead knight’s eyes. Ashur reached out, pulling the body slightly toward him, his voice barely above a whisper. “Hey, Al...you’re going to catch a cold on the pavement. And this...this isn’t funny anymore. Why do...why do I always have to do what you say, but this one time you have to go and ignore me?” Ashur didn’t even realize the hot, stinging sensation coming from his eyes, cradling the body in his arms. He couldn’t feel the wind or the snow, all senses numb but one. “Couldn’t you...just once...couldn’t you have been the responsible one, just once, and done what I said? You’re always so useless. You don’t clean the dishes, you don’t help Mother around the house, you’re always too loud...I let you get away with those, you know, because I knew you’d be there when it mattered. Aren’t you? So you’re here now. You have to be...Al...” He was waiting for it. Some kind of quip, some exasperated joke making fun of him. You know that ladies don’t chase after knights who cry, right? Good heavens! Think of what Father would say! There would be something, anything there that would make Ashur feel exceptionally foolish. Foolish, embarrassed, ashamed..any of those would be ten times, a hundred times preferable to the ache gripping his heart now. "You're not listening to me again, are you? Fury above, you never listen to me. Not even if your life depended on it." Futilely, an idle hand tried to brush some of the dried blood off of the sandy-blonde hair. "Hey...Nidhogg is dead. The war is over. You can go see the world now, like you've always wanted. Think of what you can tell to people who haven't heard your stories a hundred times. You're a knight, a hero. And I..." The air seemed to rush away from him, desperately trying to escape his lungs. Ashur couldn't even tell that it was a sob rising from his chest. "I'd go with you. There's no point to me going alone. Not when you and Mother are here. But if you went...then I'd go with you. Someone has to keep you in line, right...? If not me, then who...since you're never going to find someone willing to marry you..." Ashur squeezed his eyes shot, unable to keep the wet sensation from permeating his face. He slumped over, clasping what he could of the already-cold body, as if doing so would bring the warmth, the light, the laughter back. “You’re just such a damn fool,” he whispered, the words falling on deaf ears. So too did the hoarse, anguished cry that echoed out of the Steps of Faith, carried away by icy winds.

Ishgard was the most well-defended city on Aldenard. It had no fortified walls, for it needed no walls; the city was practically carved out of a mountain, surrounded on all sides by a precipitous abyss. The Steps of Faith were the only overland route into Ishgard, and the Gates of Judgment had never fallen to any force Dravanian or otherwise, and until recently, the magical wards kept all airborne intruders out of Ishgardian skies. Despite their currently precarious circumstances, Ishgard was, for all intents and purposes, impenetrable from every direction, save for one. The Steps of Faith were marked by numerous gatehouses along its span, but the largest belonged to the Gates of Judgment, connecting Ishgard to the Coerthas Central Highlands. Most often the Gates of Judgment were manned by knights of House Fortemps, where they could be easily supplied and reinforced from Camp Dragonhead and the Whitebrim Front. The gate was normally heavily guarded, for Ishgardians had little liking for foreigners, but with the wards disabled many of the Temple Knights stationed there had been pulled back to the city itself lest the Horde attack Ishgard directly. The wyvern attack had set the city on edge, and only the most militant of the Temple Knights advocated for spending manpower manning the Gates of Judgment while Ishgard herself was still vulnerable. So it was that Ashur and Alric, alongside two of their fellows, Sers Loren and Mayhard, were shakily roused and given a hasty reassignment, ordered to join the garrison at the Gates and relieve the watch. Ashur fought to stifle the yawn from escaping his lips, his helmet tucked underneath his arm. The barracks were cold and the cots were often hard, but even those sad conditions were far more forgiving than the chill of dawn on the Steps of Faith. “There’s probably still a few more bells until first light,” Ashur complained. “And I had to be saddled with you. Did you do something to annoy Commander Lucia again?” Alric, for his part, looked fully alert and wide awake. Perhaps it was a difference in experience. “Actually, no. Not this time, anyway,” he replied. “Is there a particular point to sending such a small cadre all the way across the Steps? Well, orders are orders, I suppose.” Thankfully, the torches and braziers at the Gates of Judgment were kept lit at all times, though there was no scarcity of light; a bright full moon and a cloudless sky cast a cool shimmer across the wearied stone steps. As they approached the gatehouse, the light illuminated a scene of confusion, with knights coming off duty stopping to talk to those coming on duty. Alric waved his torch and the Gates began to creak open to admit them. “Hail!” he called out to the watchman. “Anything of note?” “Highlands quiet,” the call returned, to which Alric snorted. “Of course everything’s quiet. I can’t imagine the Dravanians would be so polite as to go through our front door with all of these shiny gates and dragonkillers.” They hurried into the gatehouse interior. Ashur set his helmet down on a table and knelt in front of a blazing fireplace, grateful to be out of the cold. As he stared into the flickering embers of the fire, his thoughts drifted to other places. He’d spent whatever free time he could garner looking for Stella, but she had been absent from her usual haunts. The great house in the Pillars was dormant and empty, and none of her fellow chirurgeons at the infirmary could name where she was located. At that, Ashur had felt equal parts relieved and disappointed. For most of the day he’d been revising what he would say to Stella to reconcile with her. Heretics were victims as well, and for some reason he hadn’t been able to understand that until now. Don’t apologize excessively, express gratitude. Don’t be too self-deprecating or it will look disingenuous. Knowing what you’re going to say is good, but sincerity is better. For once, he had an opportunity to rehearse, but he couldn’t tell if that would be a good thing or a bad thing for negotiating with Stella given his usual track record of putting his foot in his mouth. He sighed as the sound of the gate opening and closing once again echoed outside. Was this something he should even try to do? Perhaps she’d be happier if they simply went their separate ways. They didn’t exactly end their last meeting on a positive note. Ashur let out a yelp as a hand roughly grabbed his hauberk by the back of its collar. “Come on, baby brother, out into the cold. If you stay by the fire you’ll definitely fall asleep, and that will definitely annoy Commander Lucia if she hears of it.” “We were just out there,” Ashur protested. “Spare me for at least a few moments.” Though he wanted to enjoy the fire’s company, soon enough they were back outside, standing watch at a gate the no one in their right mind would try to attack. Ashur knew his brother well enough that Alric was never eager for something as dull as sentry duty, which meant he had something else in mind to keep them occupied. “So, did you manage to make up with your lady friend today?” Alric asked benignly, barely even attempting to disguise the fact that he’d dragged Ashur out just to ask this question. “She’s not my lady friend,” Ashur responded with irritation. At this point, I’m not completely certain I can classify her as a friend. “She’s just...someone I met at the infirmary.” “That’s a pretty classic tale, though. Didn’t Father used to tell us one like that? A saint or someone was a chirurgeon and fell in love with a wounded knight she was caring for. Something sweet like that,” Alric observed lightly. “It wasn’t a saint. The chirurgeon and the knight couldn’t marry because of their differing social classes, then the knight was sent into battle and died and the chirurgeon swore vengeance before slaying the dragon that killed her love and also dying. You do know that story is meant to show the evils of the Dravanians, and not to be an uplifting love tale, don’t you?” Ashur scowled. Alric merely laughed and shrugged. “Nope. I never paid attention to Father’s stories. Except for the ones with exciting fights. Still, it’s not often I get to see you like this. Overthinking, I mean.” “Yes, well, it’s not exactly pleasant for me,” Ashur said glumly. “I’ve had all day to think about it and I still don’t really know what I’d say to her. And before you suggest anything helpful, I very much doubt she’d have much patience for your method of persuasion, not unless you want me to get punched in the face.” “I like a woman with some fire! What’s appealing about the heat of love without the threat of being burned, hm?” Alric chuckled to himself. “Call me the Archbishop if you ever manage to find someone willing to tolerate you enough to marry you, Al,” Ashur said, shaking his head incredulously. Their watch continued for some time with idle conversation, until a woman dressed in heavy robes stepped out of the gatehouse. Ashur didn’t quite hear whatever Alric was prattling on about, as Ashur and the woman locked eyes in shock. Her chestnut hair was loose and wild, a sharp contrast to the usual clean and conservative style she kept it in. Her white chirurgeon’s robes could barely be seen under the thick grey cloak she wore. And unlike her usual proud, confident countenance, she looked...nervous. “Stella?” Ashur wondered aloud, less to call out to her and more to help his mind confirm that he was seeing who he thought he was seeing. The chirurgeon stopped, the blood briefly draining from her face like the hare spotting a swooping hawk. Ashur couldn’t contain himself from practically running over to her, prompting Alric to follow. “This is where you were?” A grin crossed Ashur’s face in some relief, even as a part of him quivered with anxiety. This was his chance. “I...was looking for you. Your fellows at the infirmary said they didn’t know where you were. I didn’t imagine that they stationed you all the way out here.” Stella stared at him before clearing her throat, and seeming to recover her composure. Was it because she didn’t want to see him? If that were the case, she’d be more than happy to let him know. “Were you? Looking for me, I mean,” she questioned. Stella glanced awkwardly at Alric who was eagerly leaning in. “Al, could you give us some space?” Ashur requested, before Stella hurriedly gave a wave. “No, it’s alright, he can stay.” Ashur felt somewhat uncomfortable having his brother leering over him and did his best to ignore Alric’s presence. “Um, yes, I was looking for you. I...wanted to apologize to you.” Something about Stella’s demeanour seemed different, like an animal sensing a quake. Ashur didn’t want to point out her behaviour, though, lest that ruin whatever chances of reconciliation they had. If anything, he should be grateful that she didn’t look particularly prickly at this moment. Ashur inhaled, formulating the words in his mind. “What you said at the Falcon’s Nest, I had a chance to think about it. And I don’t think I was fair to you, or what you were saying. I think...you were right.” He breathed again, searching Stella’s face for some indication that his words were having an effect. For her part, she simply stared at him. “Those people we hastily call ‘heretics’...they are victims too. I suppose until now I never really thought of them as such. But that man who was executed was someone close to you, and like you said, there might come a day where someone close to me is accused like that. And I don’t know how I’d react to that. So...I am sorry. And thank you for hearing me out.” Ashur didn’t notice Stella glancing past him as he spoke. He clasped his hands together and gave a short bow. It was the only gesture he could think of. “Ah. You’ve been thinking about that?” Stella said, almost as if she were in a daze. That was not the reaction Ashur was expecting. He was expecting...a reprimand, maybe. Something about how long it took for him to see it her way. Perhaps a haughty acceptance of his apology. Something seemed wrong. Her languid reaction was making him feel more anxious than any number of outbursts he thought she might spring into. “Y-yes, I have been,” Ashur said, stumbling over his words. Whatever was left of his prepared statement had fled his mind. “I thought I was being too narrow-minded, and so I wanted to...tell...you.” Stella paused, seeming to soak in his words before staring at him again. In all of this time, she hadn’t raised her voice and her face hadn’t shifted into the proud, almost arrogant expression of duty that Ashur had come to expect from her. “I am sorry as well,” she said quietly, now neatly avoiding his gaze. “I..did not mean those things I said. About you.” The longer their conversation went on, the more Ashur was taken aback. “O-oh. Well, no need to apologize. I just hope that we can, well...talk. More. Yes. Ahem.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. This didn’t go at all the way he thought it would. Even Alric seemed at a loss for words, or he sensed that intervening would do more harm than good. The silence continued for several loud, pounding seconds before Stella spoke. “Ashur,” she whispered, almost timidly, which was such a far cry from the usual Stella. “You need to leave. Go back to Ishgard.” “What?” Ashur very nearly took a step back, so startled was he by this sudden ominous request. “Why? Stella, is something wrong?” He reached out to grip her shoulder, for it looked that she might fall over at any moment. “Ho! Movement spotted!” A cry came from the ramparts of the gatehouse. The alarm bell began to ring. Alric squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “Ash. Ash! No time for helmets, come on!” Ashur glanced between the gates and Stella several times, unsure of what to do. He grabbed her hand and quickly dragged her to the gatehouse doors. “Stay inside, Stella. Inside!” “Ash, hurry up!” Stella slumped down by the gatehouse door, seeming more like a doll than a living person, her eyes fixated on the stones at her feet. Ashur couldn’t spend more than a few moments checking on her. Ashur rushed to the front of the Gates of Judgment, but saw nothing but snow and sleet. Another cry echoed from the top of the gatehouse. “It’s not from Coerthas! The Steps! They’re coming from the Steps!” The bell began to ring with even more fury than before. The knights sprinted from the front of the Gates to the back, and then they saw it. It was a mob, numbering at around fifty. Men and women both, wearing little more than rags. Some of them were dressed like commoners or merchant, but many, many more of them were like beggars and street rats. They were wielding torches, shouting and chanting words that couldn’t be discerned. “What in the Halone’s frozen tits is this?” Alric muttered incredulously. “An uprising?” “Heretics!” Ser Loren shouted, drawing his sword. This caused the rest of the knights to also bring out their weapons. “Wait, stop!” Alric yelled, standing in front if the knights. “They’re civilians! They’re not even armed! Stand down!” “You think a mob is coming to the Gates of Judgment like that to share tea and biscuits?” Another knight bellowed. “Look how many there are. We number barely threescore!” Ashur stepped forward to join his brother, though he uneasily glanced at the approaching mob on the Steps. He held his shield at the ready, though his sword lay in its scabbard. “We’re Temple Knights,” Ashur began somewhat shakily. “We can’t just cut--” “Brothers and sisters! The time is now!” Ashur whipped around. Standing before the Gates of Judgment was, of all people, Stella. Her eyes darted back and forth, her arms trembling even as she held them aloft as if she were beseeching a deity. “We whom gods and men have forsaken, will be the instruments of our own deliverance!” What was this? Why was she doing this? A million, million questions rushed through Ashur’s mind faster than he could even begin to acknowledge them. Without even thinking, his shield clattered to the ground and he scrambled to Stella, clasping her arms in equal parts confusion and desperation, as if he didn’t want to believe it. “What are you doing!?” Ashur cried out, shaking Stella. Was this it? Was this why she had saved him, talked to him? Had her mind been warped by the dragon this whole time? Were the words they shared nothing but poison-laced honey, a vague hope that could never come to pass? Stella only stared at him, her gaze full of uncertainty and...fear, even as she held her arms aloft as if expecting to be killed at any moment. “I...I told you to leave,” she murmured weakly. “She’s a damn heretic!” Ser Loren swore, advancing on Stella with his sword in hand. Ashur spun, grabbing Loren’s sword arm by the wrist and jerking the blade out of his hands. Before, Ashur himself might not have hesitated to cut down anyone he thought of as a heretic. But now…. “Wait, Loren, stop! We need to get control of the situation!” Ashur said, his voice audibly wavering with confusion. Get control of the situation? What did that even mean? How could they? The garrison at the Gates numbered just thirty knights. Even if they sent a runner to Dragonhead, no reinforcements would arrive in time to peacefully control the mob. Things would descend into violence. It would be a massacre. “Out of my way, you damn fool!” Loren roared, wrestling with Ashur to swing his sword, though his efforts were interrupted by another cry from atop the gatehouse. “Heretics! Movement from the Highlands!” The call went out. “Throw open the gates!” That was Stella’s voice, hoarse and rough. “Let the Holy See feel your righteous indignation! Ashur and Loren paused in their struggle. Seemingly, from out of nowhere, amidst the frantic voice shouting from the gatehouse, a mob of heretics had begun to advance on the Gates of Judgment. Unlike the unarmed rabble of civilians, they were armed and armoured. Some wore chainmail, other wore leather hauberks. They carried swords, lances, and axes. Frenzied, bloodthirsty gazes were visible from inside their helmets. Some of them carried torches, and from the warm illumination Ashur could see that they must have numbered close to one hundred, perhaps more. “Where in the hells did they come from!?” One of the knights shouted. “They’re going to open the gates!” Ser Mayhard cried out, the fear audible in his voice. “Cut them down! Do not let them into the gatehouse!” Stella rushed forward, as Ashur held Loren back, and she slipped into the mob of civilians that were now upon the Gates of Judgment. Though he couldn’t even begin to process his own mental state, the training kicked in, and Ashur withdrew his sword and readied his shield with his fellow knights. For some reason, one of his first priorities was that Stella was out of immediate danger. The knights tensed, weapons at the ready, and all were prepared for a bloodbath. The mob, however, stopped advancing. It started with a horrid creaking. The rasping of metal hinges twisting and turning caused all of the knights to turn slowly as the Gates of Judgment began to unfold, and soon, nothing standing between the knights and the army of heretics bearing down on them. “They’re...they’re already inside…” Ser Mayhard whispered. “Forget the civilians. Formation!” Alric’s strong, commanding voice broke the fearful silence of the knights. “There’s no time for us to retake the gatehouse. We defend the Gates with our lives if we must!” His command seemed to shake the knights out of their stupor, their surprise being swiftly replaced with hardened discipline from a thousand years of war. The Gates of Judgment were narrow; despite their small numbers, perhaps they could hold it. One of the heretics bellowed a fearsome war cry, and the army charged forward. Shields in hand, the knights formed a wall. From behind them, the crowd of civilians let forth a cheer for the approaching heretics. Ashur felt a hand pull him again, out of the shieldwall entirely. Gone was the usual mirth and joking demeanour that Alric wore. This was a side of his brother he had never seen: the battle-hardened commander, the knight who won the Grand Tournament, who had fought for his very life from the Brume. “Ash, you need to get out of here,” Alric said with a grimace. “Warn Ishgard. We’re going to hold them as long as we can.” “Wha--Fury’s sake, I’m not leaving now!” Ashur shouted, trying to sidle past his brother to rejoin the line. Alric’s grip pulled him back again. “You need to go! Now!” Alric didn’t ask politely this time. He roared, practically screamed, with all of the fury he could muster. “We’re going to give you ten minutes,” Alric said, gesturing towards the Steps of Faith. “After that, we’ll make our retreat. But if these heretics catch Ishgard unawares...if they have even more forces behind them, it’ll be a slaughter. We don’t know how many there are, or if the Dravanians are with them. We have to assume that the entire city is liable to fall. So you need to go!” As if to illustrate his point, Alric jabbed a finger towards Ishgard. This was all too much for Ashur to process. Alric was a fighter, but threescore knights versus all of those heretics. This would--they wouldn’t be... The hesitation must have shown on Ashur’s face, for as if to drive the point home, Alric formed a fist and swung straight at Ashur’s face, his gauntlets making a painful clack with the impact. Ashur gasped in response. The punch wasn’t hard enough to break anything, but it caught him off guard and took the wind out of him, the metal of the gauntlet had cutting into his cheek. Alric didn’t say it, but the punch was his way of communicating: Better a broken bone than dying. “Go, now, or I’ll kill you before the heretics do!” Alric bellowed. Ashur stumbled backward, sword and shield still in hand. He only paused for another second. “You better live,” he commanded Alric shakily, before turning and plowing through the still-cheering mob of civilians. Oddly, they didn’t try to stop him, so enraptured were they by the battle that was to come. And Ashur ran. He couldn’t tell if the tears that were starting to cross his face were from fear or the stinging, icy wind. Across the Steps of Faith he ran, daring not to look behind him as he heard the echoes of steel clashing on steel.

The shops of the Jeweled Crozier were shuttered and barred. A cloaked figure descended down a tight, obscure alley, one out of the way of the main street to reach the shop. On the corner of the shop's door was a small, faint mark, all but invisible except to those who knew what to look for; a white triangle, drawn in chalk. The figure knocked three times on the door in rhythm, waited a full ten seconds, and knocked three more times. An eyeslot panel on the door slid open, an eye peering out to the visitor. "You're late, sister," said a woman's voice. The panel promptly shut and the door opened, revealing a female platinum-haired Elezen in the clothes of a noble servant. The cloaked figure shifted inside to escape the morning chill. "Everyone is here," the Elezen said, gesturing towards the back of the shop. "The knights are out in force," Stella said as if to make an excuse for her tardiness, drawing back her hood. Her chestnut-coloured hair, once so neat and orderly, was shaggy and unkempt, provoking Stella to run an absentminded hand through it. The shop was small and crowded with cabinets and tables. On one of the counters was a stick of incense burning an exotic lavender flame with a pungent smell hanging in the air. "What did you expect?" The Elezen reprimanded coolly, leading the way into the back room of the shop. Stella said nothing more; she knew that any more protest would simply draw Audrienne's ire. Stella knew little about Audrienne Auzenne other than the fact that she worked for some nobleman or other, and that the Elezen frightened her; the sooner this was all done with, the better. In the back room were two scowling Hyur men; from their ragged, tattered clothing and generally foul demeanours, Stella guessed they must have lived in the Brume. She never had cause to descend into the lower parts of the city save for when she was reporting to the infirmary, but even Stella knew what kind of conditions they must have endured in order to get here. "This it, then?" one of the men demanded. "She don't look like no knight to me." "She's a chirurgeon who has free license to go where she pleases, for the most part." Audrienne said impatiently. "And just as an extra precaution, we've arranged it so the knights on duty will recognise her. I do hope you appreciate that liberty. You did a very poor job of making friends." It took all of Stella's willpower to keep from recoiling or snapping at the comment. "Not that it matters," the Elezen continued. "By the time anyone figures out you're not what you seem, it will all be over." "I hope so," the Hyur growled. "Anything goes wrong and it means our necks, and yours. The Inquisition won't have to torture me to find out who gave my orders." "No need to worry so much," Audrienne replied. "If you fail, you won't live long enough to talk." The Elezen glanced around to the three Hyur standing in the room with a hard, icy stare. "None of you will. I've seen to that." Stella felt a cold qualm tremble in her gut. She glanced askance at the two men, but saw nothing in their faces to indicate that they were anxious or fearful. The more Audrienne spoke, the more this felt like a bad idea, but her hesitation soon met her fiery pride and stubbornness. She did her best to silence any doubts from rising to her lips. This was her chance to repay her patron, the ones who had freed her from her bondage. This was her chance to strike a single, resounding blow. For those whom gods and men have forsaken... And more than that, this was for Raimondaux now. Again, a familiar, concerned face flashed in her mind, one she dreaded seeing more and more. The cost has been our lives...! The chirurgeon shook her head. They were too far gone now. "Luckily for us, it seems that there are other disgruntled citizens who do not need our influence to act," Audrienne remarked. "You will simply be going there to give them a push, as it were. Even if it turns out for naught, Lyron will see it done." In response, one of the men nodded. "He knows his business?" Stella asked, trying her best to keep the nervousness from her voice. "Certainly," Audrienne returned, raising an eyebrow at Stella's hesitation. "Do you know yours? I'm beginning to wonder." "I know mine," Stella snapped. She would have to help them navigate the fortifications, and if need be serve as a distraction. It was child's play. Or it should be. "Has there been any word from the Lady?" "If you are worried, then I have put in good word for you," Audrienne said smoothly. The three Hyur began to shuffle out of the store at her direction and into the alley. "When the time comes, Lady Iceheart will be expecting you." Without a word of farewell or a word of luck, Audrienne shut and barred the door behind them, leaving no direction to go but forward.

As for her, Stella did little besides take what comfort she could in the confines of the empty house and tend to her duties. Her time would soon be coming to an end; eventually, her patron would contact her and for better or worse she would be rid of this accursed city. Though she felt outwardly eager, Stella recognised the anxiety that had twisted into a knot within her stomach. Where once she had carried out her chirurgeon's affairs with a brisk sense of pride, now she was sluggish, slow, and apathetic. She was careful to make sure there were no deaths on her watch, but those few who had grown accustomed to Stella's once-efficient method of care were quick to notice the change, though hesitant to point it out. On one occasion, she inadvertently eavesdropped on the other chirurgeons gossiping. "Our little ice princess seems to have defrosted some," one trilled. "Nay, she's done nothing but frozen even more. Water is quicker than ice, after all!" There were some malicious giggles echoing from beyond the screen. "It must be a man." And that was all Stella could stomach hearing as she had rushed out of the room, her face burning to the tip of her ears. It wasn't anything so stupid as a man. Before, her duties as a chirurgeon had provided her with some distraction, but as the hour drew ever closer, there was little point in maintaining the act any more than she had to. That was all there was to it. Every now and then, a fair-haired face, sporting a grim expression of hurt and dejection flashed itself in her mind and was just as easily dismissed. This was distracting. He was distracting. His words, his voice, it was all getting in her way, and the more Stella thought about it, the angrier it made her. All of this was pointless. Once her task was done and her debt repaid then there would be nothing left. Unconsciously, the chirurgeon continued to soak and wring out a wet cloth over and over. Ishgard. Damn this city and all of its fools. Damn-- "Is it a man?" A mild voice mused behind her, causing Stella to whip around, nearly sending the bowl of water flying across the infirmary. Eaufault was changing the bandages of an unconscious man, his spectacled gaze focused on his task, though Stella could see him glance up at her every now and then. Ever since she had returned to Ishgard, Eaufault was perhaps the closest thing she might have likened to a companion, though in truth they were little more than associates who happened to share the same space and duties. For whatever reason, either because he did not notice or simply did not care, Eaufault never seemed to be put off by Stella's prickly demeanour and eventually she lost the motivation to shoo him away or ignore him. She paused. When the time came, she would have to leave Eaufault as well. Stella was not particularly attached to him, but the fact that he typically was the only source of conversation she would have for days on end lended his presence something of a...sentimental value. She shook her head. "No, it is not," Stella replied with a little more force than she would have liked. That was such a stupid idea. What could possibly compel people to think that? "If you say so," Eaufault said doubtfully. "When a young maiden hesitates, it's usually because her heart falters." "I am hardly a simpering maiden," Stella remarked with no small amount of disgust. Given her difficult history with Ishgard and her arranged marriage, it was hard to accurately express the disdain she had for the very idea of romantic notions and marriage. "The post at the Falcon's Nest was simply draining and I haven't yet taken the time to recover. That is all." Even with her usual haughtiness, though, Stella would be hard pressed to disagree with the notion of her heart faltering. Certainly it wasn't for him, but for what lay before her. "That was your first posting outside of the city walls, wasn't it? I suppose that kind of experience would certainly be draining for an indoor mouse like you," Eaufault observed. Stella scowled. "If that is all you plan on saying, you've my invitation to cease talking. Preferably forever." She wrung out the cloth one last time when another intrusive thought bore its way into her mind. What did he say to you? With none of her adroit grace, she practically slapped the wet cloth down on the head of the knight she was tending, provoking a startled yelp and a vocal protest that she quickly ignored. Stella knew she wasn't wrong, but there was...something. It took much of her willpower to keep from reciting her lady's mantra. We whom gods and men have forsaken... No. Not here. She couldn't falter here, not when they would be so close. "Take over the rest for me," she snapped at Eaufault, packing up her surgeon's kit and storming out of the infirmary. What thoughts had been in her head was replaced by the pounding, rhythmic thumping of the infirmary's timepiece and her own anxious heart.

The suns came and they went, and soon enough, the cohort was recalled to Ishgard for some much-needed rest and reassignment. In this time, Ashur and Stella did not speak to each other even once since their argument; she was far too full of pride and guilt to approach him, and he was too empty of confidence that he could even begin to ameliorate whatever their relationship had been. If it had been something to begin with. Though they might have cast one or two glances when they believed the other was looking, nothing was done, and it seemed that time would erode whatever goodwill was left between them. Though they were nominally off duty during this time, Ashur found that he spent more and more of his time in the cathedral, listening to the sermons and liturgies. These days, these hallowed stone walls seemed to be the only space that could contain his thoughts, lest they pound straight out of his head. It wasn't unusual for knights to be mixed in with the common populace for sermons, many of them more devout than the clergy themselves. Ashur, for his part, saw fit to sit in the pew furthest from the front, both to quell his discomfort and to hide the fact that he wasn't here for particularly devout reasons. "Under the gaze of Halone, we gather to seek Her blessing," the deacon spoke grandly, dressed in flowing white robes trimmed with blue and gold thread. A large copy of the Enchiridion, was open at the podium in front of him, though it was obviously just for decoration: if the deacon was respected enough in the clergy to be allowed to give public sermons, then he memorized enough of the holy text that he didn't need an aid anyway. "With Her grace, we will be made anew. With Her strength, we will defeat the claws of the dragon. With Her wisdom, She shall lead her faithful to peace and prosperity." In these times of violence and war, certainty was perhaps the one luxury that was afforded to Ishgard without apparent cost. Certainty that what they were doing was good and righteous, that their cause was just. Was there anything more noble than defending one's home and kin against the claws of mindless beasts who sought nothing more than destruction? Is it heresy to protect your loved ones? Ashur grimaced, rubbing his gauntlet against his forehead. Certainty seemed to be the one thing he lacked these days. His thoughts were a swirling vortex, echoing the argument he and Stella had while at the Falcon's Nest. The knight flinched when he felt a hand tap him on the shoulder. Alric did his best to shuffle between the pews as quietly as he could to slump next to Ashur on the seat. "Finally found you, little brother," Alric said quietly. "Figures that you'd gone to the one place I'd never look for you." "Don't you have better thing to do?" Ashur muttered with some irritation. The last thing he needed was a mother hen pecking at his head. Alric grinned. "Probably. But I thought this was more important. You've been quiet lately. Well, you're usually more quiet than I am. But I mean unusually quiet. Which means you're probably overthinking things again." There was a pause as the deacon's liturgies continued to echo in the cathedral. "Do you think what we're doing is right?" Ashur asked somewhat sheepishly. Despite his elder brother's vulgarities and loudness and generally obnoxious behaviour, Alric was at the end of the day the more even-headed of the two, more likely to laugh something off than take offense or be stuck in his own head. "What we're doing? How do you mean? Sitting in a cathedral during a liturgy and talking to each other about our personal problems while ignoring the words of Halone? Not very likely," Alric snorted. "That's not what I meant. I mean the war. The heretics. Some of them might be innocent people. Do they not deserve a fairer fate?" This time it was Alric's turn to pause, exhaling slowly in contemplation. "Ah, so you are overthinking things. I suppose this is about that lady friend you almost made in Falcon's Nest?" Ashur recoiled in surprise, mostly because he had never intended to tell Alric, though his brother answered the question before it was asked. "Ser Loren heard you. The two of you were apparently shouting in the middle of the courtyard, you know. Not exactly private space for a domestic dispute. One day I'll have to teach you how to handle women, Ash." "It wasn't anything like that," Ashur said with some dejection. "Well, to answer your question, war is war. It's not so easy to define as 'some people are good' and 'some people are bad'. Certainly all people are some shades of good and bad, but inevitably some of those people are on opposite sides. As for heretics..." Alric frowned. "Well, far be it from me to blaspheme in a holy place, but I've never thought of them as our true enemies. They are victims as well, victims of Nidhogg and his brood just like we are. We may fear them for how they subvert us, but at the end of the day they're just people, not monsters. Well, most of them, I expect." Heretics were just people. The clergy taught that they were decadent and sinful people who had willingly taken part in the blood of the dragon. "I never told you this, but when I first became a knight, one of the first things I had to do was oversee an execution. At Witchdrop," Alric continued, his expression growing somber. "Two brothers, just like us. Accused of heresy, and forced to prove their innocence. They chose to jump off together to prove that they weren't Dravanians." "And were they?" Ashur murmured. "Nope. I'd never seen a man transform into an aevis before and I still haven't. But I do know they certainly didn't deserve to be dashed upon the rocks like they were." Heretics. Heretics. Something began to make sense. Heretics were just victims as well. They were people seduced or betrayed into the wings of the dragon. Ashur felt a weight relieved from his shoulders. Nothing of what Stella said was truly all that contradictory after all; the dragons were their foes, after all. The Dravanian Horde was made up of nothing but beasts, but in their insidiousness they chose to turn Ishgard's people against one another. "Oop, I think the deacon's glaring at me," Alric muttered, giving Ashur a quick tap on the shoulder. "Make up with her, why don't you? I think she'd be good for you. Probably." With that, Alric did his best to 'casually' shuffle away without bumping into the pews more than four times. Ashur wasn't sure he could get through to Stella, but with his new understanding, perhaps it wasn't pointless to try. The liturgy continued to echo against the walls.

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"So what did he tell you?" Stella barely registered Ashur's question as they left the storeroom that had served as the makeshift jail. She was too deep into thought, her conflicting emotions preventing her from thinking clearly. Some part of her entertained--fantasized about, even--the idea of somehow freeing Raimondaux from his bonds, but for better or worse her rationality prevailed. There was simply no way to do so, no one she could trust, and freeing him would not make his life any better. Every time she blinked she could see the face of her tutor content with his inevitable fate to die, if only to rejoin one he had unjustly lost. "Ah," Stella mumbled in some vague attempt to acknowledge the knight's question. "Nothing especially valuable, I suppose." She couldn't very well tell him that she personally knew this particular heretic; it would hardly be unheard of for her to be suspected of being one simply by association. "I thought perhaps he might confess or give something before, but I was wrong." She absentmindedly began to pick at the loose seams of the blue lining Ashur had sewn onto her robes. Ashur snorted. "I can't say I'm surprised. Who knows what a ragged heretic like him might have gotten up to in the highlands? We'll be free of him tomorrow if Ser Marat has his way, thank the Fury." While the logical part of Stella's mind knew it was an idle comment made by one who simply didn't know any better, she couldn't help but feel some measure of anger flare up at Ashur's casual judgment of a man that had nearly been like a father to her. As best as she tried to restrain the impulse, she snapped back. "I'm sure the Enchiridion teaches otherwise, but did it never occur to you that these heretics might just be simple people like you or I?" Stella's sharp words flew from her lips like daggers. It was stupid, she knew that. She was getting emotional, and that would lead to mistakes. Raimondaux's story was still fresh on her mind, and her smoldering resentment at the injustice of it was threatening to be stoked into a flame. Given their interactions thus far with Ashur stumbling over etiquette, she'd ultimately judged him to be something of a weak-willed man, which made it all the more surprising when the knight's response came almost immediately, his tone calm and resolute. "No, that's never occurred to me. I don't claim to know the mindset of a man driven to seek the blood of the dragon. I could never understand what might drive someone to seek to murder those he might have once called kin. This is a war, and the heretics are our enemies that seek to destroy what we hold dear." Stella stopped in her tracks and spun around, her arms folded severely across her chest. "So it's that simple for you, is it?" Again, over and over she heard some part of her screaming at her to stop, to calm down and simply let the issue go, but she couldn't bring herself to listen. A sense of righteous indignation swelled within her, even as she questioned why she was even debating this. Was it because some part of her thought of Ashur as a good man that he might see reason? Was this just the despair at seeing someone she valued--perhaps loved, even--wasting away before being put to the sword? "These so-called 'heretics'...while some of them truly were evil cultists of the dragon, countless more are undoubtedly innocent men and women condemned to a wrongful fate simple because Halone's mouthpieces deemed it to be so. How many fathers, sons, and brothers have the knights cut down?" The way Stella said the word knights in an accusatory way, clearly as a substitute for Ashur himself. To his credit, the knight didn't seem to look indignant or angry, merely confused, which made Stella slightly more incensed. "Whatever they were before they became heretics doesn't matter," Ashur tried to explain. "What matters is what they are now: they are the enemy, bent on destroying Ishgard. If mercy or diplomacy were an option of dealing with Nidhogg and his followers, we wouldn't even be here." "But have you even tried, or are they nothing but straw to fall before your sword?" Stella flared back. This was stupid, all of this was stupid. "That 'heretic' had no intention of killing you or any of your fellows, but he will be condemned all the same." "You think that makes a difference?" Ashur asked, his tone incredulous. "They were armed, and they used some foul magic to put us to sleep. They could have done anything they wanted and gotten away with it. Maybe you can talk because you've never had their blades at your neck, but things were a little different for me!" Now he was irritated, having placed his hands at his hips and making a "tch" noise beneath his lips. "Is this what you interrogated from him? That his intentions were pure and wholesome? I don't believe I need your judgment when, need I remind you, what we just pulled could put us both to death if the Inquisition found out! Impersonating a member of the clergy? I went along with it because...because it was you, and what I have to show for it is some tepid accusation that I should have let those heretics do what they like?" He was right. He was right. Stella, for all of her pride and presumed worldliness had never been under direct threat. She'd been on the aftermaths of a battlefield, but never on the front lines herself, but she still couldn't abide from this...from this zealot that everyone struggling to live were just heretical weeds to be threshed from Coerthas. "Life is not so black and white, ser knight," she muttered coldly. "You are so quick to condemn them to death, but at what cost?" Every word that slipped from Stella's tongue did nothing more but bring Raimondaux's face to mind, bruised and battered, tortured in a dark, dank store room with not even rats to keep him company as he waited for the execution. It wasn't right. None of this was right. "What cost? The cost has been our lives, Stella! Every time one of Nidhogg's brood claims one of us, that is the cost! Our ancestors fought and died against the dragons and their cultists. We fight and die against them today." Ashur was standing his ground now, and every time he refused to bend like she thought he would caused Stella's ire to grow--not necessarily at him, but at herself. There was no point in pursuing this. Her frustration was welling up and bursting like a geyser. It wasn't just Raimondaux, it was everything about Ishgard. That she'd been seen as little more than a commodity to be married off to the highest bidder, that she continually saw good men and women die in a senseless war, the Inquisition carting off more and more innocent people every day under the guise of doing away with "heretics". "I thought you were better than this," she said bitterly. "That 'heretic' is...is a man who practically raised me!" It was an impulse, but there was a burning need within her to make him understand. Stella was, however, quick to lower her voice lest she be overheard. "He is a good man, forced to eke out a living in the Highlands because the Inquisition thought it convenient to accuse him and his loved ones as heretics!" Before Ashur could respond, she continued. "What if it was your brother? Your mother? Ishgard is governed by those who see nothing but potential enemies in everyone, and still you think they are right! Is it heresy to protect your loved ones? Is it heresy to wish for an end to the fighting, the bloodshed? Does all it take for you to swing your blade is to point at someone's child and claim there are wings coming out of them? If so, then you are much bigger fool than I thought!" At that point, the chirurgeon turned to walk away--somewhere, anywhere she could be alone to just think and calm down before she said something she would truly regret--when she was interrupted by a gloved hand gripping her by the shoulder. Stella whipped around, fully intent on slapping Ashur for daring to lay a forceful hand on her, but her hand froze just short when she noted that his expression was not of anger or irritation or condescension, but of concern. "What did he say to you?" Ashur wondered, his amber eyes searching her face for some answers. It was infuriating, his soft expression, and as he searched her face so too did she search his. Did he believe her about Raimondaux? Did he care? Was he another zealot blinded by the Fury's radiance or did Stella dare to hope that he might be something more? But as she scrutinized him almost desperately, Stella could see. He didn't understand. He wasn't trying to understand. He was one of Halone's faithful trying to judge if one of the Fury's lambs had strayed from the flock. There was nothing more to it than that: making sure she stayed on the well-trodden path of the blind and the meek that couldn't think for themselves. Stella brusquely knocked aside his hand with one of her own, ignoring the sting of pain that came with slapping aside a steel gauntlet with her bare hand. "Where is he? The Ashur I thought I could trust. The one I foolishly thought might have been my friend," she wondered aloud, her gaze pointedly avoiding his. Even though she wasn't looking straight at him, she could sense the hurt and anger radiating from Ashur's amber eyes like heat from a hearth as his proffered hand dropped to his side. "He's been with you," the knight said with an unknowable mix of resentment and dejection. He turned and stiffly marched off into the snow, while Stella made for the privacy of her quarters.

Xaela were a relatively rare sight in Kugane in comparison to the other spoken, and Xaela who had the funds or the wiles to afford living within Kugane's walls were even rarer. While foreigners from Aldenard were not unheard of, only the most adventurous tribal merchant would dare to make the trek across Yanxia and the Ruby Sea. It was far easier for foreign traders to make their way to Reunion than for Xaela to make the journey to Hingashi, and real estate was ever at a premium within the walls of the port city. So it was that Kagero had enlisted the tepid assistance of the Sekiseigumi to scour the city for the Xaela Nabi, and when their search had turned up nothing but rumour that someone matching her description had boarded a merchant vessel to Yanxia, Kagero's mood had become very sour at the prospect of having to cross the Ruby Sea. He truly did not want to go this far for what he considered to be little more than an annoying errand. Not a day went by in Kugane where the harbour was anything but stiflingly busy. The Hingan lord was still dressed in his martial black dogi, while Sekka had exchanged her kimono with form-fitting travel leathers. It was a sultry afternoon, hotter than any they'd had yet, and a steamy calm hung over the water. Vessels of various shapes and sizes clogged the harbour, some of them fishermen with nets and cages filled with fish, crab, and clams, some larger boats shuttling crates from merchant ships docked offshore. Their vessel would be the Takanami, a merchant vessel; Kagero had insisted on a Hingan vessel to cross the Ruby Sea. As things stood, however, they were waiting for the Takanami's captain to finish unloading their goods before they could depart, and so Kagero and Sekka were left waiting on a bench in the Hostelry as dock workers hustled and bustled past them. "I don't much care for pirates or ijin," Kagero muttered, scratching the back of his neck. "Lord Koryusai would love nothing more than to be allowed to put the Confederacy to the sword of the bakufu allowed him," Sekka observed sagely. "For once, I am inclined to agree. Perhaps I would not dread such trips to the mainland if I did not have to tolerate the inconvenience." His arms were folded across his chest and his foot tapped impatiently against the front of the bench before Kagero stood up. "I tire of waiting. I cannot remember a time I was this bored." Even worse, the situation demanded something resembling a clear mind, and while Kagero loved little more than drowning himself in junmaishu, he was denied such a luxury at a time like this. He stomped towards the pier with his retainer following dutifully behind, fully intent on finding something interesting to do, or making something interesting happen if it necessitated it. It seems the kami agreed, for almost immediately Kagero spied an ornery ijin merchant arguing with one of the customs officers. It was a loudmouthed Highlander Hyur, trying his best to stare down the customs officer. "Time is money," the Highlander growled, "And with respect to your laws, I'll be running out of both at this rate!" "Uninspected goods are not allowed inside Kugane, ser," the customs officer replied sternly, though his tone had an edge of indignation and impatience. "What seems to be the problem here?" Kagero folded his arms in the sleeves of his dogi. It was not his habit to intervene in such mundane affairs of bureaucracy, but anything beat waiting on a bench and not being allowed to drink. The customs officer opened his mouth to speak before noting the katana at Kagero's side and the Raen following him, quickly connecting the dots. "Just a trade dispute, my lord. Nothing for one such as yourself to be concerned about," the customs officer said with a deep bow. "His superior, eh?" the Highlander grumbled. "Then maybe you can tell him that it'll take a moon for him to inspect each and every one of my crates." "Which ship is yours?" Kagero asked, to which the Highlander gestured to an Eorzean ketch docked at the end of the pier. Several dockworkers were unloading a staggering number of wooden crates off of the deck, such that it was amazing that the ketch hadn't sunk on the way to Hingashi. Wordlessly, Kagero sauntered up to the stacked crates. They were marked with the names of various grains and seeds: flour, flaxseed, and other agricultural goods. Judging from a cursory glance, there must have been close to twenty small crates stacked high on the pier. "A miller, are you, ser?" Kagero inquired blandly, the Highlander and the customs officer having followed his path with irritation and sheepishness respectively. "This is quite a lot for a small ship." The Highlander folded his arms across his brawny chest. "The trip to Hingashi is a long one, so it's best we make it worth it. And foreign foodstuffs are quite popular, as I'm sure you know." The Highlander barely had time to protest as Kagero nodded to the crate, prompting Sekka to withdraw one of her knives and begin prying open the top of one of the crates. Sure enough, a layer of brown flaxseed permeated the inside of the crate. "You are right, the journey from Aldenard to Hingashi is a long one. So long that I question why you only have grains with you. Surely you are not so foolish a merchant as to...ah, what is the saying? 'Put all your eggs in one basket'?" Kagero pulled out a handful of flaxseed and let it trail through his open fingers. The ijin merchant shifted his weight nervously. "I got them for cheap," he mumbled. "Seemed as good a place to turn a profit as any." "I'm sure," Kagero replied dryly, before raising his foot and neatly pushing the now-open crate on its side. "What in the hells--!" The Highlander's arm shot out and roughly grabbed at Kagero's sleeve, only for the ijin to howl as he suddenly found one of Sekka's knives jabbed through his forearm. The flaxseed poured out of the crate into the harbour water below, and it wasn't long before the flaxseed had drained and a number of bottles, swords, and daggers tumbled out into the harbour as well. Kagero clapped his hands to face the bleeding and pale Highlander. "Wonderful! You foreigners never fail to impress." The Hingan gave a terse nod to the shocked customs officer. "Fetch the Sekiseigumi, if you would please. They have some merchandise to seize," Kagero said, his mood having been markedly improved. He glanced upwards at the nervous faces of the crew who had ceased unloading their crates onto the docks. With one smooth motion, Kagero withdrew the katana from its sheath and handily lopped off one of the Highlander's arms from the shoulder, causing a ghastly screech of pain to be emitted from the man clutching his bleeding stump. "We'll be occupying ourselves here until our ship is ready." "E-er, my lord..." the customs officer stammered, causing Kagero to wave an idle hand. "They're just ijin, who gives a damn? The Sekiseigumi, if you would, please," he repeated.

"Never took you as one who went out on strolls, Vaye," said the knight on duty, rising to his feet, offering a casual salute, which Ashur returned.The knight made another belated bow to the hooded figure trailing behind him, their crisp white robes embroidered with the telltale blue trimmings of the clergy. "Welcome to the Falcon's Nest, my lord. What business have you here?" The knight's words were polite but his tone was understandably brisk. Ishgard was not kind to its prisoners, for the only ones who had cause to be gaoled were criminals and heretics waiting for a death sentence. The clergy had never had reason to visit the dungeons within the fortresses or beneath the Holy See itself, and only the most saintly members of the Church even dared risk exposing themselves to the corrupting influence of heretics. This was hardly surprising; criminals and heretics both had forfeited all rights by breaking the laws of Halone, laws that were considered just and fair. Stella was grateful that the hood covering her face masked the fact that her eyes nearly rolled straight out of her head even thinking something like that. "The prisoner my cohort brought in, the spellcaster," Ashur said, clearing his throat. "This anointed priest wishes to interrogate him. There is some thought that he may be implicated in the raids occurring through the Highlands, and she wishes to question him before the Inqusition sends him to the Fury." A pause. "And as the one who captured him, I suppose I feel an interest in being the one to carry out the sentence, should it be necessary." "Ah, I understand," the knight said. Stella could practically hear his smirk beneath his helmet. "Nothing gets the blood going better than the occasional execution, I always say. And it's always a pleasure to have a member of the clergy about. I'll get the door for you." The knight began to sort through the collection of keys affixed to a large iron ring on his belt. They walked along a narrow corridor carved deep inside the cliff. The Falcon's Nest was still under reconstruction, and so there was no time to build a proper gaol. What served as a series of temporary cells was actually an underground storehouse of sorts, meant to store perishable crops. The corridors were brightly lit by torches that smoked in the dank, sour-smelling air. The "prison" only had a small rotating watch of knights, though this wasn't out of complacency. For one, there was rarely an occasion to use the storehouses as a prison, since Ishgardians had a notoriously effective "kill on sight" policy for most foes they met. For two, the exit would bring the would-be escapee directly into the barracks. "Here it is," the knight said, halting in front of a thick, iron-rimmed door. The key made a dull click as the door swung open. Stella was nearly struck off her feet by the unwashed stench, and resorted to breathing as little as possible. "You've got visitors," the knight called into the darkness of the storage room. "Her Reverend will hear your confessions before your judgment." There was no answer, save for a slight clanking of chains. Ashur gave a nod to the gaoler. "We'll take it from here, Ser." "I'll be right outside," the knight said gruffly. "Better idea to leave the cell door open." "We wouldn't want to keep you from your duties, ser knight," Stella spoke softly in an authoritative tone; that was something with which she had plenty of practice. "And I would not want to risk an honorable man as yourself to hear the tainted words of a heretic. " "As you say, my lady Reverend," the knight looked dubious. "Though it would not do well upon my honor if an exalted member of the Holy See was assaulted in this cell on my watch." "I have my own knight with me, and the Fury protects me," Stella said sternly from beneath the hood. "Now you must allow me to conduct my questioning as I see fit, ser knight, lest I begin to think you question your faith." The knight paused, before bowing low and departing, though not without first saying to "yell out" if they needed anything. "I certainly need some fresh air," Stella muttered to herself, pulling the hood down off of her head, causing Ashur to glance backwards in alarm in case the knight on duty decided to come back. "I can't believe you convinced me to do this," he sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "You realize that if I were found to be privy in this little excursion, this is where they would send me." "Nonsense," Stella admonished. "You are a knight; surely they would go through due process. Though," she paused, her tone thickening with sincerity. "I am grateful for your aid in this." The two of them entered the cell slowly, as Ashur took one of the torches affixed to the hallway inside with them. As befitting a storeroom, there were no windows carved into the walls. "You are sure he will speak to you?" Ashur asked with uncertainty. "I am sure he will more readily speak to me than any armed zealot looking to cut him down at first glance," the chirurgeon observed dryly in response. "Leave the torch and shut the door behind you. Not all the way, just enough to ensure some privacy." She turned to see the doubtful expression on Ashur's face before sighing in exasperation. "Need I feed you the same spiel as the gaoler? I will be fine." "I'll be outside," Ashur said with a frown, handing Stella the torch and slipping outside the cell door, closing it just enough to leave a slight gap. Torch in hand, Stella stepped forward into the cell. The flames flickered brightly, illuminating a decrepit, middle-aged Elezen lying on a pile of straw on the floor. His face and body were bloody and battered. A terrible facial wound had healed poorly, leaving little but a mass of scar tissue on the side of the Elezen's face, causing him to look shriveled and shrunken. The Elezen regarded Stella baleful curiosity through filthy, matted hair. Stella felt her heart drop as she recognized the markings on his arms and neck; whips, brands, anything they felt they could get away with to make him talk. "Welcome to my humble chambers, your Grace," the Elezen sneered. "You'll pardon me if I don't get up and praise your precious Fury, but I'm chained to the wall. Stare all you like; I won't be getting prettier any time soon." "I haven't come to make sport of you," Stella spoke softly, kindly. She reached a hand forward to brush the Elezen's hair, though the heretic flinched and recoiled. "It is you, isn't it, Raimondaux?" The Elezen paused, startled. His eyes searched Stella's face. "How do you...?" And then he gasped. "By the Twelve...my Lady Vedaine!" It took much of what willpower Stella had to keep a tear from accompanying her relieved smile. Raimondaux was an old friend, perhaps the only friend Stella could associate with her birth family. He had been naught but a humble tutor to House Vedaine, teaching arithmetic and literature to Lord Vedaine's children. While Stella's brothers were content to ignore his lessons in favour of training among the knights and Stella's sisters were more than capable of playing truant, Stella herself had been the only one who had taken even a passing interest in the education he had to offer. A competent conjurer, he had piqued Stella's interest in learning magic, though her education in that particular regard had never gone very far. This time when Stella reached out to touch his face, Raimondaux did not pull away, though he winced and hissed when she traced the edge of the scar tissue affixed to his cheek. "Oh, Raimondaux, what did they do to you?" Stella murmured mournfully. Raimondaux for his part attempted to chuckle, though nothing came out but hacking coughs. "Nothing less than I deserve, or so the devoted of Halone would have you know," the Elezen grumbled with no small measure of disdain. He raised an eyebrow at the blue trimmings of her robe. "But you, a member of the clergy? I could have never imagined." Stella sheepishly brushed a hand over the blue outlines. When Raimondaux had been hauled in by the patrol, she had done her utmost to recruit Ashur in allowing her to speak to him under the guise of interrogation; Ashur had hastily sewn on strips of blue linen onto Stella's chirurgeon robes to resemble the linings of a priest, and on their way in Stella prayed to gods she had never believed in that the gaoler wouldn't notice the seams of the lining fraying to undo her slipshod disguise. "I am not one, you will be glad to know. I..actually became a chirurgeon, like you said." Stella's tone was filled with the warmth of reminiscence. Her parents saw her as little more than a commodity and her siblings thought she might as well not exist; in all of her time before being forced to marry Lord Druisehault, Raimondaux was the only one that had seen some value in her that wasn't attached to her body or her name. "What a reunion this is," the elderly Elezen said with another cough, struggling to sit up. Stella reached into the folds of her robes and produced several small vials. "I thought these might help. Perhaps you could take them as proof of my new skill," the chirurgeon said hesitantly. Raimondaux gave an amused snort along with his best smile. "Well, my girl, I would be more than happy to sample your work." She pulled the stopper off of one of the vials and gingerly poured the potion liquid into the Elezen's mouth. Raimondaux swallowed gingerly before giving a relieved sigh. "Mmm...ah, I see. It does not stop all of the aches, but I feel a mite better. Thank you, my dear. Though, I suppose you have questions now." Raimondaux gave a slight nod towards the storehouse door. "That knight you brought with you...he won't cause any problems?" To that, Stella was truly unsure. Ashur was...a good man, but he was still a Temple Knight and a believer of Halone. It was unlikely that he would try to eavesdrop, but if he caught wind of this, she had no idea how he might react. Would he let it go? Would he try to weasel an answer out of Stella before going straight to his superiors? True, they had spent some friendly time together, but Stella was far too jaded to believe that they had anything resembling a genuine connection. No, it was better to err on the side of caution. "We shall speak low," the chirurgeon said, dropping her tone to barely above a whisper. "I trust that he is good, but he is still a knight of Ishgard above all things." Raimondaux nodded. "As you say. Though, where should I begin...?" "What are you doing in the Highlands? I haven't seen you since--" Stella paused, her sentence recalling some memories she rather wouldn't have at the front of her mind. "Since my betrothal." The words were venomous, almost painful to squeeze out of her lips. Raimondaux's expression became a sour, belligerent scowl. "The Holy See happened," he said bitterly. "After I left Lord Vedaine's service, I was hired to copy some non-essential manuscripts for the Scholasticate. There was some discrepancies within the texts interpreting the Enchiridion. At first I thought nothing, but scholarly curiosity got the better of me, and I had some reasons to believe that the Enchiridion wasn't as comprehensive as we were lead to believe. It was nothing, you understand, just the ramblings of a bookworm who liked to scribble in the margins. I brought it up to my wife in passing, and she resolved to discuss the interpretations with her colleagues..." "Wasn't your wife a priest?" Stella said with some alarm. Raimondaux cleared his throat before spitting into the corner of the store room. "Yes, bless her heart, she was truly one of Halone's faithful. And for her trouble, an ambitious inquisitor caught wind of it and consigned her words of doubt as heresy." The Elezen's scowl became a broken expression of painful torment. "And so a sham of a trial concluded that the Fury would judge her at Witchdrop, and lo my dearest did not burst with the wings of a Dravanian." A mix of emotions filled Stella at this moment, such that she couldn't pin down what she was feeling and when. Anger, grief, despair all swirled together at Raimondaux's pained expression, anger at the injustice, despair that such injustices would ever be stopped. Before, Stella might have smugly claimed that no one knew the pain of Ishgardian rigidity better than her, but seeing agony cresting the Elezen's face quickly corrected her. "Of course I could not abide such a thing. What man of faith could? If the Fury was just, and if her followers just, then why was such a wrong committed one who had only ever pursued righteousness? Of course, they were content to give pittances of pity. My love had ascended to Halone's sacred halls, her soul pure and free from Dravanians, but I could only see her body broken upon the rocks. It was then I understood why Halone is the mover of glaciers: it is because Her heart is as cold as the ice she shifts." Though his wrists were still chained to the wall, Raimondaux's hands tightened to fists. "It was only a matter of time until I would be tried and found wanting as well. So I took to the field. Be it luck or a curse I found other poor souls like myself, not heretics of dragon blood, but those who had been wronged by their faith." It was the kind of story Stella had heard much of, but the gravity gripped her heart such that she felt it might burst. That such a thing might happen to a man who had only ever been good to those around him...it infuriated her to a degree she could not even begin to express. "When my fellows and I attacked those knights, we never intended to kill them. My conjury was a useful asset that allowed me put a sleep spell upon them. We would take what we could just to secure our own survival and attempt to eke out what existence we could in the Highlands, away from the tyranny of the Holy See. Though it seems I miscalculated," Raimondaux concluded, staring through the cell door at where he imagined Ashur to be standing. "But enough about me, my little star. You look hale and healthy. A chirurgeon is a respected position. I'm surprised Lord Druisehault--" "Druisehault is dead. As are most of his house," Stella cut him off coldly. Raimondaux looked shocked at first, unsure of whether to be grieved or relieved, but his scrutiny of Stella's face suggested the latter. "So much the better. He is--or I should say was--an awful man, through and through." The Elezen raised an eyebrow. "Did you...?" "I didn't, though I wish I had," Stella sighed, crouching on the floor, her arms folded around her knees. "Nay, I know not who exactly it was that set me free. I only know who it was that they followed..." She dared not speak of her patron while there was even a chance a knight--even Ashur--might overhear, though it seemed fate seemed to agree, for at that moment, Ashur gave a hard tap on the storeroom door with his fist. "I think the gaoler might be coming down to check on us," his muffled voice poked through the gap of the door. "Best make it quick, Stella." Stella opened and closed her mouth to speak several times, unsure of what to say. Her words caught in her throat. What could she say? A promise to free him? Even Ashur wouldn't go that far, and she herself lacked the ability to do so. And even if she did, what then? She would be consigning her tutor to a frozen fate amongst the Highlands, picking scraps among the beasts. She wanted to reassure him, comfort him somehow. Insist that he wouldn't be forgotten, that she was grateful for everything he had done, that he was not the heretic the Holy See thought he was. But more than anything, she wanted to talk more. She wanted to reminisce with this man who had been as close to a real father as can be, to study under him, hear him approve of her growth as a chirurgeon. Raimondaux could not help but chuckle before she could even ask, he was answering her question. "There's nothing you can do for me, my Lady. In the morning, I will likely be tried and executed within the same bell." He gazed wistfully at the wall. "Do not mourn for me; I would be more than happy to be reunited with my dearest." She opened her mouth, words again failing her. Against all of her will, a tear slipped from her eye, racing down her cheek as she reached forward to grasp Raimondaux's calloused hands, still chained to the wall, his wrists red and raw from the manacles. "Stella!" Ashur's voice was urgent, and even through the thick door she could hear the metal sabatons of the gaoler ring on the stone steps of the storage complex. "Raimondaux, my friend, I promise you," Stella murmured, her voice so low that Raimondaux had to lean forward to hear her. "We who gods and men have forsaken...we will be delivered. My lady promises it, and I promise it." Though the Elezen would never live long enough to understand the depth of her words, Raimondaux nodded as Ashur swung the door open.

The knights marched on foot along the ice, in two columns. Whereas this area had once been filled with greenery and paved roads, there was little more than snow and ice to mark the way. Ser Marat was the only one who was mounted on a chocobo; it was infeasible to transport the mounts to the Western Highlands via airship and having an entire cohort's worth of birds would strain the resources of the Falcon's Nest, and so as ever, the knights made do with what they could amidst the chill of the everwinter. Thankfully, there was no especially inclement weather other than the typical gray canopy of clouds that usually marred Coerthas, but an air of considerable unease hung around the knights. "A bare road is a bad sign," Ser Loren muttered beneath his helmet, prompting Ashur to nod in agreement. His instinctive feeling was far more grim than that. "I think it's worse than that," Ashur replied somberly. "When's the last time we saw or heard an animal?" True enough, the steinbocks and mylodons that usually roamed these areas of the highlands were conspicuously absent. While no wild animal was foolish enough to engage on the heavily armed and armoured knights, it did not bode well that there was neither hide nor hair of any wildlife. Not even the occasional cry or an errant set of tracks in a snowdrift. The eerie desolation of the highlands persisted as the knights passed through the Black Iron Bridge. Every now and again they passed the blanched bones of a long-dead beastkin or the abandoned remains of a wagon. The only ones brave or foolish enough to cross the highlands were knights, Convictors, or the occasional overly-ambitious trader seeking to make the dangerous trip to Tailfeather. A rocky outcropping gave the patrol an ample spot to rest for a few moments. A quick fire was constructed while the knights ate their hard biscuits and dried meat. They fully intended on continuing, but none of the knights felt the lethargy fall over them. One minute Ashur was awake, staring at the fire with a chunk of bread stuffed in his mouth, and the next thing he knew he was lying facedown on the ground, the bread having been replaced with frozen soil, with a hot, stinging sensation marking his cheek. Worse still, for some reason he couldn't bring himself to spit the dirt out, or make any movement of any kind. His right eye was mashed into the ground, and it took all of his willpower to force his left eye open. The fire was still burning, and he could see the collapsed forms of his fellow knights shambled around it. There were several more pairs of legs assembled around the fire, clad in all sorts of patchwork armour; leather robes, tattered chainmail, anything they could have scavenged. A hot coal from the fire had been somehow knocked against his face. Heretics. If Ashur could have grimaced, he would have. There seemed to be six or seven of them, though there could be more just outside of his field of vision. They muttered in low voices, scavenging whatever they could off of the paralyzed bodies of the knights. One of them was dressed in a tattered robe, leaning on a staff of some sort. That must have been the one that cast the spell. As discretely as he could, Ashur tried to tense and flex his muscles; they twitched slightly. That was relieving: that meant it wasn't a paralysis spell but a sleep spell. One of them must have carelessly kicked the fiery coal to Ashur's face which is why he his body had managed to shake off the magic-induced sleep. The movements of the heretics seemed to confirm this: they stepped gingerly around the unconscious knights, careful not to touch any of them so as to disrupt the spell. "Nothing here," one of the heretics complained. "Nothing but lousy grub! "Quit yer griping," a gravelly voice snapped back. "They got good steel, and this chocobo will be fine eating." "Don't bother," an authoritative male voice commanded. "If the chocobo wakes up, it could wake the rest or run off. We'll take the food and their weapons. Leave the rest." Ashur heard the clanking of metal and some rustling. He kept his eye shut as he felt strength return to his body. Footsteps were approaching him, and a hand began to reach for his sword... Just as the heretic grasped the handle of the blade, the knight shot his arm out and clamped his hand the heretic's ankle. "Wha--" Ashur yanked the brigand's leg out from under him, and the heretic went down with a thud. His muscles still felt stiff and slow from the remaining lethargy of the sleep spell, but he could move, which meant he could fight. The next instant, he was standing up, sword in hand. The fallen heretic groped around his belt for a dagger but never drew it; with one swing, Ashur sent the heretic's head bounding into the field. "Kill him!" The robed heretic shouted. The heretic gripped his staff, the aether coalescing into a spell. However, his efforts were interrupted when Ashur lobbed a well-aimed rock straight at the spellcaster's head. The other heretics withdrew their weapons and began to close in around the knight. The first thing Ashur did was kick the nearest slumbering knight straight in the chest. Ser Loren coughed and gasped, but to Ashur's dismay his fellow did not stand immediately. It wouldn't be a simple matter of just disabling the sleep spell then if the other knights needed more time to recover, but at least he had his weapon in hand now. A shoddily-made lance waved itself in Ashur's face as two other heretics began to circle around him. Ashur stood his ground, his back against the rocks. The lancer made a clumsy thrust forward, a strike that the knight easily parried before cleanly chopping the lancehead off of the shaft and following up with a quick thrust to the heretic's throat. Though he was handily outnumbered five to one, the heretics were a motley, untrained bunch at best. The fighting was quickly over with yowls of pain and the ringing of steel, leading to six dead heretics and the seventh, the spellcaster, still sputtering to recover from the rock that had been thrown at him. Ashur was quick to plant his feet on the spellcaster's neck. "Yours won't be as clean as theirs," Ashur snarled. It took some time to get his fellow knights on their feet. Ser Loren offered the captive spellcaster a casual kick against the back of the head. "Quick thinking there, Vaye," Marat groaned groggily, the Elezen flexing his fingers. "How'd you knock off the spell?" "Luck. A hot coal burned me, and that seemed to be enough," Ashur replied, doing his best to wipe the blood off his blade. He gestured to the heretic whom he was keeping forced to the ground with his boot. "Ordinarily I wouldn't ask, but I wanted to make sure. What'll we do with this one?" "Hm. You're right, you shouldn't be asking. Given that you took the trouble, we'll bring him with us," Marat grunted. "We'll see if he'll bark about any of his heretic brethren before we send him to the Fury."

I don't have the time currently to upload and paste my screenshot sources, but to add to what Valence has posted thus far: Government and Law The Tairo refers to a high-ranking position in the bakufu, typically one who leads the governmental council. The closest analogue is the office of “prime minister”. Kugane is ruled by a lord bugyo. A “bugyo” is a magistrate or governor, often of a city or head of a government department. “Bugyo” can also refer to “commissioner” (such as in “naval commissioner”). Hingashi is host to numerous great lords held together by allegiance to the bakufu. These lords often engage in political maneuvering against one another despite Hingashi's peaceful appearance. It is also implied that there is a great deal of corruption in Hingashi's upper government. In-game they did not refer to these lords as "daimyo" though they can be assumed to be of identical status. Hingans guilty of grievous crimes–such as murder or sedition–may be ordered to commit “seppuku”, or ritual suicide by disembowelment, to atone for their crimes. The Sekiseigumi’s traditional weapons are the katana and the lance. At times, they may also use a war axe or concealed daggers. Society and Culture Hingan social structure is largely caste-based, separated between commoners (including merchants), samurai, and aristocrats. Social mobility is highly uncommon, and social status tends to be inherited rather than earned. Like Edo-period Japan, katanas are status symbols that may only be worn by samurai. Kugane is host to a rich theatre culture with the Mujikoza Theatre, typically kabuki theatre. Hingan cuisine is largely analogous to Japanese cuisine. Hingashi is home to a class of artisans known as "Onishishu", who created Kugane's aetheryte. They are secretive and fiercely guard their techniques. Hingashi has a culture of "geiko": these are highly skilled female entertainers (not prostitutes, though prostitutes reside in Sanjo Hanamachi alongside geiko) who are expected to be trained in a wide variety of arts such as singing, dancing, poetry, and calligraphy. A geiko-in-training is known as a "maiko". Religion, Traditions, and Magic Hingans revere "kami", spirits that are said to inhabit the world. Native Hingans may embark on a hallowed pilgrimage to visit the temples of Hingashi to pay homage to the kami. Hingan priests are known as "onmyoji". They are known to perform rituals, exorcisms, and occasionally diviniation. In Hingashi, blood rituals are forbidden as taboo: an onmyoji may use a blood ritual to summon a "shikigami", a restless spirit. Hingashi has a tradition of divination magic similar to astrology called "geomancy", wherein geomancers divine the future through elemental wind, water, and earth. It is common for lords and merchants alike to consult with geomancers before making significant decisions. Materials and Trade Hingan steel is referred to as "tama-hagane", and is culturally significant for its use in creating katanas. Hingashi has horses and has martial traditions based on horses. Horse archery is celebrated, with occasional tournaments. Many of Hingashi's material culture is sourced from Yanxia, such as tea. And some basic vocabulary: koban - Money. This is the term Hingans use instead of “gil”. sensei - “Master”. This term is extremely uncommon; it is only used once in the entire game. The generic term “Master” is used far more frequently (such as “Master Musosai”). kami - used as a generic substitute for “gods”. (”Kami preserve us”, etc.). In a religious sense, used to refer to the spirits that reside in precious items and treasures, as well as nature. aibou - Generally, can be translated to “partner” or “buddy”, and can be used to refer to a close working relationship as “partner” (such as a detective and deputy). Reno and Rude from Final Fantasy 7 are an example of partners or “aibou”. In the Japanese version, Estinien calls the Warrior of Light “aibou” as well.

"You...want to learn to fight?" Ashur asked incredulously. Stella responded with little more than a stiff nod. Their days thus far had been surprisingly placid, though their respective duties left them with little time to socialize. Stella was often confined to the infirmary, brewing new concoctions and tending to wounded knights and the occasional traveler. Ashur, for his part, was a part of the frequent patrols into the Highlands to keep the Falcon's Nest out of the claws of the Dravanians. The everwinter was unrelenting as ever, but there were some days like today where its ardor relented enough for supplies to be flown in from Ishgard. So it was that Stella broached her abrupt request to learn martial skills while the two of them were unloading crates from the airship. "Some of the other chirurgeons are skilled in conjury, but I lack such talent," she said with a huff. "We are at war, and there won't always be knights around. How would I reconcile with my fellows if they fought with stone and wind while I offered naught?" Before, Ashur would have been quick to offer up suggestions, but his brief yet burgeoning friendship with Stella had quickly taught him to do otherwise. She was headstrong and proud and very much concerned with her own abilities. "You do realize that if Dravanians have reached you, then I'm either dead or very bad at my job," the knight responded dryly. "Oh, come off it," Stella snapped, though the telltale twitching of the corner of her mouth suggested she found the comment more amusing than she should have. "Things won't always go perfectly and I certainly shouldn't need a knightly escort wherever I go. Is there a problem with knowing how to defend myself?" "The problem I have is with the implication more than anything else." Ashur set down a jangling crate of metal parts with a grunt. "Ishgard is in dire straits indeed if we need to put swords in the hands of civilians." As he turned around to saunter back to the airship, he saw Stella's brow flicker in annoyance and immediately regretted his statement. "You don't think things are dire already?" Stella demanded testily. "What would you call that wyvern attack? It's a miracle no civilians were harmed, and while I will grudgingly admit to the valour of the knighthood, I can't see any reason why there shouldn't be something of a citizen's militia in place." He had to admit that Stella had a point. The wards on the Steps of Faith were disabled by the Dravanian siege wyrm, and even with Ishgard's militant culture, manpower was a precious resource that had to be husbanded carefully. While there was a great deal of classism among the knighthood, there was some merit to the idea that every knight was an investment and wasting the time and resources on uncoordinated, untrained fighters was not the wisest thing the Lord Commander could do. "I...suppose you have a point," Ashur relented as he heaved the last crate off of the deck of the airship. "And in return, I will teach you the basics of first aid. You mentioned wanting to learn that the other day." Stella's expression was uncomfortably eager at the idea, and suddenly Ashur wasn't feeling so confident in his would-be teacher. "In that case, the lance," he suggested, folding his arms together as some porters began to distribute the supplies to other areas of the Falcon's Nest. "That's an ideal weapon for a militia. They're cheap, easy to make, and easy to wield, and lend themselves well to formation fighting. Ideal for fighting Dravanians and heretics alike." "What? Why not a sword?" The chirurgeon protested. "Lest you forget, much of my work is done indoors, and I can hardly maneuver well with a bladed stick strapped to my back at all times. I would worry about being able to walk through doorways without it catching on the top of the frame." Another good point. Not to mention that it was unlikely that Stella would do any sort of formation fighting with her magic-wielding fellows, and as he himself pointed out earlier, if the chirurgeons were under threat, then the knights were either dead or so incompetent that they might as well be dead. With another sigh, the knight relented. -- The two wooden swords clattered against one another, playing back and forth. "Don't just dodge, parry! If you let your opponent keep the momentum of the fight, you're finished!" Ashur sprang forward with a lunge, the tip of the training sword pointed at Stella's chest. The chirurgeon had changed out of her clean white robes and wore a padded gambeson she borrowed from the armory. She clumsily swung her own wooden blade at the oncoming point, Ashur's sword sailing past her cheek with nary an ilm of space between them. "Good!" he called. Stella was breathing heavily, but for her part she was a quick study. If Ashur didn't know better, she had already had the basics of swordplay instilled within her. Perhaps as a part of noble upbringing? Before he could contemplate further, Stella wordlessly responded with a wide, upward sweep that would complete its arc at Ashur's neck. In response, the knight parried across, hilt to hilt with their sword points aimed high. "Careful," Ashur said. "You don't want to lock swords when your opponent is larger and stronger than you." As if to demonstrate, he braced his left hand against the crossguard of the sword and leaned forward, using the weight to force Stella's own hilt backwards. "There's more going on than just the sword," he admonished, sweeping his feet forward in an attempt to trip her up. To her credit, Stella had readily mastered footwork and despite struggling beneath the knight's strength managed to avoid falling over. With an explosive gasp, Stella ceased the struggle and relented, causing the points of their wooden swords to rattle upon impact with the stonework of Falcon's Nest. "Enough!" she exhaled. "I believe I have the gist of it." Ashur gave an approving nod, hefting the wooden sword over his shoulder. While he was not breathing as heavily as the chirurgeon was, he had gotten a decent workout off the session. "Your goal in any fight is to control the flow. Know where your opponent is going before he does. If you get overwhelmed, that's where things will turn bad for you. He wiped his forehead with the back of his glove, turning around to saunter towards the cafeteria. "Now, with that done I think we owe ourselves some goo--whuh!" As Ashur had begun walking away, Stella had sneakily thrust her wooden sword between his ankles, causing him to stumble magnificently. With his back on the cold stone, the knight found himself looking upward at thirty ilms of a wooden training sword. Stella was still breathing rapidly but she wore a triumphant grin on her face. "And you should know better than anyone that combat is rarely a sport." With one swift motion, she slipped the wooden blade into a small loop on her belt and offered her hand to help Ashur up. He grunted as she pulled him to his feet, chuckling all the while. "Aye, a valuable lesson indeed." The cafeteria was busy but not packed as the pair of them quickly found a spot to sit, with Ashur securing two bowls of meaty stew and several kaiser rolls for their supper. "What brought on this interest in swordplay, anyway? If you were interested in learning I figured you'd have been formally trained along the way," he asked. "To be frank, this is my first posting outside of the city," Stella said. There were some wayward glances being thrown in her direction by some of the off-duty knights, though she seemed to be able to dismiss them merely by raising a brow in disapproval. "And I simply did not have the opportunity before. There was too much to be done in the city." "Hrm, well, perhaps I should introduce you to Alric. He was the grand champion and much more talented than I in such things," Ashur said, half-grumbling. Though he bore his brother no resentment or envy, Ashur still had never defeated Alric in any of their sparring sessions. Stella tilted her head sideways at him as she ate. "Perhaps you are not above average at anything, true," she mused, "but you are exceptionally average at many things. That in itself, I believe, is some kind of talent." Further conversation was interrupted when Marat stamped his way through the cafeteria door. "Patrol!" the Elezen bellowed. "Get geared up and assembled!" It was all Ashur could do to stuff as much of the stew and the bread into his mouth before offering Stella a wordless goodbye.

It would be fair to say that in Eorzea, there existed certain stereotypes about certain kinds of spoken. Sea Wolf Roegadyn were famed for their nautical skills, whether it be sailing, fishing, or shipbuilding; if it was a profession that drew its bounty from Hydaelyn's blue waves, it was undoubted by all that Sea Wolves were unrivaled. They were also known as ruthless pirates and marauders, with enough strength to cleave a man in twain should they so choose, and few things more plainly announced a Sea Wolf's arrival into the vicinity than their booming voices and inexplicably incomprehensible Limsan accents, just in case one were foolish enough to believe Limsa Lominsa had anything except pirates and a cultural avoidance of consonants. So it was that Haerstyrm Ahldstralsyn lived as an exemplar of defiance against such tired stereotypes. This particular Sea Wolf was a full head shorter than most of his fellows (though still a respectable height ahead of the brawniest Highlander) and thoroughly enjoyed his peaceful life of mathematics as an accountant in Mealvaan's Gate, having managed to live to a respectable age with only the occasional bouts of violence. Haerstyrm was soft-spoken and kind, fond of doting on his nieces and trimming his snow-white beard, and managed to get along quite well with the rough crowd that tended to entertain the port city of Limsa Lominsa. However, stereotypes existed for a reason, and it would be a grievous mistake to think that Haerstyrm Ahldstralsyn was incapable of classic Roegadyn rage just because he liked his afternoon tea and was easily startled by loud noises. The Roegadyn was staring at an impossible foe, one that would put all of the primals and the Empire to shame. Its presence was insurmountable, its will immutable, its desires nothing short of utterly destructive. Haerstyrm stared it down in baleful fury, as if his iron willpower alone could render it non-existent. It was a zero. The inky oblong digit was written on Haerstyrm's accounting books, in a place where it should not be. The total tariff earnings of the second week of the Sixth Astral Moon contained one extra zero. Haerstyrm had been an accountant for the Gate for several cycles now. Part of the joy he took in his profession was that he was exceedingly skilled at it: in twenty-one cycles at the Gate, through the Calamity and years of general Limsan chaos, Haerstyrm Ahldstralsyn had never misplaced a single digit in his books. And so he knew that this was not a mistake. Bahamut had not returned to ravage Aldenard, and they were not currently in the middle of a full-scale invasion from the Empire. There was nothing, not even the combined divinity of the Twelve themselves, that could have compelled Haerstyrm to misplace a number in his books. Which meant one thing: someone had gotten something shady through Mealvaan's Gate, under Haerstyrm's watch. Smuggling was a common practice in Limsa Lominsa, and it was quite common for the Gate's customs officers to catch--and fail to catch--all sorts of untaxed contraband. One could not fully stamp out smuggling in Limsa Lominsa, in the same way that one couldn't stop the rain or prevent a tidal wave. It was unrealistic to catch everyone, and Haerstyrm had caught many an errant crate by examining discrepancies in the books of the Gate's other accountants, and Haerstyrm had never suffered from a discrepancy in his own ledger until this very day. Haerstyrm Ahldstralsyn was a gentle, mild-mannered man, and he remained silent (if trembling) as he flipped through his ledger, but the crimson blood rage he felt simmering beneath his mint-green skin practically screamed that someone would die for this transgression.

The building where Kagero and Sekka were to rendezvous was in quite the sorry state. Lord Koryusai had purchased the three-story building in Shirogane via loophole by buying it under the name of Kagero's biological mother, who was a foreigner from Aldenard. There had been plans to turn it into a profitable business that took advantage of foreign residents on the island, but one thing piled on to another and the property was left neglected and unused. Kagero took the time to thoroughly inspect the grounds while he waited for his retainer to arrive. It was in a secluded yet scenic corner of Shirogane's residential district, fortuitously located on top of an aquifer which made it feasible to construct a natural onsen that could take advantage of the hot spring. The building itself was in quite good condition despite the lack of maintenance; it could certainly do with a thorough cleaning and dusting, but otherwise it would be a relatively small investment to establish a business here. Kagero was certainly interested in such a prospect, for having a Kozakura family property on Shishu meant that he could readily devise any number of excuses to avoid Lady Kyokuho. The samurai had just begun the mental calculations when the door creaked open. Sekka almost immediately began coughing, waving a hand in front of her to banish any errant dust mites that were irritating her. "Apologies for my tardiness, my lord," the Raen said, wheezing slightly from the dust. "Though could we not have met at Bokairo instead? It was much closer as well. And...not nearly as dusty." "The walls are thin in Kugane, and I did not want to risk anyone associated with Aritake to catch word of what we were doing," Kagero replied severely. He quickly picked up one of the many tatami mats and, gripping it with both hands, gave it a hard wave that lead to a veritable gust of particles flying. "You are right that we will probably have to tidy this place up a bit, especially if circumstances require that we stay on Shishu for an extended period of time." The pair sat down at a low table; Kagero withdrew his katana and began to polish it, which was his way of pacing as he organized his thoughts, while Sekka withdrew a number of pieces of folded paper. Clearing her throat, she began her report. "There were a few merchants in Kogane Dori familiar with Aritake. He was...very aggressive in his dealings. Lord Yumishi was also known to frequent Sanjo Hanamachi. It's possible he either owned or invested in more than one business in the Rakuza District, but details were scarce. He was a notable personality, though; more than one proprietor was able to recite one of his boasts about reclaiming Doma with embarrassing clarity. There was one owner who admitted that Aritake was interested in the substances he provided to his...clientele." Kagero frowned. "Not that I particularly care, but that last bit sounds like something most people wouldn't admit to. Did obtaining this information involve your knives, perchance?" he inquired lazily. Sanjo Hanamachi had a reputation for questionable behaviour, but everything there was legal as far as the lord bugyo and the Sekiseigumi were concerned. It was an unspoken understanding that many of the establishments in Sanjo Hanamachi sold things like rice win, oils, incense, and potions to help their guests unwind and hopefully empty their wallets. "I will allow my lord to choose the answer that would satisfy him the most," Sekka said with a short bow. "You could have just said 'yes' instead of sounding like Kyokuho," the Hyur muttered. "I don't suppose Aritake was an actual client of these things? Are they on the up-and-up?" "From what I could find out, Aritake wasn't involved in the transactions, at least on the surface. The proprietor in question only sold herbs, and the herbs themselves are not illegal in any way. I'm certain they had refined products somewhere, but I could not find more without bladed instruments at my disposal." Sekka unfolded another piece of paper. "Other than that, there was nothing especially unusual about him, other than his penchant for dealing with ijin, and no one I spoke to know where he is." "Well, he's an ijin himself, so that's not all that unusual that he deals with his own kind. What I want to know is what kind of things he had that Hingan lords would want." That, in a few words, was the million-koban question. Assuming that Aritake did trade in such concotions, Hingans in general were incredibly unlikely to be consuming anything that had terrible side-effects; at most, they would overindulge in rice wine every once and a while. This was owing to the fact that arable land on Hingashi was invaluable, given the small size of the islands relative to the mainland: agriculture was focused almost entirely on edibles or essential materials. Herbalists could cultivate more exotic plants on a smaller scale, but not nearly large enough to reach significant distribution. There could certainly be imports from Yanxia or Nagxia, but Kagero could only assume there was a terribly small market for such things, else it would have caught more attention by now given how strictly Hingashi controlled incoming trade. Ijin were less hesitant to engage in mind-altering substances, but such things were socially taboo in the Near East, to the point where merely being drunk was a shameful state reserved only for commoners or for the most boisterous of celebrations. Though, Kagero had to admit that his perspective came from the courts. It was entirely possible that commoners were partaking in such terrible things quite frequently without any aristocrats being aware of it. Kagero didn't look up from his blade as he started speaking to share his own findings. "The only noteworthy event to have happened in the past moon was a fire in the Rakuza District. An apothecary burned down, and an alchemist who lived there was thought dead, only to turn up a few sennights later." He remembered the name: Nabi, according to the Naeuris who had owned the apothecary. She frequently had ijin as her clients, and Kagero instinctively had the feeling she was important somehow. "The fire was deliberate, from what I gathered. No one saw smoke or flames until the entire building was alight, and a body was found that was not the alchemist in question." "Perhaps the apothecary itself wasn't a target, merely someone who happened to be inside the apothecary at the time," Sekka questioned, to which Kagero shook his head. "The Naeuris said they were relieved when this Nabi turned up, which meant that they thought she was dead. Now, why would they think she was dead unless a body had been found in the wreckage? Which there was. Unidentifiable, but not the Xaela in question. Now, there's no proof that Aritake was involved, but this was definitely an act of deliberate arson that had a purpose behind it." Kagero made a mental note that he'd have to start questioning people about Nabi's whereabouts as well, just to make sure all the possible avenues were checked. "Well, since we can't find Aritake, we stop tracking the man and we start tracking what he was doing instead. We know he was a merchant and he sold things, and we know he had an interest in things that were being sold specifically in Sanjo Hanamachi. Do you have a list of those raw materials?" Kagero inquired. He didn't have much knowledge on what kind of goods were popular in the common markets of Hingashi, for most of the dealings of the Kozakuras dealt with luxury products such as silks, precious metals, and refined products like weapons and clothing. Sekka, on the other hand, had extensive experience with merchants and so to Kagero's fortune she was equipped with considerable knowledge of what kind of goods were likely to frequent the markets of Kugane, and so she launched into an extensive explanation of her findings while Kagero listened intently. Pine resins, Nagxian cudweed, red landtrap sap, Yanxian parsley...no, none of these reagents were illegal, per say. Morally questionable for chaste purists, but nothing that would cause alarm. Resins were for incense, the cudweed would make "vitality infusions"--something that would be pertinent in a brothel--and the parsley was edible, or could be brewed into any number of potions. None of these rang any alarms. Red landtrap sap, though...that was expensive. Kagero pursed his lips. That was one thing he did recognize. There was nowhere in Othard to get something like that. Rumour had it that red landtrap sap made a potent aphrodisiac--more than one Thavnairian alchemist had come by Kugane selling such things around Sanjo Hanamachi--but landtraps had to come from Ilsabard or as far away as Aldenard. Koryusai himself had sold such things with considerable profit margins. Would a common red-light establishment be able to afford something like that? "None of these materials are local," Kagero muttered, his frown deepening. No, there weren't any items that could be procured from either Shishu or Koshu. Still, there was no link. For all intents and purposes, Aritake seemed to be a normal merchant with an interest in herbs, and that was tentatively assuming he did any actual trading at all. Certainly nothing that would provoke scandal among the courts. "Which means there are either importers or smugglers," Sekka added. If there were legal imports, that was easy: Kugane kept track of everything that came in and out of the city, down to the last plank that made up the crates. A quick trip to the dock authority would allow him to rule out what was and wasn't worth investigating. But still, why bother with the risks of smuggling? None of these things were illegal, and there was no benefit to smuggling herbs or potions into Hingashi. At best, you dodged some tariffs, and at worst the Sekiseigumi would seize the goods and, if you were a foreigner, cut you down if they were feeling annoyed enough at the time. "So Aritake was interested in things that were coming out of Sanjo Hanamachi. What kind of things would patrons of Sanjo Hanamachi want? Strong drink, aphrodisiacs, 'vitality infusions'...there is nothing in Othard that can contribute to altering the mind, at least not that I know of." As an occasional patron of the red lanterns of the Sanjo himself, Kagero have definitely known if there were things available to heighten the "experience". He put his katana down, his hand rubbing his chin in deep thought. Finding out exactly what kind of trading Aritake did would bring them one step closer to finding him, but even that was proving to be quite the puzzle. "There is nothing they could want that they couldn't get legally." Sekka brushed a hand through her hair, flipping through page after page. "I have significant doubts that Lord Aritake was interested in dealing in illicit substances. There simply isn't a market in Hingashi. The risk is too great for too little reward." "There's no market in Hingashi, or there's no market among Hingans? Those are two different things. Perhaps we're looking at this wrong." Kagero crossed his legs. "Let's take a look at this from another angle. Aritake needs to be found because he had dealings that would cause lords to lose face. What kinds of things could they be? What's illegal in Hingashi?" Sekka pinched the bridge of her scaled nose with her thumb and index finger. "Technically, anything that's not undergone inspection and tariff is illegal, but if we're speaking in more broad terms...weapons, poisons, and explosives. Things that do harm. Stolen items. Other than that, anything that would offend the embassies would also be illegal. Garlean technology must be turned over to the consulate if it's seized, by the terms of the treaty the bakufu has with the Empire. Thavnair does not care for anything in particular, and the East Aldenard company...I daresay they are less scrupulous than the Thavnairians. The more I think about it, the more I believe that particular list to be terribly short. The only thing the lord bugyo of Kugane particularly cares about is keeping the city peaceful, which means keeping control of weapons or anything similar." "All of those things have specific uses. Aritake was a regular supplier to lords at court, which meant people had to be consuming the things he was selling somehow. Weapons, poisons, and explosives have to be used somewhere or sold to someone else, otherwise they're worthless, and we'd have certainly heard about it if people were being blown up or poisoned in Koshu," Kagero said, his frown deepening into a contemplative scowl. Kyokuho was one of Aritake's clients as well. What would she desire that she had to keep hidden from Lord Koryusai? As Sekka had said, that list was terribly small. There wasn't much that couldn't be gained legally in Hingashi, to the point where there weren't many things worth smuggling. "If we rule out all of those things, the only option that remains is that Aritake must have been providing alchemical substances, or..." Kagero paused. "Or people." Trafficking or the ferrying of criminals would certainly be something the Sekiseigumi would have a problem with, and anyone capable of smuggling people and goods over the Ruby Sea into Yanxia would have quite the koban to their name. Poison, Sekka had said. Yes, it would look very, very bad for Kyokuho if she was caught purchasing poisons for any reason. "We should not rule out weapons either, my lord. Aritake was an ardent proponent of Doman liberation. It stands to reason that he gave aid to his countrymen somehow," Sekka added. "That's true, but how would he purchase those weapons? I imagine he makes deals here in Kugane, and uses the koban he gains from trading with Hingans and ijin alike to purchase weapons." "We have no proof of that," the Raen protested. "We don't need proof, Sekka. This is how deduction works," Kagero reprimanded. Now he had stood up and started pacing, as he started to put the picture together in his mind. If he'd guessed right, things were starting to come together. "Aritake Yumishi sells things to Hingan lords that the lords don't want their rivals at court to know about, and Lady Kyokuho is especially keen on finding out exactly what those things are. Now, what could provide leverage over multiple people in the bakufu? No one on Koshu is planning to start a war, and it's more than easy enough to sell weapons through legal channels, as long as you pay the tariffs. Even then, if someone were to attempt to smuggle and stockpile weapons on Koshu itself, they would still need people to wield them. No, weapons are far too impractical to smuggle into Hingashi. Explosives as well. For someone looking to make quick koban, there's not enough profits and not a big enough market. We will rule those two out." "However, if they were planning to or had attempted to poison someone..." Sekka said thoughtfully. Kagero snapped his fingers. "Or, if they had an addiction or vice that had to be fed. And I highly doubt it's dango and sushi that would have a Hingan lord hooked. If a lord was addicted to something only you could sell him, that would be steady income for you for as long as that lord lived. Steady income that Aritake would need if he wanted to fund the reconstruction or reclamation of Doma. Now, what kind of things would someone get addicted to?" "Rice wine, certainly," Sekka said. The Raen was now lying on her stomach on the tatami mat, kicking her feet like an impatient child. "But junmaishu is hardly a shameful thing, now is it?" Kagero said, his frown turning into a grin. It was all starting to make sense. "Food and drink is easy enough. No, Aritake must have sold alchemical mixtures precisely because they're consumable, which meant there would always be demand for them. There's nothing on Othard that fits the bill of addiction, however. Even then, if it was easy to get, those lords wouldn't even bother dealing with an ijin, they'd simply get it themselves. So the substances have to be imported from other ijin, which would necessitate Aritake's presence as a middleman. Thus, we're dealing with a foreign product, though whether or not they're actually illegal or Aritake is just dodging the tariffs remains to be seen." Kagero made a mental note to visit Kogane Dori to find out exactly what kind of things ijin would enjoy. That was an essential question, though. Was whatever Aritake doing actually illegal? Did the Sekiseigumi care about alchemical mixtures from other nations, or only about making sure such things were taxed? Ijin certainly wouldn't know what was illegal unless they were arrested for it. "You mentioned people as well, my lord. Wouldn't that fit the bill as well?" Sekka asked. Kagero stopped his pacing. It was highly impolite to discuss any immodest habits. If a Hingan lord had a particularly large carnal appetite, that would certainly be something to be ashamed about. That would be a secret that could ruin a lord in the eyes of his peers. "Yes, it would," Kagero murmured, disturbed by the thought. Could an ijin be trafficking people underneath the noses of the Sekiseigumi? The notion was appalling. "So Aritake traded potions and maybe people to Hingan lords. He would gain their considerable coin and their patronage. What could a man do with such coin? He was interested in Sanjo Hanamachi, but I doubt he needed the coin just to pay a visit to his favourite geiko." "Perhaps his favourite geiko was...very expensive?" Sekka, who was usually very alert, serious, and dutiful, was now gently rolling from side to side on the tatami. There was no stopping Kagero when he was like this, and the day had been long and tiring regardless. Kagero either didn't notice or didn't care as he shook his head, his pacing increasing in fervor. "No, a man with that much coin will expand. Let's say you're feeding people and potions to lords. The easiest way to gain people would be through the Sanjo Hanamachi, no? No one would bat an eye at a Hingan geiko being invited by a lord. You could smuggle them in plain sight. In fact..." the Hyur snapped his fingers. "You could use the geiko as a mule. Aritake is an ijin; he would never have been allowed within a hundred malms of Koshu. So how is he getting his product to those lords in the bakufu? You either invite the lords to Shishu, or you use people who can go to Koshu. That must be it!" "And the materials list?" Sekka lazily waved the paper in the air. Kagero snatched it from her hands, examining it closely. "I think we were looking at it the wrong way. Aritake wasn't interested because of the exact materials on the list. Aritake was interested because he was wondering if it was acceptable for businesses in Sanjo Hanamachi to be trading in alchemical mixtures and herbs to begin with. That way, he could use his pleasure houses as a cover for his drug trade and no one is any the wiser. These places are known to sell food, alcohol, and these potions to their customers. It wouldn't be impractical to use them to make something less moral." The Hyur suddenly sat down on the tatami, crossing his legs with his hands on his knees with a sigh. "And the burnt apothecary. That alchemist...there's nothing conclusive to suggest it, but circumstantially it points this Nabi girl as being involved in something illegal somehow. If it were legal, the Sekiseigumi could have been called to mediate. You don't burn down a building just because an alchemist ends up being a quack. If there was something else, such as refusing to work for Aritake or threatening to turn him in, that would certainly motivate an act of arson." At the back of Kagero's mind, there was a part of him tacitly aware that there was no proof of any of this. Proud of his deduction as he may be, this was all conjecture and speculation. It was possible for him to be completely off-base, and if he wasted time working through this assumption, there was no telling how far he would fall behind. Something instinctive in him told him that if he could find Nabi, that would certainly clear things up.

While the Falcon's Nest was still in the process of rebuilding, it at least had civilized amenities such as soft beds, warm hearths, and serviceable living quarters. Getting a warm bath drawn was probably out of the question, but Stella was grateful to be here rather than out in the wilderness or curling up inside a Convictor's tent. The infirmary was as well-stocked as it could be, which was one worry off of her mind. The chirurgeon sighed as she double checked the organization of her supplies, wiping a hand across her forehead. Of course, if Stella could have had a choice in the matter she would have preferred not to leave Ishgard at all, or at the very least be stationed somewhere relatively close by, such as Whitebrim or Camp Dragonshead. Nevermind the fact that leaving the city could jeopardize her task, Stella had never been on an airship before and had spent much of the flight to the Falcon's Nest sitting ramrod still in the corner in sheer silent terror, owing to the fact that airships seemed to lack seats, fastenings, or any kind of safety equipment whatsoever. Every minor lurch or tilt of the airship adjusting its course lead to the blood being drained from her face and her nearly biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. About halfway into the flight she had begun obsessively re-arranging her surgery kit just to keep her mind off of the possibility of the airship suddenly plummeting out of the sky. Of course, she was too proud to show any kind of weakness to the knights--especially with Ser Loren's untoward comments--and so Stella had been extra careful to be the last one off of the airship lest anyone note her chirurgeon robes wobbling and trembling with her legs, and it was only after a few back-and-forth trips between the infirmary and the airship that she managed to find her nerve again. Stella was in the midst of dreading the flight back to Ishgard when her stomach made a distinctly un-feminine growl, and she glanced at a chronometer on the wall. It was already sundown and she hadn't eaten anything since dawn, though the horrors of airship flight had ensured that she no appetite for several bells after landing. Already, she could imagine Eaufault's irritatingly gentle reprimands, and so she stormed off towards the kitchens to find something to soothe the protests of her stomach. The chirurgeon grimaced, expecting to find the dining hall packed to the brim with knights, only to be surprised when it was completely empty. Even Noirterel, the cook servicing Falcon's Nest, was nowhere to be found. Stella spotted a pile of washed bowls and plates stacked high next to the kitchen's rectangular water basin, indicating that the knights had already eaten a communal supper. The Hyur let forth a great sigh. On the one hand, she preferred eating alone, so these were ideal conditions. On the other hand, who exactly was she supposed to bother for a meal at this time of night? Stella had always been one to stop by the cookshops on the way home instead of cooking for herself, and while she was certainly proud enough to wait until morning, it would be a miserable night without something to sate her. She glanced at the dried meats and vegetables in the pantries, wondering what she could get away with stealing before she spotted a large pot of stew slowly simmering on the masonwork stove. After sheepishly glancing to make sure no one was truly looking, Stella equipped herself with a clean bowl and a ladle and surreptitiously crept towards the stewpot. It smelled wonderful, good enough that it provoked another grumble from her belly. Like an antelope sensing a coeurl about to pounce, however, Stella froze and whipped around when she heard the doors opening. In walked a certain blonde-haired knight, his helmet tucked under one arm and a pile of leather harnesses tucked under the other, with what looked like half a head of cabbage stuffed into his mouth. Ashur stared at her as Stella had bowl and ladle in hand, ready to pilfer some late night stew. Stella stared at him as Ashur precariously balanced the triple responsibilities of his helmet, leather harnesses, and half a head of cabbage. This silence continued for some time, until Ashur made a "hrrrmmpph" noise from apparently attempting to speak through half of the head of cabbage. Stella immediately broke the silence with a sudden and uncharacteristic fit of girlish giggling at the ridiculous imagery, which seemed to startle Ashur more than anything. The pangs of hunger were almost immediately replaced with the mild, almost pleasant pain of boisterous laughter erupting from her abdomen and tears forming in the corner of her eye. "You...look like you have your hands full," the chirurgeon said once her laughter relented enough for her to speak, gasping for breath as Ashur sauntered over and dumped his helmet and the harnesses on the table before pulling the head of cabbage out of his mouth. His face immediately split into a grin once it was free of the tyrannical presence of the cabbage. "Just trying to finish my supper on the way here," the knight explained with a grin. The half-head of cabbage actually seemed to be some kind of meat wrap, as demonstrated when Ashur cleanly finished it in two or three large bites, coughing slightly as he swallowed the last of it down hastily. "I was trying to say that the stew isn't ready; the bitterness hasn't been boiled out of the herbs yet, so it would have made a poor meal. Did you want something to eat, Stella?" Her mirth having abated, Stella glanced at Ashur, raising an amused eyebrow at him. They weren't anything close to friends or acquaintances--truly, Stella knew nothing about Ashur and they'd only briefly and sporadically encountered one another over the past few sennights--but he was exceptionally easy to read. There was some level of ease that Stella instinctively relaxed to whenever she was dealing with him, and she couldn't begin to guess why. Was it just because he was that honest? In sharp contrast to her, he felt he had nothing to hide, and so perhaps there was some kind of reflexive trust. His expressions were always so simple: though they had never spent any significant amount of time around one another, she could tell when he was anxious and when he was relieved and when he was confused. Perhaps that was why she felt compelled to ask him for help with Ser Braucandeaux...no, compelled wasn't the right term. Perhaps that was why she wanted to ask him for his help. Stella had no reason to believe that he would accept or even consider her request. Stella's introspection was interrupted by an increasingly mournful growl from her midsection. Now that someone was privy to her shame, Stella's instinct was to haughtily turn away as if she were too good for food. "If you're willing to wait a bit, I can fix something for you," Ashur said lightly, pulling off his gauntlets waving a hand at the table. "Go ahead and take a seat." Stella contemplated her options briefly before sitting down at the bench. The chirurgeon glanced at his face; she could tell he was relieved. Well, given what she knew of his behaviour it would make sense if Ashur felt somewhat anxious at encountering Stella given that she had indirectly reprimanded him for the comments made by his knightly companion. In fact, this had happened more than once where Stella had parted from him with some biting remark or comment... "Didn't you eat with your fellows?" Stella asked, to which Ashur shook his head. He glanced at the simmering stewpot and sniffed it before shaking his head. "Ser Marat had me inspecting and arranging the armoury for most of the day. And I have to fix these harnesses sooner rather than later, so I missed Noirterel's cooking." She stared at him as Ashur expertly sliced some porcini mushrooms, garlic, and sage. He carefully hooked the bubbling stewpot onto the spit hanging above the hearth, and used the now-free masonwork stove to melt butter. "What about you? Is the infirmary all in order?" Ashur paused in his slicing of ingredients, before shaking his head. "Ah, actually, forget that. Silly question. Of course it is, with you there," he said. Stella sighed at the thought, resting her chin on her hands. "All is well enough, I suppose, though I have to contend with your chirurgeons staring down their noses at me." Ashur snorted. "Welcome to the cohort. All of them are noble born with full educations and such, so get used to it. It takes a special kind of noble to look down on other nobles." With the knife, he quickly flipped the ingredients into the frying pan, where all of them began to crackle with sizzling satisfaction. He paused, and Stella could tell that he was wondering if he should ask something--probably about her and the empty house. Though she usually had some kind of sardonic comment prepared for occasions like this, instead she simply waited, fully intent on answering his question when it came. Instead, Ashur seemed to think better of it before silently and diligently preparing a pair of popotoes. Stella caught the corner of her mouth threatening to split into a frown. Wasn't he supposed to be easy to read? Where did the hesitation come from? Well, it's not as if I have the best social graces, Stella thought to herself. She'd already made one swift exit when he brought the subject up; more than likely he was avoiding doing the same thing again. Instead, she switched the subject. "Were you avoiding Noirterel's cooking?" she asked. Almost immediately, the knight relaxed as Stella made conversation. "Not at all; he can certainly cook a good soup and some great stew. So good, in fact, that I'm pretty sure soup and stew are the only things he knows how to cook." As if to punctuate his point, Ashur pulled a out a clean dish and spooned the sliced porcini onto it before carefully draping it in sauteed garlic butter with the ladle. He placed the plate in front of Stella with a fork, and the intoxicating aroma of the fried mushrooms brought Stella's appetite rushing back to her. Wielding the fork, her plate was a veritable mushroom massacre as she quickly devoured all of the morsels with gusto. Even after finishing the porcini, her hunger didn't seem to abate, but Ashur came to the rescue with a large ladle of spicy mashed popotoes garnished with leeks crashing onto her plate, which the chirurgeon ate with wordless gratitude. She didn't even have to protest that she didn't like spicy foods; it tasted good enough that any complaints melted away. Stella sighed in satisfaction, pushing the plate away. "Where does a knight learn to cook like that, hm?" she asked more to herself than to Ashur, who was helping himself to a significantly more modest meal of knight's bread, meat, and cheese. "I thought you had people to do things like that for you." "We do," Ashur said as he sat down. Rather than eat, he had begun to inspect the leather harnesses piled onto the table. "Well, I don't, but the noble knights in general are used to two kinds of meals; meager rations and meals on platters. I figured there was some kind of in between I could make." The chirurgeon tilted her head at him. "Aren't you a noble? You are a knight, aren't you?" "Technically, yes, but I'm not highborn, which to some people is all that matters," Ashur grunted. "My family is made up of commoners, and we're a kind of success story that the aristocrats would rather not become too prevalent." Stella frowned. That certainly sounded like the nobility to her. Here was a case of people rising above their station in service to their nation, and rather than cultivate such talent the High Houses would rather beat it down lest they threaten the balance of power. Nevermind the fact that these were the people on the front lines fighting and dying to Dravanians, they still saw fit to bring up the schism in status whenever possible. It was, in a word, disgusting. She was careful to hide the disdain from her face. "Is that why they lumped you with fixing these...things?" she asked, gesturing to the pile of harnesses. Ashur gave a small grin. "In a manner of sorts. When I was newly ordained, I was certainly subject to this kind of hazing, but now it's more because I am the only one in the cohort who can do it. They don't teach noble knights to sew, funnily enough." She squinted at him. "What exactly are you doing with these?" "These are old sword belts and chocobo harnesses. For the moment, I'll have to contend with redoing all of the stitches to make sure they don't fall apart. Some of the more worn down ones will be discarded, but for the most part these should be usable..." Ashur said, pursing his lips in contemplating as he flipped a sword belt. Stella took one of the belts, examining it closely. The leather wasn't terrible, but it certainly wasn't of a prestigious grade either. Nevertheless, it was functional, but the stitches had begun to fray. Without even glancing at him, she stuck out her hand at the knight. "I need some thread," she said tersely. Ashur stared at her outstretched hand. "Oh...no, I couldn't possibly--" "Just give me the damn thread," Stella snapped with flared irritation. What was it with knights being unable to follow simple requests? Here she was, trying to help and again the only things she heard was "sorry m'lady" and "I couldn't possibly burden you with such things", blah blah blah. Chivalry was one of those things that seemed nice on paper but utterly wore at Stella's nerves, since the idea seemed to translate to "women are useless", a sentiment she strongly disagreed with. There were few things more useless than chivalrous men. Ashur wordlessly slipped a spool of thick black linen thread and a needle into her hand, and Stella for her part began to redo the stitches. Though she didn't have any true experience with leathercraft, doing these stitches was significantly easier than the surgical stitching she was used to, and though she hesitated to admit it...well, she had to thank him for the meal somehow, right? Silence fell over the room as the two of them worked on the belts and harnesses, with the sound occasionally punctuated with Ashur taking a bite out of his nighttime meal. "If they don't teach knights how to sew, why do you know how to, then?" Stella asked after some time. The act of stitching had given her a task to focus on, a task that distracted her from the fact that she grudgingly wanted to know more about this knight that didn't seem to act like any other knight she knew. Most Temple Knights fell into one of two categories: grim, humourless hardliners like Marat that had been carved out of stone just to survive, or bawdy reckless drunkards like Loren and Ser Braucandeaux who viewed knighthood and nobility as free tickets to harass the serving wenches in taverns. All of the good knights tended to die before Stella met them, an unfortunate reality she had come to terms with quite some time ago. "My mother," Ashur said. "Like I said, my family is lowborn, so I was the one helping around the house mostly. It's also where I learned to cook, since my mother is, quite frankly, completely hopeless at anything culinary. My brother said we should find a kitchen big enough to put Nidhogg in, then throw our mother in there and lock the door. Nidhogg would be dead before morning." Stella snorted at the crude but admittedly amusing comment. What kind of concoction that was so foul that it could slay a wyrm? The gravity with which Ashur made that assertion almost made Stella believe that it was true. "And what about your father?" she asked. "He was a smith." Ashur took another bite out of his knight's bread, quickly chewing and swallowing. "Spent most of his life forging weapons and armour for the knighthood, with the occasional trip across Aldenard whenever the Holy See approved it. I helped him work the forge until he died of the pox. Times for our family became quite hard after that. Our mother spent every one of her waking hours working, and the hard conditions are what drove my brother to become a knight." A part of her was surprised with the cavalier attitude that Ashur brought on bringing up his father's death. He must have had time to grieve, so it wasn't all that unusual, but for some reason he struck her as someone who took such things more seriously. "And how do commoners become knights?" Though Stella typically preferred to work alone, she found the conversation relaxing and enhanced her focus somewhat. She was also learning a gratifying amount of information about her new... Her new acquaintance. "There's a few ways, none of them practical," Ashur explained. "Alric won his spurs by becoming champion in a grand tournament. There's not a more spectacular way to win a knighthood than that, and the fact that he triumphed over so many blueblooded nobles earned him more than a few enemies." Curiously enough, Ashur's tone didn't seem to imply even a hint of envy or jealousy; from the sounds of it, his elder brother was quite the talented man. Such a difference in status would surely have engendered some kind of resentment, or so Stella thought. "As for me, I spent most of my time learning my father's trade as a smith. I was too old to be a page, but still too young to be trained in formal combat, and knights were hardly coming around the Foundation to look for squires. I was--am--quite good at smithing and crafting, which is also why I tend to get lumped with these kind of menial tasks," Ashur gestured to the harnesses. "My work caught the attention of Ser Praihaux, an acquaintance of my father's, and he sponsored my entry into the knighthood as a squire." Stella pursed her lips, drawing on her very limited knowledge of the knighthood. "If you were sponsored as a smith, wouldn't you have been entered into the...erm...Friars?" Usually it'd be embarrassing for her to admit to any lack of knowledge of any field, but her curiosity was quick to overwhelm any shame she might have felt. Ashur nodded. "Aye, the Order of the Friars Templar, the ones who take care of all of the material logistics of the Temple Knights. I expected to, but, well...Ser Praihaux convinced me otherwise, and I also wanted to keep my brother out of trouble. I couldn't very well do that if I was stuck behind a forge." "Is your brother here with us?" Stella hadn't spotted anyone that matched Ashur's sharp features and sandy blonde hair, but it was possible someone similar was hiding underneath all of the helmets. Ashur chuckled, a smirk splitting across his face. "No, he's in another cohort entirely. So much for keeping him out of trouble, hm? But I don't regret my decision. This is where the differences are made, you know? Keeping your brothers and sisters safe from the claws of the dragon. It's dangerous, of course, and a sufficiently wise man is wise enough to be fearful, for fear keeps one alive...still, I can't imagine being particularly satisfied pounding out lance after lance. Ugh. And the Friars are all so stuffy, worrying about their rituals and the ceremony of how something is forged." The knight sniffed disdainfully. "Metal is metal; if you hit it, it'll be shaped regardless of how many prayers you mutter." "I can agree with that," Stella murmured. There was something of a paradox there, though. Ashur had taken issue with the lack of ceremony Stella afforded to the bodies of dead knights, but now he was protesting how the Friars revered metal? To be fair, there was a key difference; a sword was a sword, but a dead body was once a person. She could only suppose that Ashur hadn't reached the point where he could view dead bodies as things rather than people. Ashur opened his mouth to speak, closed it in a moment of hesitation, then opened it again. "...what about you, Stella?" he asked softly. There was a twinge of anxiety in his question that was exacerbated by the lack of specifics in his inquiry, as if he was expecting her to blow up at him again. Not a wholly unreasonable expectation. Stella admitted dryly. She sighed, exchanging the newly reinforced sword belt with a worn-down chocobo harness. The chirurgeon closed her eyes, imagining the hallways of the empty house: the rooms clean and clear, devoid of any objects that might create clutter, the wind chimes that were muffled if the wind blew too fiercely, lest their music become discordant. The silent garden in the courtyard, overgrown or withering with none to tend to them properly. She breathed. Inhaled, exhaled, opened her eyes, and spoke. "I was the middle child of five children," she started softly. "The elder two were my elder brothers, much older than I was. Fast friends. I imagine you and your brother to be similar." "My brother is more than ten cycles my elder, but I suppose we get along well enough," Ashur interjected with a small smile. "The younger two were my sisters, much younger than I was. They were inseparable. Everyone enjoyed petting and pampering them." Stella continued as if she didn't hear Ashur, or if she did hear him she didn't alter her statement to reflect that fact. Stella refrained from mentioning her strained relationship with her parents; the only thing they valued about Stella was her beauty, and the only thing they thought of was how much they could fetch for her at market, like some kind of prized sheep. "My family was technically noble--rare for Hyur in Ishgard, I know--but impoverished. An abjectly awful combination, to be sure." She sighed again. "A family less noble could eke out some kind of existence, but a noble family is expected to have a certain appearance and maintain certain responsibilities. Both things are nigh impossible without gil." "My parents were worn down and worried with the constant struggle to scratch out some kind of a respectable life. They were more than eager for the rest of us to grow up and share the burden. My brothers went out to win wealth with their swords as knights. I...was expected to win wealth from a gil-lined suitor." With my face and body, Stella added wordlessly, bitterly. "So my hand in marriage was given to House Druisehault. Elezen, yes, but a relatively new house that'd grown from trade with foreigners. Lord Druisehault wanted respectability and a noble lineage for his children with a cheap price tag." Stella didn't notice Ashur's honest face studying her intently as she spoke, focused as she was on redoing the stitches in the harness and too deep into thought. She was technically noble, yes, but in a few words, Stella hated the aristocracy. What kind of society was it that focused so much on useless things like appearances and debts when their entire nation was under threat? What mattered about gil in a holy war? What mattered about bloodline, heritage, respectability, and honour? Why did any of these things matter? Stella could clearly recall the day that her mother had announced her forced engagement with glee, and just like that time, she could see years of her life stretch forward as a prisoner saw the years of his cell wall stretch before him. Stifled utterly by duty--duty to family, duty to one's husband, duty to the Church, duty to the poor, duty to the rich, duty to the Archbishop and all of the clergy beneath him. Everywhere she had turned was a wall. She paused, and as she glanced at Ashur he quickly glanced away, unwilling to meet her gaze. What did his honest expression say about her now? Stella saw pity--not the kind of condescending pity she was expecting, but genuine sorrow, mixed with confusion and...guilt? An odd mix of emotions. Ashur was almost annoyingly honest, but right now he was so honest that Stella couldn't begin to speculate what he was thinking. She wasn't sure how much she should say, or if she should continue to say anything at all; she had relegated herself to replaying her memories in her head. What should she say to him? Stella had been isolated within the Druisehault household: only once had she seen her cell door open. No, she couldn't tell him that. She couldn't tell this honest knight of Ishgard that someone had slipped something into Lord Druisehault's nightly wine, how he'd been found in the morning contorted, stiff, and pale. Stella couldn't begin to describe what it felt like to see the cell door opened, sunlight warm on her face, how she'd have fallen to her knees and blessed the assassin with all of Halone's grace if she knew who it was. Stella finally became aware of how long she'd been silent when she cleared her throat. "Lord Druisehault passed away, and with his passing so too did my family's hope at a fortune. My sisters were married off to lesser families, and my brothers were slain by Dravanians. And that is that happy tale of why I live alone in an empty house." If this was anything like the other times, Stella fully expected Ashur to babble some kind of awkward apology then excuse himself. In fact, she might have been grateful for the opportunity to be left alone with her thoughts. Instead, remarkably, he sat where he was, listening intently, though he still worked on his share of the leather harnesses. Somehow, over the course of many bells the two of them had reached the bottom of the seemingly endless pile of leather. "You know, I never wanted to be a noble either," Ashur said. Rather than his typical anxiety, his assertion was instead filled with quiet confidence. "Well, you've given me another reason not to want that kind of life." Stella could not help but chuckle at this new cavalier attitude he was displaying. "No, it's not for everyone," she agreed. In the past, even thinking about all these ordeals would have frozen Stella and sent her retreating to her chambers for private contemplation, lest she shame herself in front of company. For the moment, she did not worry about such things. "My mother has been trying to get into the trappings of noble life, now that both Alric and I are knights," Ashur said. "She's lonely at home, and always needs something on her mind to keep from worrying about us. She's learning to make quilts, if I recall correctly." She snorted. "And what is her opinion of such things?" "Well, I daresay she hates the idea of noble life almost as much as you. There's not a moment where she's nearby and she's not complaining about 'gossip this' or 'ostentatious display that'," Ashur gave a small laugh. "Still, I'm glad she has some...well, not friends, but some contact." Another silence fell over them as Ashur began to gather the harnesses and belts together, inspecting each one carefully with a trained, practiced eye. Stella, for her part, attempted to look busy by putting away the used plates in the washbasin. "Why did you ask me about my family?" Stella asked suddenly. Ashur was startled by the inquiry, his head giving a brief shudder as if an arrow had just whizzed past his head. He coughed into his hand, revealing the trademark awkwardness and anxiety that Stella suddenly found herself oddly familiar with. "I--well, we were talking about my family first, and I suppose I wanted to know about...yours. And you, in general, I mean." Ashur bit his lip as if questioning whether or not he should continue. "And, well, I suppose...I was wondering if you could use, um, some...help." Stella raised a skeptical eyebrow. Ashur coughed again in response. "It's just that I don't really see you talking to anyone. I mean, I suppose I know why, it's because you're usually busy and you're a very, um, practical and driven person. Still, even though you're only with us to avoid Ser Braucandeaux, I don't think it'd be all that bad if there were someone you could talk to, right?" He glanced at her sheepishly. "It's just...you seem like the kind of person who'd get wound up like a spring. You don't have to be friends with the people you work with, but you should at least be able to cooperate with them, right? Ah, maybe I shouldn't have said anything..." Yes, Ashur was earnest and honest. Perhaps too honest, Stella thought to herself. Was this what set him apart from every other knight she'd met? At that moment, he seemed to be the only one capable of reaching that ideal the knights supposedly strove for. A small smile graced her lips, though it was quick to evaporate when her thoughts were replaced by something of a more grim nature. It was usually the earnest, honest ones who died on the battlefield, saving their fellows. Was there a time Stella would have to contend with seeing his blood all over her robes? It seemed that Stella's silent observation signaled to Ashur that now was the time he should make his retreat, as he hastily gathered the leather harnesses together and bowing. "Well, anyway," he said, sidling towards the door. "This was...a good talk, I think. Feel free to come find me if you need more late meals; I'd be happy to make them for you. But for now I should probably get these stocked before Ser Marat wakes up. So...tomorrow, then!" With that, the knight shuffled out of the door and into the frigid winter night. Stella turned to leave herself before noticing that someone had forgotten their helmet and gauntlets on the table of the kitchen. She rolled her eyes, though she could not help but smile to herself as well. "Tomorrow, then."

And so it was that Ser Marat's cohort was host to another chirurgeon; from a practical standpoint, Ser Marat was grateful to have another chirurgeon on hand at Falcon's Nest, but more than that the usually grumpy Elezen took no small amount of glee in being given an opportunity to stick a proverbial knife at Ser Braucandeaux. Ashur knew better than to ask, but given Braucandeaux's demeanour, it was likely that there was some bad blood between the two. Given how their last encounter ended, Ashur was somewhat anxious to see the prickly Stella once again when they assembled at the airship platform, but was relieved when she was quick to offer her polite, if typically stiff gratitude. "You have my thanks for doing me this favour, Ashur," the chirurgeon had said. Her tone was somewhat cold, but Ashur could tell from the slight strain in her voice that Stella was used to being cold to people and was attempting this once to not be so frigid. Still, the knight didn't feel that he had the particular eloquence required to speak to her much more, and so rather than keep her company during the airship flight, he instead mingled among his fellow knights. "Quite the ice queen, isn't she," Loren muttered. The Hyur standing besides Ashur occasionally cast a suspicious glances to Stella, who was engrossed in organizing her alchemical supplies. "She'd be prettier if she smiled more." Loren tilted his head. "A bit more mannish than your standard noblelady, I suppose. The robes are probably hiding some quality goods, though." Ashur grimaced at the crass observation; while by no means a prude, lewdness was more Alric's thing. "If I never hear about what kind of noblewomen you imagine, I can die satisfied, Loren," he said, rapping his knuckles on the side of Loren's helmet. "I'm just saying, it was about time we have a chirurgeon that's not an old fart or a hag, and we get the one who's carved out of wood," Loren said, brushing off Ashur's hand in irritation. "All pretty young ladies are supposed to become..I don't know, something dainty, you know? Something that waits for the brave hero's return home. Instead she looks like she'd rather stab me just as soon as she'd sew me up." "She's...not so bad when you get to know her," Ashur offered weakly, more out of reflex in case Stella heard Loren's less-than-subtle gossip. Though he'd only seen Stella at work a few times, there was something to be said about the severity her face held. Loren raised an eyebrow. "And do you know her, Ashur?" Well, no, he didn't. They didn't know anything about one another. Their meetings were just a multitude of chance encounters. Ashur had to privately admit to himself--though with a significant amount of embarrassment--that he was curious about Stella, though he couldn't pin an exact reason on why. Perhaps it was with the seriousness she carried out her duties, or it was just a matter of physical attraction. Or...it was not just those things. It was also the fact that every time Ashur saw her, she looked alone. Not lonely, but Stella had the face and demeanour of one who was standing against a gale by herself, a lone pillar amidst the tempest. She was certainly proud and carried herself as such, but it wasn't arrogance or haughtiness. If he had to describe it, it was the pride of a martyr. Ashur couldn't possibly guess at what kind of ordeals equipped her with such a demeanour, but there was something about her simultaneous strength and seeming fragility that drew him to her. After a few long seconds he caught himself staring intently at Stella before snapping himself out of his reverie violently shaking his head. No no no, what was he even thinking about!? They weren't friends or even acquaintances. It was just a series of chance meetings. This was hardly the time to be thinking about such things. The knight coughed into his gauntlet, thankful for the helmet masking his expression. "No, I don't," he murmured more to himself than to Loren. The rest of the flight was uneventful, and when the two airships landed at the Falcon's Nest, there wasn't much conversation to go around. "Get yourselves sorted in the quarters," Ser Marat ordered gruffly. "I'll be off to see what kind of pit we've found ourselves in this time." With no orders more specific than "get sorted", many of the knights set off to find their bunks and hearths. Not content to rest on his laurels, Ashur busied himself with unloading the supplies they'd brought from Ishgard. The second airship had been loaded with crates and boxes marked with mundane contents; grain, dried vegetables, chocobo feed, medical supplies, arms and armour. A few of the higher-ranked knights jealously guarded small chests that undoubtedly carried some small luxuries from the city to get them through their post. The chirurgeons, Stella included, were quite busy hauling off delicate crates that jingled with glassware within them. Stella passed Ashur a neutral glance, her expression unreadable as they passed one another--Ashur on his way to pick up another crate from the airship, and Stella carrying a box of supplies towards the infirmary--when she spoke. "Your friend could learn how to speak with more grace," she said flatly. Her tone didn't carry an edge of reprimand, and that caused Ashur to wince more than anything. Once again, he found himself watching her back as she retreated, unsure of what to say or if he should say anything at all. At least it wasn't his fault this time.

I'm glad it worked; I had my doubts that the incentives were enough for people on Balmung to transfer. That said, I can't help but feel that their solution basically ignored the underlying issue of Balmung's congestion. I suppose there's not much to do if they're happy with occasionally re-applying the Congested label, but it'll be something quite annoying for players.

As the merchant was being lead off by some of his fellow knights for questioning, Ashur’s expression became one of considerable surprise when Stella suddenly asked for his assistance. “I would request your help,” Stella said tersely, as if wishing to get this over with as soon as possible. Ashur raised an eyebrow. Based on her demeanour alone, he’d had Stella pegged as a fairly prideful person, perhaps even haughty. It must be with a significant deal of reluctance that she asked for this favour, whatever it may be. “I...cannot guarantee anything, but if I can assist you, then I will try,” Ashur responded with bemusement. Stella took a deep breath before exhaling, brushing some stray hairs from the front of her face. “I have been assigned to tending to the Convictory. An ignominious position at best, but not the true heart of the problem. The cadre of knights I have been assigned to is headed by one...Ser Braucandeaux.” Ashur’s face immediately split into a frown; he was familiar with that name. Ser Braucandeaux was one of many highborn knights that relentlessly mocked both Ashur and Alric for being commonborn, constantly whispering uncouth insults and playing juvenile schemes in an effort to discredit the lowborn. Outside of his sycophants, Braucandeaux was widely regarded with the same distaste one might regard an uncourteous stain on one’s shoe, and yet he had the favour of the higher-ranked knights, along with his own unit. “It would be...disadvantageous for both he and I if we were within a few fulms of each other,” Stella exhaled a sigh, folding her arms together. “Though I know I ask much of you, I was wondering if you could…” Ashur waved his hand. “Say no more, La--er, Stella,” the knight said, catching himself before reflexively using the title he knew she disliked. “Though I am no knight-captain, I have Ser Marat’s ear. I am certain I can convince him to take on an extra chirurgeon or two, and I know for a fact he has no small amount of distaste for Braucandeaux.” Ashur tilted his head. “Though, I would have you know that we are stationed at the Falcon’s Nest, outside the city.” Stella seemed to deflate with a considerable amount of relief, though her shoulders remained tense. “Well, I will miss my comforts, but Falcon’s Nest isn’t so bad,” she muttered to herself. “My thanks, then, Ser…” Ashur grinned. “Just Ashur, if you would. It’s been years since my initiation and I’m still not quite used to hearing ‘ser’. Where should I contact you once I have news of Ser Marat’s decision?” Now it was Stella’s turn to wave her hand. “The infirmary is where I am most likely to be. Do you remember my...erm, assistant, Eaufault? If I am not there, he will likely know where I am, though I do not have many other haunts other than my home.” Ashur recalled the one time he escorted Stella home. The manse she lived in was large, and yet he could never remember there being anyone near it during those rare times he was assigned to patrols in the Pillars. “Do you live with anyone?” he asked casually. Stella visibly stiffened at his query, clearing her throat. “...no, I do not,” she said quietly. Ashur was taken aback by her timid, hesitant response, and with the tension in the air now thoroughly awkward, he coughed while desperately trying to think of a new topic. “W-well, it’s not all bad,” Ashur stammered out clumsily. He opened his mouth to continue--something about how the noise of his own home frequently bothered him--before Stella gave him a short bow, tucking her basket of groceries under her arm. “Thank you for doing me this favour, Ser Ashur,” the chirurgeon said shortly before quickly hurrying to walk past him, leaving Ashur to stare at her retreating back contemplating how many pairs of boots he’d put in his mouth in the past moon. The knight sighed, crossing his arms behind his back, and shuffling off towards the barracks.

It's just the name of the IPS Plugin, really. Under the Admin control panels, the feature is labelled under "Clubs".

If there was one word Kagero could use to consistently describe Kugane, it was “noisy”. The clattering of carts rumbling over paved stone roads, vendors hawking wares or calling out to friends, or voices raised to argue with other vendors. A group of workers were carrying stone, lumber, and other building supplies across the streets towards the Rakuza District. The streets were more crowded than ever, and frequently Kagero had to turn his shoulders in order to edge past groups headed in the other direction. The Hyur was dressed in a plain black dogi, the equally plain katana at his side indicating his status as a member of a samurai family. Standing beside him was a fair-haired Raen female, dressed in a similarly martial fashion for ease of movement. Though he was hesitant to admit it, Sekka’s presence was quite comforting; searching an entire city for a single ijin who may or may not be dead was a daunting task. Kagero breathed deeply, glad to be off of the ship, before folding his arms in his sleeves. “We’ll start with the basics, then. Sekka, ask around Kogane Dori and see if there are any peddlers who might know of our lord Aritake.” “Any other specifics? ‘Yumishi’ is a fairly common surname, and it’s possible that Aritake did not give out his first name.” the Raen said with a frown. Already, she was beginning to scan the crowds for any persons of note. The streets were dense with ijin and Hingan alike. Colours flooded Kagero's vision in the form of gaudy clothing both foreign and native. Had Kagero not been in the middle of a mission, perhaps he might have admired Kugane's diversity at that point. “Lady Kyokuho claims that Aritake is--or was--an ardent supporter of Doman independence, particularly when word spread that the Doman prince had returned,” Kagero noted, his brow furrowed in thought. “I suppose that’s the only true lead we have unless we can find one of Aritake's business contacts." “In that case, I will begin my inquiry to see if there are any of his fellow Domans in the city, my lord.” With a terse bow, Sekka skipped off into the crowds towards Kogane Dori. As for Kagero himself, he had a mind to pay a visit to the Sekiseigumi. They were typically the first and last to make contact with any particularly troublesome ijin, and while Kyokuho didn’t see fit to tell Kagero exactly what kind of business Aritake dealt in, it was most likely something illegal, as it usually was whenever foreigners were involved. A corner of his mind flitted towards his secondary objective: he needed proof of Kyokuho’s dealings, but what form would that proof take? Surely criminals didn’t exactly exchange bills of sale and even if they did, Kyokuho certainly didn’t engage in such things personally. She was intelligent enough to use the alias of a retainer of a retainer, removing herself far from the transactions, yet whatever goods Aritake dealt in had to be reaching her somehow. He shook his head. He’d cross that bridge when he arrived at it. If he ever arrived at it. After making his way to the barracks and to Kagero’s great annoyance, the captain of the Sekiseigumi was away. So, too, was the lieutenant; they were apparently off dealing with something in the Ruby Sea, according to the exasperatingly polite samurai that greeted Kagero. “And I take it you know nothing about any recent arrests,” Kagero said, his tone dripping with anticipated disappointment. The samurai wordlessly bowed, which was a response in and of itself. The only one who would have any certain information about arrests would be the captain of the Sekiseigumi or the lieutenant, both of whom were conveniently absent. Otherwise, most of the samurai responsible for policing Kugane made independent judgments save for particularly egregious instances. Kagero sighed, folding his arms together, combing his mind for clues. They were looking for a Doman merchant who most likely had illicit dealings with ijin and Hingan alike. Aside from being Doman, they had no leads as to who they could contact to find Aritake, short of stumbling on one of his associates by sheer accident. His mind’s eye flashed to the scene of workmen carrying stone and lumber to the Rakuza District. While construction wasn’t especially unusual in Kugane, from what Kagero knew it only happened when something was damaged; given how dense the city was, there wasn’t really room to expand unless it was by order of the lord bugyo or it was paid for by someone fabulously wealthy enough to afford additional land within the city. But it was far too much of a stretch that any of this was connected to Aritake. Kagero grit his teeth. He needed more info. “Ah, but there was a fire somewhat recently,” the Sekiseigumi samurai added hastily, as if by way of an apology. “About a moon ago, if memory serves.” Kagero waved nonchalantly as if to dismiss the info. Fires weren’t common, but they did happen without much fanfare unless the damage was particularly devastating; word would have certainly reached Koshu quickly if Kugane had gone up in flames. “And I take it you can’t tell me anything about that, either,” he said dourly, though he wasn’t expecting any useful information out of it. This was already proving to be a frustrating venture. The samurai rubbed his chin. “I can tell you that it was a miracle that nothing else was damaged. It was a single building and a stall at the time.” Kagero raised his brow. A fire in Kugane with only a single building destroyed? Either the city was monumentally lucky, the citizens were exceptionally fast in their response to the fire, or the fire was a tiny little thing that barely warranted alarm. The latter was unlikely if the Sekiseigumi believed they had reason to investigate, so was it foul play? He hesitated to see a lead where there was none, but it wasn’t as if he had many other avenues to pursue until he rendezvoused with Sekka. “Show me,” he said.” -- The charred rubble of the apothecary had long been cleared out, though the stonework of the building stood like a mournful skeleton. Workmen were busy knocking down the rest of the standing stonework to repurpose the bricks, and lengths of timber were being measured and cut into planks before being planed smooth. Stonemasons and carpenters competed with one another in the construction of a new dwelling, the taste of stone dust vying with the smell of wood shavings. Overhead, workmen laid clay tiles in neat rows along the roof, a relatively noiseless occupation save for the exceptional tile that slid free of a worker’s hands and shattered on the ground. “A fire, hm...” Kagero wondered underneath his breath, shaking his head at the frenzy of activity. Such was one of the drawbacks of Hingan architecture; compact wooden buildings packed together made for spectacular fire hazards. The city was liable to lose entire streets at a time if the fire wasn’t contained quickly enough, though it seemed this particular one was. “The Naeuris were nowhere near the place when it went up, thank the kami,” a kindly old Hyur woman said as Kagero examined the blank space where the apothecary had been. He absentmindedly took the proffered mug of tea and took a sip from it, promptly causing him to hiss from burning his tongue on the liquid. “Everyone did their best to stop the fire. We were lucky it did not spread farther than it did!” “Who else lived there?” Kagero asked. “An Au Ra girl. Delicate young thing, bright as sunshine. We thought her dead for a while, but she turned up just fine!” The old lady sighed and rubbed an eye with a wrinkly finger. “Oh, I haven’t seen Mimiyo so happy in quite some time. They were all quite close to one another.” Kagero’s frown deepened, running the story through his head. An apothecary went up in flames in mere minutes, with neither sight nor smell of smoke to warn anyone else on the street. An Au Ra body is found, but is inexplicably proven to not be the Au Ra who was living at the apothecary when she turns up more than a fortnight after the fire, and said Au Ra proceeds to vanish to kami knows where. Now, none of this had anything directly to do with Aritake Yumishi, yet the Hyur could not help but be somewhat suspicious. Time would tell if this ended up being a waste of time, but as far as Kagero was concerned, the minds of ijin were complex--they were just as likely to strip themselves in public as they were to set a random apothecary on fire--and so it was not outside the realm of possibility for Aritake to be involved in this act of arson. He’d have to question the Naeuris later, but apparently their apothecary was a frequent destination for ijin. A black-haired man with an impractically large sword, a red-haired woman in gaudy shades, and a tall bearded Highlander, among many other exotic-looking characters. A sigh crossed his lips as Kagero scratched his chin. None of these people sounded like someone he was looking for, and yet, they were all foreigners that frequently visited this particular apothecary over any other. That meant one of two things: either they were all friends and acquaintances--unlikely, given that none of them had been spotted around ever since the fire--or this particular apothecary had something or someone that couldn’t be found anywhere else. Had this particular apothecary been located in Kogane Dori, that wouldn’t have meant anything, for ijin were frequent. However, coming to this specific corner of the Rakuza District when most foreigners stuck to the main streets... Whatever the apothecary was selling was either exceptionally rare or exceptionally illegal. It warranted further investigation.