Ishgard's respite was brief.
Almost immediately after Ashur had been re-assigned to sentry duty within the Foundation, the Dravanian Horde attacked once again. With the wards at the Gates of Judgment disabled as a result of the battle with the siege wyrm, the city was now vulnerable. Several wyverns had broken through the defenses and made it inside the city proper. The battle was bloody but brief, and though the wyverns had not dealt excessive damage, the tension within the city was palpable. The return of Ser Aymeric from Ul'dah was but a small comfort, as the Lord Commander's presence was no guarantee that this storm would pass quickly or easily.
The wounded knights assigned to the Gates of Judgment were beginning to stream in, and it was thus that Ashur had been hastily called upon to assist the chirurgeons and the hospitaliers. "On your feet," he grunted, helping an Elezen to his feet. The Elezen's breathing was laboured and ragged, the chain links on his armour torn by a wyvern's talons; Ashur didn't need to be a hospitalier to know that the Elezen was about to be reclaimed by the Fury.
As he entered the infirmary, the Elezen had gone ghastly pale, and Ashur spotted a familiar face; chestnut brown hair tied back into a severe bun, and pure white robes that was already stained with blood. It was Stella, the chirurgeon that had been tending to him when he awoke after the Steps of Faith; she was busy reorganizing a new batch of medical supplies as chirurgeons dashed to and fro. Ashur wasn't entirely sure what compelled him to drag this wounded knight over to her; he barely knew anything about her. Perhaps it was the implicit trust that came with recognising a familiar face, no matter how recent the acquaintance. Perhaps it was the confidence with which Stella seemed to carry herself. Perhaps he came to her simply because Ashur didn't know what else to do.
"Your gratitude is better spent on the ones who pulled you off the battlefield.."
"Lady Stella. Lady Stella!" It took Ashur a few calls to catch her attention, though as soon as he had her attention he could see her warm brown eyes sharpen with discipline and purpose. She needed no explanation, no warnings or requests. She quickly strode over and began examining the Elezen with a careful, practised eye.
Whatever judgment Stella made, she didn't voice. Instead, she glanced up, locking eyes with Ashur. "You--"
"Ashur," the knight said, quickly providing his name.
"Ashur, lay him down on that cot and pull his armour off as quick as you can, but don't force anything." Wordlessly, he began to undo the straps and buckles holding the Elezen's chainmail together. Stella turned and snapped her fingers at a younger chirurgeon. "Eaufault! Give me light, water, and brandewine!"
The Elezen was white like candlewax, his lips turning a pale shade of blue, his forehead damp with sweat. When Stella placed the back of her hand on his face, the Elezen rattled and grimaced in pain. Ashur was careful to move him as little as possible as he undid the last of the straps and pulled the hauberk over the Elezen's head, then using his knife to cut open the knight's gambeson. The younger Wildwood chirurgeon, Eaufault, came forward carrying a lit candle, a pail of water, and a small metal flask attached to a leather strap around his neck. Stella pulled up her sleeves, flexed her fingers, and undid the latch on her surgery kit.
The light of the candle illuminated the severity of what they would be working with. A deep, jagged gash had been opened across the Elezen's ribcage, revealing fleshy innards glowing ruby red.
"Stella--" Eaufault began, falling silent when she shot him a venomous glare.
"Stanch the bleeding as best as you can," Stella directed, handing a soaked cloth to Ashur who did so without question.
Though Ashur was no stranger to wounds and gore, this was the first time he'd really seen a chirurgeon work. As he held the wet cloth to the Elezen's gaping innards, Stella calmly and resolutely checked for any signs of internal bleeding and damage and washed around the wounds with alchemical mixtures. Just as she was about to begin suturing the wound, however, Eaufault grabbed her hand.
"Stella," Eaufault said firmly. "He's too far gone."
Ashur glanced up at the other knight's face. All of the colour had drained from the Elezen's face, and he had ceased to breathe, his eyes frozen open in an expression of pain.
It was odd, how quickly one went from living to dying. One second this knight was a living, breathing entity, and now he was little more than several ponze of flesh. Ashur glanced down at the blood-soaked cloth in his hands, still warm from the knight's lifeblood spilling from his gut. Somberly, he put the cloth down and closed the dead knight's eyelids.
"The Fury keep him," Ashur murmured, though he was suddenly startled by Stella suddenly flipping the lid to her surgery kit closed and sauntering off. He found it bewildering. She was a chirurgeon, yes, and there were other wounded to attend to, but it felt too...impersonal, too callous to just abandon her patient so quickly. He was sure that Stella had her reasons, but it disturbed him how quickly she seemed to forsake the dead. Were there no rites or prayers to be said? If Ashur himself were to be taken by the Fury in this infirmary, is this all the honour he would be afforded after giving his life in defense of Ishgard? Nothing but pain and a clumsily-applied wet cloth holding in whatever was left of his blood?
Some part of his distress and consternation must have shown on his face, for the other chirurgeon, Eaufault, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Do not mind her. She is simply...brisk, is all." With few more words, Eaufault stood up and followed Stella, who had already begun attending to another wounded knight.
Ashur was left alone to finish whatever prayer had been on his lips for the dead knight, but as he stared at Stella's robes flitting into the triage wards, the prayer went unspoken.
Almost immediately after Ashur had been re-assigned to sentry duty within the Foundation, the Dravanian Horde attacked once again. With the wards at the Gates of Judgment disabled as a result of the battle with the siege wyrm, the city was now vulnerable. Several wyverns had broken through the defenses and made it inside the city proper. The battle was bloody but brief, and though the wyverns had not dealt excessive damage, the tension within the city was palpable. The return of Ser Aymeric from Ul'dah was but a small comfort, as the Lord Commander's presence was no guarantee that this storm would pass quickly or easily.
The wounded knights assigned to the Gates of Judgment were beginning to stream in, and it was thus that Ashur had been hastily called upon to assist the chirurgeons and the hospitaliers. "On your feet," he grunted, helping an Elezen to his feet. The Elezen's breathing was laboured and ragged, the chain links on his armour torn by a wyvern's talons; Ashur didn't need to be a hospitalier to know that the Elezen was about to be reclaimed by the Fury.
As he entered the infirmary, the Elezen had gone ghastly pale, and Ashur spotted a familiar face; chestnut brown hair tied back into a severe bun, and pure white robes that was already stained with blood. It was Stella, the chirurgeon that had been tending to him when he awoke after the Steps of Faith; she was busy reorganizing a new batch of medical supplies as chirurgeons dashed to and fro. Ashur wasn't entirely sure what compelled him to drag this wounded knight over to her; he barely knew anything about her. Perhaps it was the implicit trust that came with recognising a familiar face, no matter how recent the acquaintance. Perhaps it was the confidence with which Stella seemed to carry herself. Perhaps he came to her simply because Ashur didn't know what else to do.
"Your gratitude is better spent on the ones who pulled you off the battlefield.."
"Lady Stella. Lady Stella!" It took Ashur a few calls to catch her attention, though as soon as he had her attention he could see her warm brown eyes sharpen with discipline and purpose. She needed no explanation, no warnings or requests. She quickly strode over and began examining the Elezen with a careful, practised eye.
Whatever judgment Stella made, she didn't voice. Instead, she glanced up, locking eyes with Ashur. "You--"
"Ashur," the knight said, quickly providing his name.
"Ashur, lay him down on that cot and pull his armour off as quick as you can, but don't force anything." Wordlessly, he began to undo the straps and buckles holding the Elezen's chainmail together. Stella turned and snapped her fingers at a younger chirurgeon. "Eaufault! Give me light, water, and brandewine!"
The Elezen was white like candlewax, his lips turning a pale shade of blue, his forehead damp with sweat. When Stella placed the back of her hand on his face, the Elezen rattled and grimaced in pain. Ashur was careful to move him as little as possible as he undid the last of the straps and pulled the hauberk over the Elezen's head, then using his knife to cut open the knight's gambeson. The younger Wildwood chirurgeon, Eaufault, came forward carrying a lit candle, a pail of water, and a small metal flask attached to a leather strap around his neck. Stella pulled up her sleeves, flexed her fingers, and undid the latch on her surgery kit.
The light of the candle illuminated the severity of what they would be working with. A deep, jagged gash had been opened across the Elezen's ribcage, revealing fleshy innards glowing ruby red.
"Stella--" Eaufault began, falling silent when she shot him a venomous glare.
"Stanch the bleeding as best as you can," Stella directed, handing a soaked cloth to Ashur who did so without question.
Though Ashur was no stranger to wounds and gore, this was the first time he'd really seen a chirurgeon work. As he held the wet cloth to the Elezen's gaping innards, Stella calmly and resolutely checked for any signs of internal bleeding and damage and washed around the wounds with alchemical mixtures. Just as she was about to begin suturing the wound, however, Eaufault grabbed her hand.
"Stella," Eaufault said firmly. "He's too far gone."
Ashur glanced up at the other knight's face. All of the colour had drained from the Elezen's face, and he had ceased to breathe, his eyes frozen open in an expression of pain.
It was odd, how quickly one went from living to dying. One second this knight was a living, breathing entity, and now he was little more than several ponze of flesh. Ashur glanced down at the blood-soaked cloth in his hands, still warm from the knight's lifeblood spilling from his gut. Somberly, he put the cloth down and closed the dead knight's eyelids.
"The Fury keep him," Ashur murmured, though he was suddenly startled by Stella suddenly flipping the lid to her surgery kit closed and sauntering off. He found it bewildering. She was a chirurgeon, yes, and there were other wounded to attend to, but it felt too...impersonal, too callous to just abandon her patient so quickly. He was sure that Stella had her reasons, but it disturbed him how quickly she seemed to forsake the dead. Were there no rites or prayers to be said? If Ashur himself were to be taken by the Fury in this infirmary, is this all the honour he would be afforded after giving his life in defense of Ishgard? Nothing but pain and a clumsily-applied wet cloth holding in whatever was left of his blood?
Some part of his distress and consternation must have shown on his face, for the other chirurgeon, Eaufault, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Do not mind her. She is simply...brisk, is all." With few more words, Eaufault stood up and followed Stella, who had already begun attending to another wounded knight.
Ashur was left alone to finish whatever prayer had been on his lips for the dead knight, but as he stared at Stella's robes flitting into the triage wards, the prayer went unspoken.
