Though that atmosphere in the Foundation had been tense, the Pillars were remarkably peaceful. A rare gap in the clouds meant that the Jeweled Crozier was awash with precious beams of noon sunlight. A foreigner to Ishgard might assume that because of the nation's closed borders, the markets would be sterile and lifeless, though nothing could be further from the truth. Despite Ishgard's strained situation--rumours of a new offensive mounting had quickly spread among the nobility--the marketplace buzzed with activity.
War was a time of profit, and Ishgardian merchants were quick to take advantage of that fact. The fragrant odors of fresh herbs and roasting meats mixed with the sounds of haggling from dozens of stalls. Cloth of every kind, from serviceable wools and cottons to extravagant silks and satins were hawked from noisy tailors, and though most of Ishgard's arms and armour were sold to the Temple Knights, there were more than enough pieces for the local smiths to display on their stalls. The cookshops were always popular venues for those merchants looking for an easy meal or off-duty knights seeking something other than the bland fare of the barracks.
One particularly enterprising peddler was busy creating dragons from folded pieces of paper; the peddler would then throw the dragons off the edge of the Crozier where they would gently glide towards the chasm below, and children would pay with coin from their harried mothers to try to shoot the dragons out of the sky with the peddler's selection of handmade slingshots.
Stella frowned at that particular display. A precocious idea, and not necessarily a bad way to entertain children, but a part of her worried that romanticizing the idea of dragon slaying to children so young was not the best avenue to go with.
The chirurgeon sighed, running a hand through her hair, her basket of groceries rustling slightly as she did so. She didn't have time to worry about how Ishgardian children. As Stella began to pore over the herbal selections of the apothecary, her mind was focused on a more anxious matter.
The Convictory needed chirurgeons, as the ones that had been stationed there were dead, wounded, or too exhausted to be of any help, and the head chirurgeon in Ishgard--a humourless old Elezen--had assigned Stella to be a part of the next convoy, alongside a few other chirurgeons. No amount of pleading, favours, or threats--direct or indirect--could convince Eaufault to take her place.
Nevermind the fact that she abjectly hated field work, the Hyur had to worry about whether or not this would jeopardize the assignment given to her by her patron. She couldn't afford to be away from the city for too long, but what if she ended up indefinitely assigned to the Convictory? Ishgard was cold, harsh, and full of blind zealots, but as much disdain Stella had for the empty house, the creature comforts like the hearth and the fur-lined blankets were things she would sorely miss, and being out in the Highlands reminded her of things she would very much rather forget.
"Madam? Is aught amiss?" the apothecary asked politely as Stella stared blankly at a sprig of coriander in her hands. Shaken out of her reverie, she shook her head.
"I will take these," Stella said stiffly, paying the merchant for the herbs, though she wasn't entirely sure she needed them.
And on top of everything else, the cohort she would be travelling with was led by one Ser Braucandeaux. Even the thought of him made Stella's face scrunch up in subconscious disgust. Ser Braucandeaux was ostensibly a noble and had relatives in the Church, but the only thing noble about him was his title, and there was certainly nothing chaste or holy in his bloodline. Stella had been forced to politely reject his brazen and uncouth advances for nearly two moons now. It was likely that if Stella were stationed at the Convictory, he would pull whatever oily strings he could to be stationed alongside her, and from that point it would only be a matter of time before Braucandeaux would be found dead with Stella's dirk through his skull, which would certainly put her ventures in Ishgard to an end.
The chirurgeon's mind wandered as she began to walk down the Crozier to return to the Foundation, attempting to think of a way out of this predicament. Eaufault was the closest thing she had to a "friend", and even that term was loose; it would be more accurate to say that Eaufault was the one most willing to tolerate her. If Stella were a hospitalier, things might be different, but as a chirurgeon she had very limited influence over military matters. Protesting too much might cause too much of a stir, and if the Inquisition caught wind of someone acting too uppity...
Stella stopped on her heels. Standing in front of one of the merchant's stalls was a Hyur; though he was not wearing the chainmail, he was identifiable as a knight through the plain beige gambeson embroidered with the sigil of Ishgard. His striking mane of sandy blonde hair looked familiar.
What was his name? Ashton, Ashcroft....Ashur, that was it. Could he help her?
Ashur picked up one of the swords that the merchant offered, the blade looking more fanciful than effective. Even Stella, who had no eye for such things, could tell that the "jewels" encrusted on the hilt were nothing but glass. He gave the sword a few practice swings, before he was suddenly holding nothing but the hilt, as the blade snapped free and went flying, narrowly missing a drunk peddler who was attempting to enjoy a bowl of stew.
Stella sidled closer, unsure of whether or not to approach him. Ashur was a knight, yes, but she knew almost nothing else about him. She had never seen him command any men, and even if he could, it was unlikely that he wielded enough influence to outdo whatever Ser Braucandeaux promised.
His amber eyes narrowed in disapproval as the merchant did his best to look utterly surprised. "Huh!" The merchant grunted. "Now that's never happened before."
Stella snorted despite herself. The merchant almost sounded sincere. "You've a keen eye for your weapons, good ser. Now take a look at this beauty. You won't find another like it in--"
"In all of Aldenard, yes, you've said that before," Ashur finished, declining the proffered sword which was even more ostentatious than the first.
The merchant nodded so briskly that his multiple chins wagged as he continued to hold the weapon aloft for Ashur to inspect, though the knight had already decided on looking at other wares. "That's right--in all of Aldenard!"
Stella found herself watching intently as Ashur picked up a clear vial of violet liquid. The merchant folded his hands together in satisfaction. "A broken heart, ser? You have a keen eye, a very keen eye indeed! This is my best merchandise, the last of it, in fact! It's a love potion, guaranteed to make the object of your affection fall swooning into your bed!" Stella covered her mouth to keep the audible scoff from her lips, and to conceal the amused smile from Ashur's offended expression.
The knight instead picked up another vial, this time of translucent yellow liquid. "Ah, good ser, you are a true warrior. I can tell! This is an incredible salve from the alchemists of Ul'dah, certain to heal any wound in battle, from an arrow to the throat to a dragon's claws without leaving so much as a scar!"
This seemed to get Ashur's attention, but with a sigh, Stella decided it was time to intervene. With her basket of groceries tucked in her elbow, she marched up to the merchant's stall, startling both the merchant and the knight. She forcefully confiscated the vial from Ashur's hand and popped open the cork, recoiling from the stench. From his expression, he did not recognise her right away.
"This is nothing but bear grease," the chirurgeon proclaimed loudly, dropping the vial on the pavement and causing it to explode into shards.
Ashur's frown deepened, his feet shuffling. "Where are you from, merchant?" he demanded, a hand on his sword's hilt. "We do not take kindly to charlatans within the Holy See. You are no better than a common thief, or perhaps you seek to poison someone? A heretic, are you?"
"Oh, I doubt that's necessary," Stella said, a smug smirk crossing her lips. She almost felt sorry for the merchant who fell against the back of his stall, apparently trembling from the word "heretic" being thrown at him. She glanced at Ashur, whose face was now lit up from recognition.
"Lady--er, Stella," the knight said politely, quickly correcting himself when Stella herself instinctively frowned upon hearing the title. "I thank you for lending your expertise."
Stella shrugged nonchalantly. "You are off-duty, yes? It would be a shame to waste your time on such offal as this one. Alert your fellows, and we can be on our way."
Ashur's face morphed between several expressions as though he couldn't decide between which question to ask. After some hesitation, he gave a slight nod to her and a considerably severe nod to the merchant cowering in his stall.
"Stay right there," the knight commanded, thoroughly unamused. "You are welcome to attempt to flee, but I assure you it will not go well." He turned to the chirurgeon. "L--Stella, may I burden you with a request?"
Stella gave a mocking sigh, though the smirk was still on her lips. "Yes, I will fetch your fellows for you," she said lightly, turning around and walking towards the front of the Crozier to find the nearest knight.
War was a time of profit, and Ishgardian merchants were quick to take advantage of that fact. The fragrant odors of fresh herbs and roasting meats mixed with the sounds of haggling from dozens of stalls. Cloth of every kind, from serviceable wools and cottons to extravagant silks and satins were hawked from noisy tailors, and though most of Ishgard's arms and armour were sold to the Temple Knights, there were more than enough pieces for the local smiths to display on their stalls. The cookshops were always popular venues for those merchants looking for an easy meal or off-duty knights seeking something other than the bland fare of the barracks.
One particularly enterprising peddler was busy creating dragons from folded pieces of paper; the peddler would then throw the dragons off the edge of the Crozier where they would gently glide towards the chasm below, and children would pay with coin from their harried mothers to try to shoot the dragons out of the sky with the peddler's selection of handmade slingshots.
Stella frowned at that particular display. A precocious idea, and not necessarily a bad way to entertain children, but a part of her worried that romanticizing the idea of dragon slaying to children so young was not the best avenue to go with.
The chirurgeon sighed, running a hand through her hair, her basket of groceries rustling slightly as she did so. She didn't have time to worry about how Ishgardian children. As Stella began to pore over the herbal selections of the apothecary, her mind was focused on a more anxious matter.
The Convictory needed chirurgeons, as the ones that had been stationed there were dead, wounded, or too exhausted to be of any help, and the head chirurgeon in Ishgard--a humourless old Elezen--had assigned Stella to be a part of the next convoy, alongside a few other chirurgeons. No amount of pleading, favours, or threats--direct or indirect--could convince Eaufault to take her place.
Nevermind the fact that she abjectly hated field work, the Hyur had to worry about whether or not this would jeopardize the assignment given to her by her patron. She couldn't afford to be away from the city for too long, but what if she ended up indefinitely assigned to the Convictory? Ishgard was cold, harsh, and full of blind zealots, but as much disdain Stella had for the empty house, the creature comforts like the hearth and the fur-lined blankets were things she would sorely miss, and being out in the Highlands reminded her of things she would very much rather forget.
"Madam? Is aught amiss?" the apothecary asked politely as Stella stared blankly at a sprig of coriander in her hands. Shaken out of her reverie, she shook her head.
"I will take these," Stella said stiffly, paying the merchant for the herbs, though she wasn't entirely sure she needed them.
And on top of everything else, the cohort she would be travelling with was led by one Ser Braucandeaux. Even the thought of him made Stella's face scrunch up in subconscious disgust. Ser Braucandeaux was ostensibly a noble and had relatives in the Church, but the only thing noble about him was his title, and there was certainly nothing chaste or holy in his bloodline. Stella had been forced to politely reject his brazen and uncouth advances for nearly two moons now. It was likely that if Stella were stationed at the Convictory, he would pull whatever oily strings he could to be stationed alongside her, and from that point it would only be a matter of time before Braucandeaux would be found dead with Stella's dirk through his skull, which would certainly put her ventures in Ishgard to an end.
The chirurgeon's mind wandered as she began to walk down the Crozier to return to the Foundation, attempting to think of a way out of this predicament. Eaufault was the closest thing she had to a "friend", and even that term was loose; it would be more accurate to say that Eaufault was the one most willing to tolerate her. If Stella were a hospitalier, things might be different, but as a chirurgeon she had very limited influence over military matters. Protesting too much might cause too much of a stir, and if the Inquisition caught wind of someone acting too uppity...
Stella stopped on her heels. Standing in front of one of the merchant's stalls was a Hyur; though he was not wearing the chainmail, he was identifiable as a knight through the plain beige gambeson embroidered with the sigil of Ishgard. His striking mane of sandy blonde hair looked familiar.
What was his name? Ashton, Ashcroft....Ashur, that was it. Could he help her?
Ashur picked up one of the swords that the merchant offered, the blade looking more fanciful than effective. Even Stella, who had no eye for such things, could tell that the "jewels" encrusted on the hilt were nothing but glass. He gave the sword a few practice swings, before he was suddenly holding nothing but the hilt, as the blade snapped free and went flying, narrowly missing a drunk peddler who was attempting to enjoy a bowl of stew.
Stella sidled closer, unsure of whether or not to approach him. Ashur was a knight, yes, but she knew almost nothing else about him. She had never seen him command any men, and even if he could, it was unlikely that he wielded enough influence to outdo whatever Ser Braucandeaux promised.
His amber eyes narrowed in disapproval as the merchant did his best to look utterly surprised. "Huh!" The merchant grunted. "Now that's never happened before."
Stella snorted despite herself. The merchant almost sounded sincere. "You've a keen eye for your weapons, good ser. Now take a look at this beauty. You won't find another like it in--"
"In all of Aldenard, yes, you've said that before," Ashur finished, declining the proffered sword which was even more ostentatious than the first.
The merchant nodded so briskly that his multiple chins wagged as he continued to hold the weapon aloft for Ashur to inspect, though the knight had already decided on looking at other wares. "That's right--in all of Aldenard!"
Stella found herself watching intently as Ashur picked up a clear vial of violet liquid. The merchant folded his hands together in satisfaction. "A broken heart, ser? You have a keen eye, a very keen eye indeed! This is my best merchandise, the last of it, in fact! It's a love potion, guaranteed to make the object of your affection fall swooning into your bed!" Stella covered her mouth to keep the audible scoff from her lips, and to conceal the amused smile from Ashur's offended expression.
The knight instead picked up another vial, this time of translucent yellow liquid. "Ah, good ser, you are a true warrior. I can tell! This is an incredible salve from the alchemists of Ul'dah, certain to heal any wound in battle, from an arrow to the throat to a dragon's claws without leaving so much as a scar!"
This seemed to get Ashur's attention, but with a sigh, Stella decided it was time to intervene. With her basket of groceries tucked in her elbow, she marched up to the merchant's stall, startling both the merchant and the knight. She forcefully confiscated the vial from Ashur's hand and popped open the cork, recoiling from the stench. From his expression, he did not recognise her right away.
"This is nothing but bear grease," the chirurgeon proclaimed loudly, dropping the vial on the pavement and causing it to explode into shards.
Ashur's frown deepened, his feet shuffling. "Where are you from, merchant?" he demanded, a hand on his sword's hilt. "We do not take kindly to charlatans within the Holy See. You are no better than a common thief, or perhaps you seek to poison someone? A heretic, are you?"
"Oh, I doubt that's necessary," Stella said, a smug smirk crossing her lips. She almost felt sorry for the merchant who fell against the back of his stall, apparently trembling from the word "heretic" being thrown at him. She glanced at Ashur, whose face was now lit up from recognition.
"Lady--er, Stella," the knight said politely, quickly correcting himself when Stella herself instinctively frowned upon hearing the title. "I thank you for lending your expertise."
Stella shrugged nonchalantly. "You are off-duty, yes? It would be a shame to waste your time on such offal as this one. Alert your fellows, and we can be on our way."
Ashur's face morphed between several expressions as though he couldn't decide between which question to ask. After some hesitation, he gave a slight nod to her and a considerably severe nod to the merchant cowering in his stall.
"Stay right there," the knight commanded, thoroughly unamused. "You are welcome to attempt to flee, but I assure you it will not go well." He turned to the chirurgeon. "L--Stella, may I burden you with a request?"
Stella gave a mocking sigh, though the smirk was still on her lips. "Yes, I will fetch your fellows for you," she said lightly, turning around and walking towards the front of the Crozier to find the nearest knight.
