In Pursuit of Truth

"Do you ever pray?"

The cells in Ishgard are cold.

All of Ishgard is cold, really. Anyone and their mother could tell you that. But the cells offer few comforts to nullify that ever-present chill, especially not to traitors.

Azette has settled into the silence when her visitor asks that question. Her eyes, such a deep rich purple, drift open. "Hmm?"

"Prayer," Morgane Sejois repeats, and offers a faint smile. "I know that your faith was...pushed beyond its breaking point. I don't know why, and I still don't intend to push you to know the details. But even a faithless woman might sometimes tip her head back and utter the name of her gods."

If she's aware of how that might sound, she makes no indication of it.

If Azette's aware of it, she offers naught more than the slightest bite of her lip - a sharp canine barely brushing over chapped lips. She offers a wry grin towards Morgane Sejois, then gestures to her surroundings.

"I have little and less to pray about these days, I'm afraid."

Morgane hums in consideration. After a moment, her hand reaches out to grip one of the bars that separate the two of them. The guards tell her not to touch them, but she's bad about listening to that particular instruction. "Perhaps that's true. But I find that it's those in the direst of straits who pray more fervently than those with all they need. After all, it is not those who are most comfortable who summon Primals."

Azette chuckles, letting her head fall back and thud dully against the stone wall. "Touché, sister."

They lapse into silence after that, leaving Morgane's questions unsatisfied until she lets out a disgruntled scoff. She reaches through the bars and flicks Azette's cheek with a single elegant finger.

The callous at the tip of each of her fingers feels coarse, leaving the sensation of touch dulled, and oddly tender - the way only an old scar can be.

"Well, tell me, then. You say you have little to pray about, then you concede that those in dire circumstances pray more." She gives Azette a disgruntled look. "So, do you?"

Azette laughs, rubbing her cheek with a bare hand. The scar across her hand is pale in the halflight, and Morgane finds her eyes lingering on it. "Why are you so interested in my night-time habits suddenly? Is the manor house truly so boring?"

"Without you in it? Definitely."

They share a fond smile, just for a moment, and after a moment of hesitation, Azette takes Morgane's hands. They interlink fingers, ever mindful of the guard patrolling. Ever mindful of the limits this cage places upon them. Limits they've always had, in truth...so perhaps the enforcement of them is no bad thing.

"But stop evading the question. You inquisitorial tricks shan't work on me."

Azette gives a dry chuckle, rolling her eyes and squeezing her sister's hand. "Oh, very well. If you will not be discouraged - no. I don't pray. I haven't in years now. Not even when things are at their direst."

The response isn't a surprise, not really. Why would an apostate pray to gods she no longer believes in? A woman without faith might turn to them in a moment of need, but an apostate willingly turned her back on them. Willingly let Halone go.

Still, Morgane can't help but find her heart aching at the admission. Azette didn't pray for freedom. She didn't pray for health. She didn't pray for her own life.

What could have shattered her belief so utterly?

"Well. Perhaps you should pray for your homecoming. You never know if your faith might be rewarded."

Azette catches her eye at those words, her eyebrow quirking upwards. The moment, that fragile understanding, breaks as she speaks. "My faith has ever been rewarded. But not in ways I like. Only with sorrow."

They hear footsteps in the hallway, and Morgane hastily withdraws her hand. Azette flexes her fingers, breathing out a slow sigh that curls into steam in the air.

Morgane's scarred fingertips and painted nails rest on the bars for yet another moment. "Have faith, dearest."

She wishes she could smile - offer some sort of reassurance. Instead, it's all she can do to tap the bars, and meet Azette's eyes.

Kirstin

Azette has had a few bedrooms, over the years.

Her bedroom at the Sejois family manor in the Highlands, before it was lost to the cold snows and to the family’s newfound (relative) poverty, was filled with all manner of childhood interests. Walking boots, and swimming costumes, and gardening clothes, and, yes, ice skates. Pretty dresses which she never cared for, and sensible clothes for noble boys which she practically lived in.

The walls were painted with flowers, deep azure like Ishgard’s colours. The window was always cracked open, even in the depths of winter. When they were flowering, she could smell gerberas, and in winter she could smell the crisp air in the wind off the lake. She would awake to birds singing, every morning. Until they had to leave. 

Now, the room is left barren. The window is broken, and snow and frost has damaged what little remained. The bedframe, too large and heavy to arrange transit for (and too large to fit in the house in the city, anyroad) has rotted, old wood damaged by ice and exposure - one of the legs will likely give way in the next few years. The cupboard in the wall has a birds’ nest in it, a robin clinging to life and shelter and warmth in the depths of coldest Coerthas. The walls are faded and water-damaged, rot and mold replacing the flowers.

_

Her bedroom in the House Dzemael Barracks when she served as a squire, and her bedroom amongst the Supreme Sacred Tribunal when she was in training to be an inquisitor, juxtaposed the childhood frivolity. 

Both were utilitarian. Military, and barebones. A copy of the Enchiridion by her bed, along with whatever martial book she was reading that week. She kept the rooms clean and tidy, and personal details were stashed away from prying eyes. Bandages for wrapping her hands kept inside her polished boots. Letters from Ophelie (deeply inappropriate) and letters from her family (much more appropriate) stashed away beneath her mattress.

_

And finally, her bedroom in the far smaller Sejois home in Ishgard. Her current bedroom, were she not locked away. An old, tumbledown building. A neglected townhouse for the family in more affluent days, and now their only home to speak of.

She had moved there as a young teenage girl, but her childhood interests had not come with her. The ice skates were packed away in a closet and ignored. Even if she had the amenities to skate in Ishgard, she had lost the taste for it by then. There are no dresses, new or old. Her taste for more masculine clothes was well known by then, and frankly, that allowed the family to save the money that would be spent buying her any new dresses. Simple clothing. Work wear, with a single suit. It’s been refitted and adjusted for her frame twice since she got it. Her youngest brother has the old suit she wore before her growth spurt, but he likely won’t be able to have it for many more years. He’ll probably get her current suit, once he grows taller. She has little use for it any more, after all.

The beams are exposed. The walls are painted yellow - warm and bright. Her mother, Valerie, had chosen the colour after they first moved in. A way to brighten the dark, miserly room. She’d attributed Azette’s quiet sullenness to the sudden change of locale; to their family’s fallen fortune. She hadn’t known the true reason. She still doesn’t. So, she had tried to help in what little ways she could. Painting the walls with her only daughter was one thing they could do together. A bright yellow, warm and welcoming, as contrast to the greys and blues and whites of Ishgard. To the darkness of the beams and the house, to the south-facing window in her room which never really gets any light from the sun.

There’s a dart board mounted on one wall, where a teenaged Azette would be a nuisance and practice throwing knives when she was home rather than in the Dzemael barracks. The fact that the wall she picked was the wall adjacent to Aurelien’s room was a complete coincidence, of course. She would never intentionally irritate him by throwing knives at the wall between them. That would be ridiculous, and childish.

The room has stayed the same since she became an Inquisitor, and since she stopped. Her writing desk in front of the window was covered in missives and Inquisitorial paperwork during her service. Now, it’s covered in letters of appeal, in notes and copies of lawbooks and details of people to contact. A workspace for the family as they try to free her.

Sometimes, during her service with the Inquisition, Morgane would place flowers in a vase by the window. To “liven the room up”, so she said.

“Is it not lively enough with me in it, my lady?”

a  kiss  when  it’s  not  allowed.

((content warning: hypothermia, gore, drug use, torture, nudity, suggestive content))

Snow drifts, as always, across the highest points of the Pillars. Lords and Ladies scurry through the streets after the afternoon's service, eager to peruse the shops and stalls for the fanciest of foreign goods. And through the crowd, a woman weaves her way home. Her armour is soaked through, the warm blue-dyed wool drenched far more thoroughly than it should have been even from days in the snowdrifts.

She reaches the doorway to a modest manor, shivering and huddling beneath the balcony as she fumbles and knocks at the door.

It swings open a few moments later, and Morgane Sejois blinks at the guest.

"Azette? Gods, what happened?" She steps aside, ushering her in. "Come in, you'll catch your death out there!"

Azette tries to smile, but her teeth chatter too much as she steps into the house. The door is shut behind her, cutting away the infernal wind.

"By Halone, you're soaked to the bone." Morgane moves to try and take Azette's coat, only to realise that would be largely futile. "How did you even get this drenched? Did you fall into a lake?"

"Yes." Azette's reply is quick and quiet.

"...Oh, Azette." Morgane wraps an arm around her, hurrying her into the great hall - to the warm hearths and the fire and away from the cold.

a lying kiss.

The night is late, and Inquisitor Azette Sejois is sizing up her opponent. In conflict, one must always think ahead, must always take a view of the wider scale of things. Must always see your enemy for who they are, not who you expect them to be.

Morgane rests her fingers on a pawn...then slides it forwards two spaces.

Azette's moves her own pawn out one space.

"Is this even a challenge for you, sister dear?" Morgane laughs at Azette's haste, resting her chin on her palm as she studies the board.

Azette shrugs the question off. "Challenge comes in different forms, my Lady. An untrained fistfighter is no real challenge, but an untrained man with a spear still has a long, sharp piece of metal on a stick that is being waved in your direction."

Morgane seems to come to a decision, lifting her bishop and having it take another of Azette's pawns. "And you're so certain that I am untrained? Perhaps this is all a ruse, to lull you into a false sense of security." She looks up at Azette; winks. Azette's heart stops for a moment.

"Perhaps it is." Rook to A5. "But if that is the case, then I feel I must admire and acknowledge your commitment to this deception." She smirks. "Losing to my brother three times in a row afore he departed to bed was true dedication. A man fumbling blindly, and a woman feigning fumbling after him."

Morgane chuckles at that, covering her mouth and her bright smile with her hand for a few moments. Azette wishes she wouldn't. But, after her laughter dies down, she lowers her hand, lips still curved into a grin. "Azette, I feel you have just described my entire relationship with Aurelien."

Azette laughs. "Touché!"

Bishop takes pawn.

Azette clumsily overextends her knight, barely even looking at the board. She's more interested in her sister-in-law. (Now, as ever.)

Morgane's eyes alight, and she leans forwards, and outstretched for her own bishop...then she hesitates. Her eyes flick over the board. Lips purse. Eyes narrow. "You're a cruel woman, you know that?"

Azette smiles, innocent as can be. "I don't think I know what you mean, my Lady."

Morgane ignores the bait, and instead moves her rook to take another pawn. A safer pawn.

Azette shifts the knight forwards again. "Check." She tries her best not to sound smug when she says it.

"You're a mean woman." Morgane groans, leaning back in her chair.

"If you are waiting to spring your trap and reveal your deception, might I suggest that now would be a good time for it?"

"Oh, eat rocks."

Azette splutters a laugh at that, caught off-guard. "Excuse me?!"

"You heard what I said!" Morgane pouts, arms crossed over her chest dramatically.

"What exactly does that statement even imply?"

The pout intensifies. "Well, I had thought it to be rather self-evident."

Azette's heart aches, to look at her. Her eyes alight, joy clear in them despite her overdramatic, feigned unhappiness. She's stunning.

Morgane moves her hand towards one of her pieces, but Azette reaches out to gently grasp her hand before she can reach it.

Perhaps it's the wine she's had tonight, or perhaps it's the lateness of the bell. Perhaps the Fury herself overcomes her, for that moment. Perhaps it's just...Morgane.

Morgane blinks in surprise. "I know that you are afraid of my chess prowess, dear Inquisitor, but I am fairly certain this is not a legal move."

Azette's throat burns. She daren't blink. "I..." she begins, as whatever courage had possessed her fades away to nothingness. As the words she yearns to say dissolve and melt away, lost in the floodwaters.

She smiles, broken and tremulous, and leans in. Presses a kiss to the back of Morgane's hand. Her lips linger for just a moment too long. A moment more than would be considered polite.

Morgane takes a slow drink from her hot chocolate, curling her fingers around it to warm her from the night’s chill.

The air is crisp, as it usually is in Ishgard, and the lanterns are dim enough that she can see the stars from her bedroom’s balcony. The moon is waning, barely a sliver of it visible. It’s peaceful, out here. Aurelien is inside already - collapsed asleep from a long day of work, and she shall join him afore long. There are no sounds of dragons anywhere in the distance, and it seems for a night there shall be peace from Nidhogg’s rage. In Ishgard, at least. Doubtless there are knights somewhere, fighting as they always are.

She hears walking down below, and for a moment she thinks it’s a patrolling knight. Except…those footfalls sound like no knight. She recognises them. She tilts her head down the avenue, and sure enough, Azette is wandering her way back to Sejois Manor. She has a pack slung over her back, and even from this distance, Morgane can see her Inquisitor’s armour is loosened and unbuckled. Safe, here in the city.

Morgane grins at the sight of her sister-in-law returning; it’s been some moons since they’ve seen each other. She leans forwards, placing her cup down on the balcony railing and watching Azette approach.

Azette stops walking as she gets closer. She doesn’t, as Morgane expected, walk straight to the door. She looks around…and then right up at Morgane’s spot on the balcony, even shrouded in darkness as she is.

Azette’s purple eyes seem piercing even in the greylight. “Forsooth, what light through yonder window breaks?” she says, after a moment, amusement clear in her voice.

Morgane grins and rolls her eyes. “That line doesn’t start with forsooth, dear.”

Azette shrugs. “‘Tis my own quote, then.”

“There are no lights up here. Aurelien’s already asleep.”

“Ah! Then it must be your natural radiance.”

Morgane snorts. “Oh, yes. Behold my gross incandescence - it keeps the neighbours awake at night.”

Azette shrugs the pack from her back, placing it on the front doorstep. “I’m not so certain. I might need to get a little closer to behold it properly.”

Morgane doesn’t get the chance to ask what she means by that.

Azette runs forwards, leaping and grabbing on to top of one of the downstairs window frames.

Morgane laughs, incredulous, then clasps a hand over her mouth to keep herself quiet.

She’s there for only a second or two, pulling herself upwards and lifting a leg to the frame (in an impressive display of flexibility, if Morgane is being honest with herself) and clambering up to the ledge. Another leap and she grabs the bottom of the balcony. Morgane yelps, running to the edge to make sure Azette hasn’t fallen into a heap on the cobbles.

She’s there, dangling, and…swinging back and forth.

“A little space, my Lady?” she asks, and Morgane backs away to the other side of the balcony.

There’s a dull thud as Azette’s feet impact the floor of the balcony below Morgane’s feet, then Azette is swinging back.

Her fingers slip free of their spot on the balcony, and she’s flipping. Driven upwards. She does a full frontflip, and lands on her feet on the balcony railing.

“Oh, yes. You’re far more brilliant up close.” She grins, far too widely for someone who pulled a stunt like that.

Morgane’s mouth falls open. “Azette Sejois. You are impossible!”

“I try my best.” Azette’s grin widens, and she holds out a hand. “Help me down? This railing is icier than I was expecting.”

Morgane rolls her eyes, but obligingly steps close and holds a hand out.

Azette takes it, stepping down from the railing on to the balcony, and a little into Morgane’s personal space.

“Think we woke up my brother?” Azette’s cold fingertips stroke over the back of Morgane’s hand.

“Oh, definitely. You’re making him tea tomorrow morning as an apology.”

Azette scoffs. “I am not!”

Morgane snorts a laugh, and, after a moment, Azette joins in.

Every time she comes back, Morgane is reminded of…something.

She doesn’t know what, really. She doesn’t question it, too deeply. She simply knows she enjoys the inquisitor’s company. She enjoys her being close by, and misses her when she’s on assignments in the highlands.

Morgane had been blessed enough to find a husband who loved her for all that she is, and accepted her, and brought her into his house.

To have his family love and accept her, as well, is almost more than Morgane feels she deserves. To have them embrace her as a companion and as family. And Azette’s companionship…it means more to her than most.

“…It’s good to see you,” Morgane admits, after a few moments of silence.

“You too, my Lady.” Azette’s lips are curled into an insufferable smirk, again.

“May I introduce to you Lord Aurelien Sejois; his wife, Lady Morgane; and his sister, Lady Azette.”

Azette doesn’t know why she let herself be talked into this evening.

She really, truly doesn’t.

She’s meant to be out there, hunting. She isn’t built for the wining-and-dining that Aurey seems to flourish with.

And she especially isn’t here for the way the other nobles look down their noses at her. Entitled prigs.

But then Aurelien gets caught up in some conversation about Eorzean fabric taxation (with him politely ignoring the pitying sneer on the lips of the noble he’s speaking to), and Morgane slips away from him to stand next to Azette instead.

“Come now, sister dear,” she says, linking arms with Azette and starting to walk her through the crowds. She leans in close to whisper the next part. “They might be miserable bastards, but it’s important to show our faces.”

Azette holds back any sort of reaction to Morgane’s closeness.

Right. That’s why she let herself be talked into it. Of course.

“Important for my brother and yourself, perhaps,” she muses, slipping them past another unpleasant-looking nobleman. “Though I don’t quite know how I was persuaded to join you in this suffering.”

Morgane smirks. “Because I’d be so much more bored without you here.”

“Ah, I see. So I am to suffer for the sake of your idle amusement?”

“Yes.” Morgane says.

Azette rolls her eyes and gently hip-checks Morgane. “There are worse fates than to amuse you, one supposes.”

Azette.

Morgane doesn’t get a chance to respond to that particular line, as Azette’s attempts to guide them away from anyone who looks like they might want to speak to her finally fail, as a noble steps directly into their path.

“Lady Morgane! Always such a pleasure.” His smile makes it abundantly clear that he’s lying.

Morgane’s smile shifts to something just as fake. “Lord Florian. How wonderful to see you again.”

“However is your house doing? I heard that you were having some trouble with the door.”

Azette tenses up, and Morgane takes her hand to try and relax her. Her fingertips brush against Azette’s new gloves.

“It’s all sorted now. Nothing to worry about.”

“I’d hope not. I know such things can be…terrible inconveniences. How you fixed it with so few staff members, I can hardly begin to imagine.”

Azette’s lip curls. “Well, some of us are able to imagine raising our own hands to do more than drink, my Lord.”

Sorry, Morgane. Couldn’t resist.

The Lord in question blinks a few times as he looks her up and down. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve had a chance to properly be introduced. Who, exactly, are you?”

“I am Lady Azette Sejois -”

Florian starts to sneer.

“- Inquisitor of the Supreme Sacred Tribunal.”

His sneer vanishes.

He raises a hand to his collar, tugging at it a little to allow himself to breathe.

“Inquisitor. I had no idea you were-” He cuts himself off, clearing his throat nervously before his smile shifts to something faker than she’s seen all night. It’s greasy and conniving. “- It’s so good that you could make it. I’ve been just desperate to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you, Lady Azette. All good things, of course!”

“Of course.” She looks at him blankly.

“If you have some time, I would love to discuss something with you as regards to House Vallenoix. Their House works to supply wine from the surviving vineyards to Ishgard. And my own family’s knowledge of wineries and vineyards has given me reason to believe-”

Less than a minute between him learning her identity and trying to throw his competitor to the drakes. Incredible. Truly.

“Apologies, my Lord, but there are important matters that have drawn Inquisitor Azette’s attention. You don’t mind, do you?” Morgane interrupts him, and drags Azette away before he’s even able to stutter out a snivelling affirmation.

They make it almost seven fulms away before they both break down. Morgane fills the room with a joyous, delighted laugh, leaning hard against Azette. Azette chuckles, squeezing her hand.

“I’ve heard so much about you, Lady Azette~” Morgane singsongs, breaking down into more laughter.

“However were you able to do menial labour without The Help!?” Azette responds, raising her hand to her chest in faux-shock.

Morgane snorts and bumps shoulders with Azette.

Morgane shivers in the frigid cold, pulling the collar of her coat up a little further as she tries to reach the safety of House Sejois.

The winds had come from nowhere. She’d been expecting a cold winters’ day in the leadup to Starlight, but she hadn’t been anticipating this level of wind. It bites at the bare skin of her hands, and she tries her best to tuck them into her coat.

She grimaces in no small amount of displeasure and hurries her pace.

The cold has been worth it, though, she thinks, pulling the hemp bag on her shoulder a little closer. It’s hardly the most befitting for a noble, but she’d like to see another noble fit their Starlight presents inside their tiny purses and handbags.

(No - she knows another Noble would simply have their servants carry the gifts, if they even bothered to personally go out to find the perfect gifts.)

A new, ornate set of shaving razors for Aurelien - his are getting more than a little old, and he’s been cutting himself while shaving more often, recently.

An expensive jet black paint for Valerie - Morgane knows how sparingly her mother-in-law uses such colours, given their truly exorbitant prices at market.

Nothing for her parents, yet. She’ll probably send them a card, if she’s feeling particularly nice.

A pair of letter-openers engraved with Halonic scripture for Aurelien’s younger brothers. She doesn’t get to see them often, and, in truth, she still finds herself forgetting their names on some rare occasions. The letter openers shall, hopefully, serve as a promise that she’ll message them more often.

And for Azette…

Morgane falters at the front door to her House. Her cheeks flush, just a little, and she buries her face further against her coat, as if anyone could see the colour of her cheeks.

In the meetings she’s had with her sister-in-law in the years since Morgane’s marriage into the house, she’s never seen Azette without gloves, of one style or another. Morgane had these made by a leatherworker from Gridania. They should fit perfectly, assuming the measurements from the servants had been accurate. A soft, dark brown leather, with the symbol of House Sejois embossed upon them.

She’d wanted to get Azette something…personal. Something of a luxury, given the woman’s life in the Inquisition. But…something that would last. Not simply a nice box of chocolates to be eaten and forgotten. Something she can wear for years to come.

She shakes her head, clearing her thoughts and pulling the house key from her coat’s pocket.

She unlocks the old door, then tugs at it. It doesn’t budge.

Tugs at it again. It’s sticking, as usual.

Just once, she wants it to not stick.

She sighs.

Grips the door handle.

Steps close to the door.

Wrenches the entire door upwards as she tries her level best to unstick it, performing a much-practised motion of lifting, twisting and pulling all at once.

There’s an ungodsly splitting noise, and the door opens. More precisely, half the door opens. It breaks apart from the half attached by hinges, scattering splinters everywhere.

Morgane blinks.

She looks at the half a door she’s holding, entirely separate to the door frame.

She blinks again.

…

((tw: blood, violence))

Inquisitor Sejois lowers the body of the first heretic down into the ice and snow with nary a sound. A dagger to the throat, and a half a dozen times to the chest, had made short work of him.

Once his body is lowered to the ground, and she’s certain nobody within the cave system has heard any trace of her, she slips out of the cold and the snow. Into the caves.

She watched them arrive here, a handful of bells ago. Eight heretics.

Well. Seven, now.

She spins the dagger back and forth in her fingers, staying low. Her feet crunch on the ice beneath her feet, and her free hand traces the cave wall.

She hears voices ahead of her. Two, by the sounds of things. And, as she rounds a corner, her suspicion is confirmed. Two, standing on either side of an old, rickety table. Counting out…something. Coin? Medallions? She can’t tell, from this angle. One of the heretics has her back in the way. Her eyes flick over the woman’s spear, strapped to her back. She can’t see the other man’s weapons. A longsword, maybe?

“Damn, this one’s half-broken already. A twist, and it’ll come apart.”

Azette slips one of her patas from her belt, gripping it with a finger on its mechanisms.

“Then leave it. No point taking them if they’re going to break in two.”

She slips into the room of the cave they’re in, sticking low. The heretic facing her direction is focused on his work, but she keeps herself directly behind the one with her back to her, just in case.

“Oh, man, hey, look at this one–”

She slams the blade of the pata into the point between the shoulderblade and neck of the heretic in front of her. Angles it downward, towards her centre mass. And extends the blade. In a split second, the blade shifts from barely a knife, to the length of a shortsword.

Azette throws her dagger. It strikes the man who’s facing her in the eye before he can even react to the evisceration of his comrade.

She guides the woman to her knees, trying to twist her blade free.

The man with the dagger in his face drops forwards, rather than backwards. The table collapses under his weight, shattering loudly and scattering blood-spattered coins in all directions.

Fuck.

“Hey, everything okay?!” a voice calls from another chamber.

She tries to wrench her blade free again. She glances around, sees shadows on the wall. Hears footsteps.

The blade comes free with a gush of arterial spray, covering Azette’s face in bright red.

She draws her second pata, and, without any other good options, rushes towards the source of the voice.

As she rounds the corner, the heretic has just enough time to widen his eyes and yell in alarm when both of her patas drive straight through his chest.

She lifts him off the ground with her blades and momentum, before letting him drop to the floor and retracting her blades again.

“Shite!” she hears, from the room ahead of her, then noises of weapons being drawn.

Well. That answers where the last ones are.

Half down without any effort.

Not bad.

Azette cracks her neck. Rolls her shoulders.

She tastes blood on her lips.

And she rounds the corner.

Four heretics are pointing weapons towards her.

A sword and shield. A sword. A lance. And a double-barrelled rifle.

Oh, right.

The rifleman snaps the breech of his weapon closed, and raises it.

He fires.

She ducks low, and hears ice and rock shatter behind her from the impact.

The entire cave complex echoes from the sound of the weapon going off, and she surges forwards.

He adjusts his aim.

She raises one pata in front of her, twisting it to show the handguard.

The second shot strikes her weapon, ricocheting off. The mechanism retratcts, and stays there.

Hm. That makes this a little more interesting.

The gunner breeches his rifle. Empty casings eject over his shoulder.

She elbows him in the face as she passes him by, focusing on the other attackers for the moment.

The swordsman swings his sword at her, and she blocks it with her faulty pata. An improvised buckler will still do the job.

She smirks at him, and he swings again. Block. Block. Swing– blocked by his own, very much not improvised shield.

The gunner loads a second shot, and snaps the weapon closed again.

The swordswoman swings for her, and Azette changes targets.

Azette’s blade meets the heretic’s, and she clashes them together. Raising them out of the way as Azette surges forwards, stabbing the woman in the chest with the retracted blade of her other pata. It’s not enough to kill her, but it’s enough to stagger her.

Enough for Azette to retract the blade of her second weapon, point it towards the woman’s face…and extend it again.

She doesn’t bother to wrench either weapon free of the faceless woman, opting to let both go for the moment and keep her momentum up.

The sword of the swordsman whistles past her shoulder, and she tackles the lancer.

The gun goes off again.

The heretic she’s grappling yelps, and Azette sucker-punches her in the jaw.

Dazed, she grabs the lancer and twists them in front of her…

As the second shot fills the cave with noise.

The lancer stops struggling.

Azette smirks, and grabs the lance as it starts to drop to the floor.

“You just shot Gretel!” the swordsman yells at his compatriot.

“I’m sorry! She’s really fast!” the gunner yells back. His hands fumble as he tries to reload again.

Azette charges with her lance dragging along the ground, trailing a long scar in the ice.

He raises his shield to block.

Azette smirks, and brings the lance upwards, slipping it through his guard. It pierces clean through his shoulder, and he screams.

She keeps charging, her momentum driving them both further until the lance stabs into the wall behind him.

She turns to face the gunner, and wanders towards him. His hands are still shaking. He drops one bullet to the floor, but loads the second one in.

He snaps the chamber closed.

She grabs the gun out of his hands and hits him in the face with the butt of it.

He drops to the floor, nose bloodied.

He barely has a chance to scream before a gunshot fills the caverns with noise one final time.

The final heretic manages, eventually, to drop his shield, and snaps the length of the lance. He wrenches himself free, and tosses the spear tip to the floor. Blood flows freely from the wound through his shoulder, and if one were to angle themselves right, they’d be able to see clean through it.

Azette is very slightly out of breath as she retrieves her undamaged pata and tests the mechanism a couple of times, barely paying the final heretic any attention.

“Say…” she asks, after a moment. “Would you like this to go fast…” she extends the pata again. “Or slow?” She flexes the fingers of her free hand, demonstrating the plated, spiked gloves she’s wearing.

“Who…who the fuck do you think you are?” the final heretic asks, as he raises his sword to point towards her.

Azette looks over at him, and clips her pata on to her belt.

She thinks his question over, for a few long seconds.

“I’m with the church,” she says.

The heretic screams as he charges towards her, sword raised.

“You made it!”

Aurelien Sejois cleans up well. His suit isn’t the most ostentatious, but it’s certainly well-fitting. He beams as he spots his sister in amongst the wedding reception, making his way through the crowd.

Azette bows her head a little to hide her grin. “Congratulations, Lord Sejois.”

Aurelien groans. “Please, Azzy. Not even as a joke.”

She lifts her head, showing her smirk, and steps forwards to give him a hug. “Sorry, brother. The congratulations were genuine, though.”

“Did you ever think you’d see me here?” he asks, stepping backwards and looking around the reception dinner. It’s packed, and lively. The advantage of being one of the lower noble houses is that the weddings get to have just a little of the commonfolk’s fun. If the high nobility already look down their noses at you as filth, you might as well have a little more mulled wine than is strictly necessary and celebrate just a little more loudly than the high houses.

“In truth? Nay. I was convinced you would die dainty and virginal.”

Aurelien’s mouth falls open, faux-shocked, and he punches her shoulder. “Arse.”

“Must run in the family.”

He rolls his eyes.

Then, something seems to occur to him. He gets a look in his eyes. Azette has long since learned to dislike that look.

“You’ve been out on assignment so long - you haven’t met my lovely bride yet, have you?”

Azette pretends to wrack her memory for a moment, but in truth she knows it’s been over a year since she was last home for more than a night or two. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, no.”

“Stay right there,” he says, and points to the floor just to demonstrate. “Don’t go disappearing like you have a habit of doing.”

He disappears into the crowd.

Ever loyal, she stands in place and awaits his return. She doesn’t know many people here, in truth. The rest of her family are mingling, but everyone else here is a stranger to her.

Aurelien reappears after a few moments, arm linked with the bride. The dress makes it fairly obvious, and Azette had seen her from a distance during the ceremony.

As she steps into view, though, Azette realises that the distance did not do her justice.

Her hair is dark, and long, and lustrous. Azette has never been one for the word lustrous, but that’s the only way she can think to describe it.

Her eyes are a deep, vivid blue. Freckles adorn her pale skin, with a beauty mark just beneath one eye.

Her sharp, painted lips curve into a smile, and Azette wonders how in Halone’s name her brother managed to find such a woman.

“You must be the sister that I’ve heard so much about,” the bride says. She steps forwards, wraps Azette in a hug, and kisses her cheek softly.

They pull away, and Azette fidgets with the collar of her dress uniform.

“Lady Morgane –” Morgane begins. Pauses. Beams.  "–Morgane Sejois, now, I suppose. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.“

Azette bows her head once more, slipping her hands behind her back to stand at ease. "My Lady,” she says. “Inquisitor Azette Sejois, at your service.”

“Thank the gods, you didn’t bow.” Morgane says, relieved. “We’ll have to work on the My Lady part, I see, but if you didn’t bow you’re already doing far better than most of the men at this reception.”

Azette smiles. “We’ll work on it.”

Morgane leans forward to whisper, somewhat conspiratorially. “To be perfectly honest, I’d convinced myself that Aurelien had been making you up.” She giggles at the thought. “The bold, daring Inquisitor sister. I thought he’d invented you to make himself seem more interesting.”

And she’s funny.

Of course she’s funny, too.

Azette laughs softly, and nods. “I thought he was doing the same for you. The beautiful fiancée who was never quite available whenever I was visiting home.”

Aurelien scoffs, and Azette is reminded, abruptly, that he’s there in the room. And that they are, in fact, in a crowded room. “You’ve been talking for two minutes and already you’re both making fun of me.”

“We do it because we care, love.”

“I can’t let your ego grow too large, Aurey.”

He just rolls his eyes again.

“Well,” Azette begins. “I don’t know what my brother did to endear you to himself. But whatever it was, I’m sure that he is not deserving of someone as lovely as you.”

“You flatter me, Inquisitor.”

“No more than you deserve, my Lady.”

Morgane narrows her eyes, a smirk playing at her lips. “We’ll work on that.”

“For you, my Lady, I would work on anything.”

Morgane raises an eyebrow. “Well now. You didn’t tell me your sister was so charming, Aurelien.”

“I avoided mentioning it,” Aurelien groans.

“Perhaps I married the wrong Sejois.”

“Behave, both of you.” Aurelien gives Azette a pointed look, despite the humour in his tone.

Morgane sighs, dramatically. “Yes, dear.”

Azette opens her mouth to agree. Or, more likely, to disagree.

If you didn’t want me to flirt with your wife, brother, you shouldn’t have married.

The simplest joke in the world. But as the words are on the tip of her tongue, she hesitates.

She closes her mouth. Looks to Aurelien. Looks to the ring on his finger, matching the pair of Morgane’s.

She looks at Morgane.

She feels something start to burn in her chest. The dimmest of sparks. And the words die in her throat.

“Aurelien! Stop running!!”

“Shan’t!”

Azette spots her dearest brother racing down the steps to the Jeweled Crozier and tries to run faster to catch up. He’s older, with longer legs than her. She, truthfully, doesn’t know if she’ll be able to catch up with him.

But like hells is she going to just give up. Not when he’s got that letter in his hands.

She reaches the top of the steps, and sees him already in the distance, struggling through the marketgoing crowds - with another crowd of people wandering their way up the steps.

She gasps roughly, stopping for a moment to catch her breath (and to regard her surroundings).

She can do this.

She doesn’t go down the steps - doesn’t interfere with the crowd of women in their petticoats and frocks. Instead, she runs along the balcony above.

Takes a breath.

Vaults the railing.

Her feet land on the top of the Market Board, some fulms below, and one let slips off. She falls, grabbing the top of the board with both hands as her thigh slams into it. She grunts in pain, but doesn’t stop.

She twists, instead, slipping her leg free, holding on to the top, and lowering herself to the ground.

Then she’s running again.

She dodges a lord, and a lady, then half-shoves a servant out of the way (sorry; it isn’t personal, she just knows which people would get her grabbed by knights).

“Aurelieeeen!” she yells into the crowd, and for a moment she sees his face, turned to look at her. She smirks in his direction, before she loses him again.

She shoves her way through to the top of the next set of stairs, and sees him. He’s almost to the stairs to the Brume, and there are so many people in the way. Halone, she’s never seen the place this busy.

She can’t get through the crowd. But there are alternatives.

She starts to run again. The toe of her boot feels the edge of the top step.

She leaps.

She lands atop the wooden roof of a stall, and ignores the yell of the shopkeeper. She doesn’t have time to worry about that now.

Another leap, and she lands on the second stall. More yelling, and Aurelien turns to look at the commotion. His eyes widen.

“What in Halone’s name are–”

She leaps. Lands on a stack of boxes. They aren’t stacked quite as neatly as she’d hoped, and the top crate tips under her weight. A quick hop has her on the next stall along, but she hears the sound of the crate hitting the floor behind her.

Aurelien isn’t even trying to run now, staring instead at her display of acrobatics and the devastation she’s leaving behind her.

Another leap, and she rolls through the landing before snatching the letter held limply in his fingertips.

“Ha!”

She grins and shoves the letter into her shirt, where she’s sure Aurelien wouldn’t dare to take it back. She sticks her tongue out at him, delighted, but he doesn’t seem to be paying her any mind.

“Sister…”

Her ear twitches and she turns around to see the crate she knocked over. It had, evidently, contained pottery.

Pottery which had shattered rather nastily on impact with the ground.

Oh.

She looks to the stall owner, then to the crowd of people who’d witnessed it all.

“…Good luck, brother!” she says, patting Aurelien on the shoulder.

And then she’s running again.

“Go.”

Run. Up the bare tree, fingers gripping bark. Sneak along the branch, hands and feet firm against its slippery surface. Leap. Land. Run. Climb up and over the fence. To the wall. Handholds, find handholds. One up and to the left. One more, barely within reach. Climb. Reach the top. Grab the flag, yank it down.

Azette whoops and cheers, a grin on her face as she holds the flag of Ishgard in her hands.

“Too slow,” comes a voice from below her, and she looks down to see Inquisitor Antoine holding a minute timer, sands already run out. “Again.”

Damn it. She’d felt sure she’d been fast enough. She nods, face falling back to its neutral resting point, and replaces the flag before dropping from the wall. She lands with nary a sound, and makes her way back to the starting point, rolling her shoulders as she goes.

“Go.”

Run. Up the bare tree, fingers gripping bark. Climb along the branch, faster, faster. Leap. Land. Run. Clamber over the fence. To the wall. Handholds. One up and to the left, use momentum to reach the further one. Climb. Reach the top. Grab the flag, yank it down.

“Too slow,” Antoine says again, shaking the empty glass timer. “Again.”

She growls in frustration, but obeys.

“Go.”

Run. Up the bare tree, fingers gripping bark. Climb along the branch, slippery, faster. Fall.

Her arm slams into the ground first and she cries out in pain, fingers curling.

Antoine steps over to her, offering a hand to help her up. “Are you hurt?”

She smacks his arm away and forces herself to her feet, rubbing her arm. “I’m fine,” she growls out.

“Then go again.”

She settles back into her starting point, rolling her shoulder.

“Go.”

Run. Up the bare tree, fingers gripping bark. Climb along the branch, fast, careful. Leap. Land. Run. Vault the fence. To the wall. Handholds. One up and to the left, use momentum to reach the further one. Wrench the arm. Fall.

She curses, punching the floor as she forces herself up again.

“Perhaps we should take a break for the day,” Antoine says, kindly, and Azette’s thoughts swirl.

“No. I can do this.”

“Then go again.”

She curses again, rolling her shoulder again and cracking her back as she makes her way to the starting point.

“Go.”

Run. Leap. Grab the branch, climb up. Leap. Land. Sprint. Vault the fence, don’t slow down. To the wall. Better handhold to the right, out of reach. Up and left. Leap. Grab. Climb. Reach the top, tear the flag down.

Azette collapses against the top of the wall, gasping for breath. Her left arm aches and her lungs burn.

“Better,” Antoine says, and it’s the best thing she’s heard all day. She looks up, and sees him holding the timer on its side, the smallest amount of sand still on the top.