#ompagne deepblack

Howart stumbled back against the wall, eyes bulging. He had grown up in the Brume, before making it into the seminary. He was familiar with the stories, the warning rhymes and gruesome songs.

'Cause everyone knows If you stray from Halone's light The dark wind will blow Bringing the shadows alive tonight Their swords split the wicked from the good Dark knights accept penance only in blood

“Fury’s Grace,” Howart whispered as the dark knight eyed him. “Are you here to kill me?”

The older man looked him up and down, then harrumphed. “And why should I want to do that, son?”

“I-I-I tr-try to be good—”

“Do you now?” He tilted his head, studying Howart. “And why do you choose good, young priest?”

Howart swallowed, caught off guard. “Well, because…it’s what we’re supposed to…do?” What an elementary answer! Yet all his years of study seemed to have fled his skull.

The old knight smiled, like a dragon sizing its prey. “Indeed. Though what constitutes ‘good’ seems to be up for debate.”

“But it isn’t!” Howart blurted. “The polities make it clear how we are to treat our fellow man! To be kind a-and charitable, to help our neighbors!”

“Well they haven’t ground you down yet,” the knight muttered. “Keep to those polities, boy. Eternal reward in Our Lady’s Halls awaits those who keep such faith.”

“Lest the Hells take thee,” Howart answered automatically, biting his tongue as the knight threw him a sharp glance.

“Is it for fear of divine retribution that we should do good acts?”

“No!” Howart replied. “A-at least, not entirely; we should want to do good for its own sake, a-and repent our wrongs because they are wrong, and w-we wish to be right with Her. I figure for most, though, there will always be a bit of fear. ‘Tis natural. Isn’t it?”

The knight considered that for a moment, a sad smile on his lips before he turned away. “Aye, lad; I believe it is. You ought to return to your chamber, and tell no one that you saw me. Understand?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good. Fare thee well, young priest. Keep your faith.”

The knight strode out of the sanctum, leaving Howart alone.

He slid to the floor, knees to his chest, and tried to steady himself for at least a quarter bell. Eventually, however, he got up, leaning on the wall for support. He made his way down the little hall to his chamber, pausing to listen.

Silence.

After a moment’s debate, he went into his room and locked the door and shuttered the window.

—

In the morning, Howart woke early, bleary eyed and yawning. He swiftly handled his ablutions and went to the small kitchen to prepare breakfast for the priest and their guest. Once ready, he woke his senior, and then knocked upon the Inquisitor’s door.

This city is a hellish mill, forever grinding up countless bodies, and for the past two moons, he has worked to trap and exterminate one of the rats skulking about. While Fuiteneaux is the name the rat has been using, this is far from the first time he has been obliged to do some sleuthing before he is able to mete out justice. Fury help him, it will not be the last, either.

His rat had thought to hide in the wilderness, and so when the job is done he must hike back towards his mill. (He can remember how one Fenoliquet was oddly fond of the times when they had to march; he is certain there were other trainees who started out with much more enthusiasm than sense, but Fenoliquet’s is the oldest young face he can recall now.) The distant noise of battle was ringing in his ears as he dealt with Fuiteneaux, but as he passes through the trees he finds few Temple Knights and no Dravanians upon the blood-soaked ground.

Most of the dead have tails, and what appear to be horns in place of ears. This clash was all but inevitable in a land whose people expect dragons and their supporters to be lurking around every corner -and yet not only weapons, but personal effects are strewn among the bodies. Warriors lie not too far from grey heads and hands that still had more growing to do. Not the mill, then, but a massacre. Ishgard’s finest have truly gone above and beyond the call of duty this night. Were he a younger man, he might spit. (Airelle liked to spit, up until the day she met a wyrm that returned the favor. Spittle is never a match for flame.)

Then something moves, off to the left. Those with less experience might miss it, but one of the bodies is stirring, ever so slightly. He rushes over to it, crouches. Pale hair and dark scales splattered with red, tear-streaked face yet to lose the rest of its baby fat. The youth is clutching a hand to his stomach, the bloodiest part of him. No doubt some sloppy knight dealt him an imprecise blow in his haste to finish butchering his kin.

“Do not scream,” he murmurs; the look on his charge’s face as he realizes he’s been discovered shows he had intended to do just that. “I need to examine that wound.” He meets with little resistance as he moves the hand out of the way. What he finds is less grievous than it seems, and since Fuiteneaux was far from his fiercest target, he is still in possession of several potions. After helping the boy to a sitting position, he presses him to drink one.

“What... why?” the youth coughs, then winces. A second bottle is pressed to his chapped lips.

“Explanations can come later. For now, you and I must leave this place,” is his answer.