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Muscles strained against the four hands pinning him to the freezing stone floor. Sharp teeth bared themselves in annoyed protest. His head twisted around to glare one golden eye up at the Elezen sneering down at him. Dressed in the blue and white robes of the Holy See, the Inquisitor cut an important figure as he stood in the center of the snowy courtyard. Two guards pinned the tall Hyur to the floor while another pair kept their weapons trained on him.
“You are under arrest for murdering one of Ishgards most loyal servants,” the Inquisitor announced.
The Hyur snarled. His breath formed an icy cloud that rose like smoke from a dragon’s mouth.
“I told you I didn’t kill that guard!”
“The cause of death was exsanguination.”
“That bastard wasn’t one of mine!” the man cried, surging upwards with a burst of strength. The guards threw their weight on him and forced the man back down. “I don’t kill my sources, damn it!”
“Heretical lies,” the Inquisitor observed frigidly.
“Get the snow out of your ears, Elezen!” The man snarled. “I am not a heretic!”
“Whatever you are, it isn’t natural and therefore must be heretical,” came the reasoned reply. “We shall take you to Ishgard where you will be tried for your crimes.”
One of the armed guards produced a pair of manacles and approached the prone man. A clear voice stopped him short of restraining the prisoner.
“You won’t get very far should you leave now. Last night’s snow blocked off the road.”
The Inquisitor turned to find a black-haired Elezen walking through the open manor gates. Artoirel de Fortemps stopped beside the servant of the Holy See and took in the scene with his bright blue eyes.
“I had hoped to return to the capital early this morning, but the snowstorm took care of the road,” the young Elezen informed the group. “It seems we are stuck here until the road is cleared this afternoon.”
A scowl darkened the Inquisitor’s face. He motioned to his captive and the guards holding him in place.
“With respect, Count de Fortemps, we have to bring this dangerous murderer to justice. We cannot leave him free to roam about the Highlands.”
“I fear ‘tis a matter you must take up with the weather and our good workmen,” Artoirel replied. “Unless you plan to endanger your life and those of your men, I think it would be wise to remain here at my family’s summer manor.”
The pinned man snorted from his place on the floor and mumbled under his breath. Artoirel did his best not to scowl at him. Instead, he turned his attention to the Inquisitor who began barking orders to the guards.
“Right. Well, take him to the basement. We can’t have the heretic escaping.”
“You also can’t have him freezing,” the young Count pointed out. “You won’t know for certain that he is the killer until he is brought to trial—and it is rather difficult to try someone if they’re dead. Might I suggest a guest room on the second floor?” he offered, pointing at the row of windows above their heads. “A guard at the bedroom door should suffice. I doubt he’d risk jumping out the window.”
The Inquisitor shot him a glare.
“You overstep yourself, my Lord.”
Artoirel responded with a polite smile.
“I merely wish to ensure justice be served and the correct man sentenced for the death of a loyal child of Ishgard. If that is now a crime, I will join your suspect and wear a pair of handcuffs myself.”
The other Elezen grumbled and ordered the guards take the Hyur upstairs to the room he had slept in the previous night. As his orders were carried out, the young Count invited him to breakfast in the dining room. The man begrudgingly complied.
It was simple chance that had brought them together.
Artoirel—seeking peace and quiet—had chosen to spend the weekend outside of Ishgard. To that end, he retreated to what had once been their summer manor in the Central Highlands. The first night, the Hyur knocked on the door searching for a place to stay after spending the day seeking a slippery mark. Having fought beside the man during the Dragonsong War, the young Count was more than happy to open his home to his friend for as long as necessary.
Late the following night, the Inquisitor arrived with his guards. They were following rumors of a heretic that had been in the area. Artoirel invited the Inquisitor and guards to spend the night rather than make for Camp Dragonhead.
A heavy snowstorm settled in soon after and lasted until a few bells before sunrise. Day broke over a cloudless sky, fresh hillocks of snow—and the cold corpse of one of the Inquisitor’s guards.
The adventurer discovered the body on his early morning walk. It was lying face down and almost fully covered by powdery snow. He immediately sought out Artoirel who decided to make for Ishgard to get an Inquisitor uninvolved with the guard. When the Count de Fortemps returned empty handed however, he found the Inquisitor charging the Hyur with murder—and while he knew the man could be irrational at times, he would never kill without a reason. Artoirel quickly realized he would have to step in to prove his friend’s innocence.
But first, he had to gather information.
Breakfast was a simple affair of hearty sausages and warm oatmeal spiced with cinnamon and clove and sweetened with honey. Artoirel and the Inquisitor ate in the dining room; the former made sure the servants took some out to the guards and up to his guest. The latter scoffed at the inclusion of the man he considered his killer.
“Does the Church no longer feed her prisoners, Inquisitor?” Artoirel asked.
“Starving is but another tool of interrogation,” came the curt reply.
“An undoubtedly useful one—were your man both guilty and a heretic.”
The Inquisitor stopped with a spoonful of oatmeal halfway to his mouth. He dropped it back down to the bowl with a thick, wet splat .
“Why do you defend him, my Lord? Do you know for a fact the outsider is not a heretic?”
Artoirel took a sip of his tea while the other man’s eyes watched him through narrowed slits. He decided the best approach would be to offer information in pursuit of clarification.
“He fought on our side in the War. His bow brought down its fair share of wyverns while his sword is as doused in scalekin blood as my own. Would a heretic have turned his blade on his own allies?”
“You can’t expect a heretic to be reasonable ,” the Inquisitor scoffed. “For all anyone knows, it’s a long con.”
“Very well, what makes you think he is a heretic?” Artoirel replied. “What makes you so certain he’s the one who killed your guard?”
Another derisive scoff.
“Apart from him having no reason to walk behind the manor on a morning as cold as this? Obviously, he must have been performing some heretical rite when my guard chanced upon him during his rounds. To silence him, he slit the guard’s throat with those claws of his—which are further proof of his heresy. He’s obviously tasted dragon’s blood to have those.”
Artoirel hummed, focusing his blue gaze on his partially eaten oatmeal. While he had never inquired as to the Hyur’s strange claws or fangs, he certainly had enough sense not to see dragons and heretics around every corner.
“But have you any solid proof? Has he a rosary amongst his belongings? Did you find any sort of paraphernalia for this supposed rite?”
“Not yet,” the Inquisitor admitted. “But something is bound to turn up; I have no doubt of it.”
Sensing he had plumbed the depths of the Inquisitor’s limited knowledge, Artoirel turned the conversation towards lighter matters as they continued their meal.
After breakfast, Artoirel chose to check on his other guest. Entering the library on the ground floor, the young Count trailed one finger over the spines as he walked along one of the bookshelves on the far wall. Blue eyes skimmed the titles until he stopped at a specific one detailing the various trade routes during the Fifth Astral Era. His finger ran up the spine until it hooked over the top. A quick glance over his shoulder assured him he was alone.
A swift pull and the shelf in front of him swung inwards. The dark-haired Elezen stepped into the space behind the secret door, closing it behind himself before he followed the sloping, narrow passage upwards. When it even out into a small landing, Artoirel unlatched the hook on his left and pushed.
It opened out to the guest bedroom where he found the tip of a dark, crystalline blade pointed at his chin.
The young Count sighed and carefully pushed the blade aside as the Hyur relaxed. The weapon disappeared a moment later and the adventurer slumped into an old armchair by the window. The silver tabby that stalked the manor for mice and milk-laden saucers hopped into his lap. His friend absentmindedly stroked it as he watched Artoirel with wary eyes.
“Should I take a guess as to which one I am dealing with?” Artoirel asked, glancing over at the closed bedroom door.
The man growled quietly in response. The young Count sighed.
“Of course. I get to deal with the ‘reasonable’ one.”
“Watch yourself, little Count,” the Hyur snarled. “I’m staying here as a courtesy to you and your line. I could easily vanish from this room at any moment. And what do you think would happen if that fool’s suspect suddenly disappeared from his little makeshift prison?”
“Truly your generosity knows no bounds,” he replied flatly. “Let me speak with your other half.”
“You can’t; the boy’s indisposed.”
Artoirel frowned at the news. Typically, that meant the Hyur had been injured in some form or another. Concern settled into the pit of his stomach with the weight of a cannonball.
“What happened? Did you kill the guard?”
The adventurer flashed a sharp grin that put his unnatural fangs on display.
“Finally, someone asks instead of assuming. At least I know you’ll have the sense to listen instead of immediately throwing me onto the floor.”
“Then answer my question,” Artoirel pressed firmly. “What happened this morning?”
A chuckle accompanied the tilt of the man’s head. His otherworldly, glowing golden eyes swept over the Elezen as the sound lowered to a rumble.
“There was a disturbance in the area’s aether. We thought it suspicious and so tracked it to the back of your little ‘summer’ home. We found one of the fool’s guards there. Next we know, someone stabs the boy in the side—a coward’s blow, if you ask me—and the guard is lying dead in the snow. I stopped here to change my clothes and went to fetch you. If you look in our things there,” he said, nodding towards the bag sitting at the foot of the bed, “you’ll find a bloodied coat with a hole in the side.”
Artoirel focused on the bag for a moment before swinging his gaze back at the man. His movements seemed unhindered and his black shirt showed no signs of blood.
"You must have healed in some form or fashion. Which, when you’re involved, typically requires blood.”
The man snarled and dug his black claws into the armrests at the implication. The cat purring in his lap fled at the sudden movement and dove under the bed.
“If you’re implying I fed from him to heal, then you’re wrong!” he spat, leaning forward with his fangs bared. “Killing my sources draws too much attention. It’s rather hard to hunt prey with a target painted on your back!”
Movement on the other side of the door drew their attention. The key scraping in the lock made Artoirel hurry back to the secret passage. It closed just as the two guards stationed outside the bedroom entered.
“Talking to yourself, heretic?” one asked.
The man chuckled.
“Who else am I to speak with when you leave me no company? Why not stay in here so I don’t seem as mad?”
The guards scoffed. Muffled footsteps told Artoirel they were examining the room. The floor creaked and groaned as they drew closer to the hidden door. He held his breath, not even daring to breathe for fear of giving away his location.
The cat hissed in the other room. He heard the guards gasp in unison before one nervously chuckled. The adventurer joined in with his own bark of laughter.
"Did you really think I was talking to myself? Haven't either of you spoken to a pet before?"
One of the guards made a dismissive sound after a moment. Their footsteps retreated from the room and the door closed, followed by a decisive clack as the lock fell into place. Lighter footsteps approached where the Elezen was hiding.
"In my experience, little Count, if shit stinks it's because it's under your nose. I'd investigate those guards and the Inquisitor if I were you."
Artoirel considered the man's advice. Making as little sound as possible, he returned to the library through the secret passage.
With the words still turning in his mind, he donned a warm, fur coat and walked out of the manor. The bright sun had done little to melt the snow—despite its cheery splendor. A trail of stamped snow wound from the front door, around the side of the building, and to where the guard’s body had been discovered. Artoirel followed it, eyes sweeping the ground as he walked. The trail was too muddied; too many footprints laid atop each to distinguish one set from the other. He silently cursed the idiots who had ruined the evidence.
When he turned the corner, his eyes immediately fell on where the guard’s body had been discovered. Dark brows furrowed as he took in the way the snow unnaturally piled up around a shallow hole that suggested a humanoid had lain there; red snow accented the excavation site. It wasn’t nearly enough—in his experience—which suggested one of two things.
Either he was killed elsewhere and brought here, he mused, or something took his blood. Doesn’t look good for him.
A glance down at his feet showed a few drops of blood on the white snow. Artoirel crouched down, noticing a hand print nearly lost amidst the tracks left behind by everyone who had visited the spot. Holding his own against it for comparison, he decided it had to belong to the accused adventurer. Combined with the blood at his feet…
Artoirel stood and carefully crossed to where the guard’s body had landed. Another close inspection revealed faint indents that implied something nearly impossible to him. His eyebrows drew together in thought while his lips twitched into a scowl.
When he straightened up, something dark and half-buried in the snow caught his attention. He plunged both hands into the snow—regretting his decision to not put on gloves—and dug out a rosary made of rough-hewn cedar. A single dragon’s claw hung from one end. Artoirel scowled, recognizing the object for what it is. The young Count shoved the rosary in a pocket and returned to the warmth within his manor.
Without bothering to shed his coat, Artoirel continued to the rooms given to the Inquisitor and his guards. He opened the door without warning to find the Inquisitor reading at the window. The man’s features twisted into a scowl at the interruption.
“I would see the dead man’s things,” Artoirel announced before the Inquisitor could reprimand him.
“They are not yours to see,” the other Elezen replied coldly and returned to his book.
“Do not forget yourself Inquisitor,” Artoirel countered firmly with a voice more frigid than the air outside. “I am the Head of House Fortemps and you find yourself under my roof. I shall say it once more: I would see the dead man’s things.”
The Inquisitor bristled before snapping the book shut. He stood and led the young Count into one of the other rooms.
"I don't see why you must further violate the man's privacy," the Inquisitor grumbled. "Was his murder by a crazed heretic not enough? Shall you drape his undergarments from Ishgard's battlements? Will his belongings be strewn across the Steps of Faith? What a fate to befall such a faithful man."
He motioned towards a bag and a few things piled into a corner of a bedroom. Artoirel ignored the man's continued complaints as he crouched to inspect the contents of the bag. Within, he found a few spare changes of clothes and two leather-bound books. As he moved them aside, he realized one was far lighter than it should be for its size.
Artoirel pulled out the book—faintly noting the rattling sound within. The Inquisitor behind him made a sound of disgusted annoyance and began berating the young Count for rummaging through a dead man's belongings.
The scolding stopped seconds later when Artoirel opened the book to reveal its hollowed interior and the heretic's rosary it held. His blue eyes widened at the surprise as they realized it was a twin to the one hidden in his pocket. He recovered quickly while the man at his back stammered.
Artoirel plucked the string of beads from the false book and stood. He turned on his heel, silently holding the item by a single wooden bead. The Inquisitor had turned a peculiar shade of white and his mouth worked at forming words in a useless attempt at speech.
"A 'faithful man' was it?" Artoirel asked coolly. "What would a faithful man be doing with this?"
The attempts at speech stopped, leaving the Inquisitor to stare mutely at the slightly swinging string and the glinting dragon's claw.
"I will grant you one mercy, Inquisitor. Let the Hyur be and take your guard's corpse to Witchdrop and throw it in; should any ask, he was thrown in by a wandering Aevis. If you breathe a word of this to anyone, you will find yourself having to explain how a heretic became your guard. Now gather your things and get out ."
"Y-yes, my Lord."
The Inquisitor and his men were gone within the bell. Artoirel closed the front door behind them himself with a satisfied sigh. When he turned, he found the adventurer leaning against the second floor balustrade with a cocky smirk and the silver tabby entwined in his feet. The young Count pointed an accusatory finger at him.
“You are going to tell me exactly why you killed the Inquisitor’s guard.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” came the reply as the smirk stretched into a fanged grin. “What did you think we were hunting? The bastard attracted the wrong attention and had a bounty put on his head by his own people.”
Artoirel removed the rosary from his pocket.
“That explains why you had this. I assume the heretic thought you had taken his?”
“He did. The boy used it to get him close, but the bastard turned into a scalekin and stabbed him with his tail. He stole the rosary and backed away, thinking we were injured—but then I took over. If he had known better, he would have fled. Did we ever tell you how tangy dragon’s blood is? I would even dare call it spiced.”
The Elezen shook his head to hide the shudder. Even if it had been a defensive act, he didn’t relish the thought of his friend drinking someone’s blood.
“But why did you cover him with snow if you were going to claim to have found the body? Why even pretend you hadn’t killed him?”
“I did that so someone wouldn’t stumble across the corpse before it turned back into an Elezen. I knew by the time I returned, he would be humanoid once more,” the man explained. “And I pled ignorance precisely because of that damned Inquisitor. He wouldn’t have believed the guard was a ‘heretic’ simply based on my word.”
“So you had me prove it,” Artoirel scowled.
The man chuckled as the cat suddenly rubbed against his leg. He bent down to pick it up and rest it against his chest while petting it.
“And it was rather well done, little Count. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to rest; while I did feed, there is yet a little more recovery to be done. You should take the time to think—I’m sure the boy will want to thank you in some way.”
The adventurer vanished into his bedroom, leaving Artoirel in the foyer with the rosary in hand. The young Count sighed into the still air of the room; a small smile stretched across his lips. Pride filled him with the realization that he had solved the mystery himself and had proven his friend’s… “ Innocence ” wasn’t quite the correct word, but it was still fitting in a way.
He walked into the sitting room where a fire blazed in its place. Taking a moment to remove the dragon’s claw from the rosary, he threw the rest into the flames and watched it burn.