#haumeric de peulagnon

[elezenchaser-art]

2021 Mermay

Sadu: Barracuda Magnai: Yellowfin Tuna Haumeric: Blue Ringed Octopus Haurchefant: Seahorse (with mussel shield)

Digital art

[queenofnohr]

The Fifth Sorrow of Our Lady Most Holy

by @/0000_paper on twitter

Alternate version:

[crystallineconflict]

canon event (by deadanimedads on twt)

bonus peanut gallery observations:

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

heavensward- encounter

(a year and a half before Riven's arrival)

CW: Illness, more specifically a city-wide epidemic. I also riffed slightly off Tamora Pierce's Circle of Magic book 4, Briar's Book, which is a heavy influence on Mathye's conjury.

---------

For a mercy, the plague currently raging in Ishgard was affecting all levels of society. Otherwise if it had just been in the Brume alone, Mathye knew Charibert would have already been setting the afflicted's homes to the torch. The illness itself wasn't fatal, save for one major problem. The fever that started after the pox cleared was magic-resistant. That had to be fought with poultice and and potion.

Or in Mathye's case-dragonfire. For some unknown reason Hrist's magics could break the infection. And while she and him were willing to scorch the disease from their charges, they had to be careful. Charibert and his minions prowled the sick-houses, waiting for any opportunity to send them up in 'cleansing flame'. And while the Inquistion wanted to question him about the handful of months he'd spent in the Vault, Mathye knew he had some level of protection in being Ishgard's first white mage in some time, plus being a master healer in the Temple Knight infirmary, assigned to the Knights Dragoon. If he couldn't use what power he had to aid those who needed it, then what good was he?

So Mathye had taken a stand, along with getting into a fight or two. He'd shamed several wavering healers and priests into doing their duties, and the misbegotten flames of the Inqusition were now staying away from the Brume sick-houses. And if the poor were recovering faster than their 'betters', well, Halone's eyes were fixed on the most vunerable of her children. That was Mathye's story, and he was sticking to it.

But Fury be good, he wanted to kill Charibert. Wipe him and his ilk from the face of the earth. It said something when he- an apostate!-was more faithful to the Fury than one of the Heavens fucking Ward! Or was it that he was more open minded?

Mathye didn't know.

Or maybe it's because you've seen the rot and swore to have no part of it...

"You've been the one making the medicine here?" Jolted from his dark musings -- he hadn't eaten since breakfast, Mathye glanced at the speaker. Charibert had decided to suddenly pop in, with Haumeric accompanying him. More than likely the other priest of the Ward had also taken offence to the Grand Inquisitor's leanings and had shown up to offer support... if not tact approval of Mathye's stance.

"I volunteered to make this particular batch, aye." Making the feverbreak potion was the best way to add in his dragonfire, and thankfully it didn't require much. But with Charibert and Haumeric watching, Hrist had gone dead silent in his mind. Not that Mathye minded. He was extremely keen on staying clear of Charibert's dungeons. And keeping his baby brother safe...

"Every time you visit a sick-house, the number of patients who break the fever and recover successfully rises." Haumeric continued. His eyes widened slightly as Mathye withdrew a butcher's knife from a wooden block. Charibert remained unruffled.

"Don't know anything about that." Mathye lied, reaching for a clump of chamoille plants with the other hand. With a single chop, he cleaved the flowers from their stems.

"There are many singing your praises." Haumeric was not giving up.

"You mean more like cursing me." Mathye countered. Keep your hands busy. Focus on the plants. He chopped off another bunch of chamoille flowers. Evading or at least muddling a Halonic truth spell required effort.

"In this case, the praises are outweighing the curses. Though for you, that seems to be the norm." Charibert said silkily.

"Is there any reason why you've decided to darken my doorstep, Hot Lips?" Mathye wondered aloud. He selected a Gil Bun to chop next, bowing his head just as Haurmeric choked back a sudden bark of laughter. Charibert's eyes flashed in annoyance.

"As Ser Haurmeric stated, the number of patients who recover when you're present is high. There are... questions."

"Are they about my healing-practice or about the fact that it's the poor that are recovering so quickly?" Mathye countered, lifting his head. "If it's the latter, just imagine how upset the commonfolk will be that the Vault would have preferred them to die in comparison to the noble born-"

"Healer Bishop." Mathye snapped his mouth shut and picked up another mushroom. He could feel Haumeric glaring at him.

"The Archbishop cares for all of Halone's children. Poor and nobleborn." Now the glare was turned to Charibert. "His Emenience would like as minimal loss of life as possible. Which is why the sick-houses were approved and permission to use any means necessary to save the ill."

"You add magic into the feverbreak potion." Charibert ignored Haurmeric, eyes fixed on Mathye. The white mage fell his stomach lurch. However he forced himself to look up and cooly met the High Inquistitor's gaze.

"I do."

"The fever can't be broken by magic." Haurmeric stated, furrowing his brow.

"You're right. What I do doesn't last long, and fades the moment the potion starts to brew." Mathye picked up a handful of the chamomile heads. The petals on some were drooping, while others looked completely whithered. Then suddenly the flower heads seemed to spring back to life, white petals practically glowing around their bright yellow centers. Mathye moved the handful of flowers over to a pot, dropping them inside.

"A revitization spell?"

"We're not so lucky to get fresh herbs and the sort down here." Mathye replied. "Plants hold memories just like man. I just give a little coax for them to remember life, to renew their power." Then mischievously, he added; "A priestess of Nophica showed me this while I was in training. I figure her and Halone would be willing to work together in this fight. Nophica to bless the plant life, and the Fury to grant a body the strength to endure." Oh wow. Charibert had actually physically twitched. Haumeric looked a little worried.

"You are not...practicing hedgewitchery, are you, Healer Bishop?" He ventured. Mathye narrowed his eyes.

"The last time I checked, I wasn't the only one doing such a thing." He began. "Our builders still burn copies of their plans to Byregot for His favor, our martialists blood-pledge to the Destroyer, doubly so since He is Halone's father, and we're not going to discuss all the love-charms made from the snow by Memphina's godstone, she lives in Halone's palace! And I'm certain you don't want to discuss the amount of childless couples who slip away to Gridana in the spring to celebrate the rites of Nophica, and find themselves blessed with babes nine months later. Nobody complains about hedgewitchery then, so why complain now? If a bit of it's helping my charges here, and Halone hasn't expressed disapproval, then I see no problems."

"I see why you're permamently such a low rank in the Church, Bishop. Such a...provencial mindset." Charibert sniped. He tilted his head.

"Ah but by the way, how is your half-brother doing?" Rage-and fear--screamed to life inside Mathye, and he could feel Hrist spasm. It took everything he possessed to not react, to keep his voice level, to shrug casually.

"I wouldn't know. I think he's on out on a heretic hunt. There was a dragon that your Inquisitors were having problems with, wasn't there? I'm surprised you're not out there with your men." A barb for a barb, and Mathye took some satisfaction on seeing Charibert glower. Haumeric glanced between the two men.

"Gentlemen. I see that there's no problems here." He said firmly. "Healer Bishop, I would advise that you keep your...dabbling to yourself. While your points are valid, there are many of your betters that are not as... open-minded as you are. Brother Charibert, there's nothing problematic here, unless we count Healer Bishop's overall attitude as a heresy."

[knightstwelve]

navigation post for myself (wip)

series ~aesthetic~

dog days: [wip] softly with teeth: kill your darlings kiss your demons diana's ward otome adventures: dokidokiwardtxt [zephfic, paulefic, adelfic] diana's timeloop adventure: vaultfic

ocs

catherine in general: catherine hart catherine ~aesthetic~: diana in general: diana sawyer diana ~aesthetic~ : we know more about the moon than we do the ocean eve in general: eve bernard eve ~aethestic~: [wip]

specific characters ~aesthetic~ (seperate from general posts)

zephirin de valhourdin: history will vindicate us vellguine de bourbagne: all men must serve each in their own way charibert de leusignac: sickness must be purged grinnaux de dzemael: clever men die just as quick as the rest adelphel: and in turn adored beauty above all else paulecrain de fanouilley: virtue from the poisoned wine haumeric de peulagnon: worm of the dell guerrique de montrohain: ten in our hearts hermenost de la treaumaille: levinlight noudenet de jaimberd: the third son janlenoux de courcillant: naught less naught more ignasse de vesnaint: who are we to deny it

misc aesthetic:

ishgard: guide us o mighty fury

misc media

misc text post: olivtxt coms i bought: coms

[modchanisnori]

This is the mix of all the other misc photos I found

[falling-rhayne]

“Ponder” -  Haumeric de Peulagnon

[of-knights-and-magi]

This is snowball. He is Haumeric’s baby pet hedgehoglet. He is precious, and is carried around in a little custom made side pouch created just for him. Love him.

[knights-of-ishgard]

Merry (belated) Christmas!

video from: @the-righteous-heart​

special thanks to @thecolorofsilvermoon, @grinnaux-the-gunner and @paulecraindefanouilley

[knights-of-ishgard]

@thedangerv thank you for showing me and thinking of us :3 💕

them <3

[aroseyetbloomedwrites]

In Their Care [ A Noudenet de Jaimberd/Francel de Haillenarte/Haumeric de Peulagnon Fanfiction ]

Rating: R/Lemon

Category: M/M/M

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV

Relationships: Noudenet de Jaimberd/Francel de Haillenarte, Haumeric de Peulagnon/Francel de Haillenarte, Noudenet de Jaimberd/Francel de Haillenarte/Haumeric de Peulagnon

Language: English

Summary: But there was still something strange about the heat in Francel’s face that Noudenet could not help but peer in close to, leaning in with narrowed eyes.

“Do not tell me,’ Noudenet starts, ‘that you are supposed to be on bedrest and have snuck out.”

When Francel laughs, it is like a small wind chime; sweet and airy.

LINK TO AO3 HERE

For the first part read below.

    They find him tending the barren garden outside of the Haillenarte manor, maybe not so much tending as fiddling with a dark stalk of rose. He seems lost in thought, so when Ser Noudenet and Ser Haumeric spot him at the manor side-he does not immediately hear their approach. They see that there is something melancholy in the way he leans against the banister and into the bushes that make up the small side-gazebo, head cast downwards and gaze not necessarily on the stalk he held betwixt slender fingers. It had once bloomed an array of roses, but now it flowers no longer. 

Francel is wrapped conservatively in a light green bliaud, with black gaskins and gaiters. There is a brown scarf tucked around his neck and would surely be hiding the lower half of his face, but from the side even they can tell whom they spy by the telltale cavalier and its cheerful yellow feather. 

    “Lord Francel?”

    Haumeric calls out, paused in his walk with Noudenet to reach out towards Francel, the young man lost in a past nearly forgotten. Francel turns, caught partly by surprise to greet them a little hurriedly, a stutter off his tongue and a higher pitched rasp. 

    “Ser Noudenet! And Ser Haumeric!”

    His brows are raised, and there is a little tinge of delighted light in his eyes, a warmth blooming in his chest. Francel seems warmed to see them, and that lightens the load on their shoulders, the weight comes now only from the heavy alpine coats they wear. But, even they hear the strange tone to Francel’s voice, so they come closer to him beneath the pavilion and out of the gentle fall of snow. The young lord pulls down his scarf, holding it beneath his chin; his cheeks are a warm pink and it dusts across his nose brightly. His bow mouth curls up, and the smile is bright and pleasant and when turned on them feels like a warming light has taken them. But there was still something strange about the heat in Francel’s face that Noudenet could not help but peer in close to, leaning in with narrowed eyes. 

    “Do not tell me,’ Noudenet starts, ‘that you are supposed to be on bedrest and have snuck out.”

    When Francel laughs, it is like a small wind chime; sweet and airy. 

    “I am a little ill and have been forbade from entering the Firmament for further work, thus have I resorted to sneaking out to the garden. Alas, that it should offer less comfort than a warm spring might have should the roses have been able to bloom. I have been cooped up for far too long, that it eases now and I simply wanted out.” 

    “My guess is that you’ve caught a cold from over work whilst there in the first place.” Haumeric had not been able to tell at first, but trusted the keen eye of Noudenet above all else and his aetheric sensitivity. “Well, far be it from us to lecture you. Might we perhaps even be a bad influence and invite you further away?”

    Francel pulls up his scarf and ducks his head, but his eyes peek through the fringe of his lashes between the two as he thinks, slowly nodding his head after but a moment of thought. There was only so much work he could do in his room, and it was all rather repetitive. It was also a little embarrassing to have his family fussing over him so overbearingly, but perhaps it would not be so bad to have Noudenet and Haumeric tend to him. They had been thorough lovers when last he had been with the Ward, and Francel would not soon forget that-he knew that this situation would prove similar and that he would find love and comfort between the two as well.

    As it turned out, Haumeric and Noudenet lived apart but had their own small apartments within the city. They went to Noudenet’s, for Haumeric said his was little fit and under prepared for guests. He had spent much of his time hard at work in the Vault and with others of the clergy that he had mostly taken his meals and rests elsewhere. Ser Noudenet had liked the privacy of his own apartment apart from his colleagues, and after having been sent away had never intended to return to his previous home in the Lowlands. Being in disgrace, it was likely he would not have been accepted back so he took his meager pay upon return under the good graces of Ser Aymeric and continued to furnish the apartment. 

The main room hosted a warm brown sofa, there was a fireplace that looked well used and a stack of firewood beside it. The kitchenette was shoved into a corner of the same room. There were a few doors. One likely leads to a bedroom and the other to a bathroom. There was a table in the middle housing many piles of books and papers filled to their edges with barely legible scribbles and script, pens and ink refills scattered about. 

    Noudenet does not bother apologizing for the mess, and Francel does not even bat an eyelash at the size nor the state. He hangs up his scarf and hat on a hook by the door and walks with Haumeric to the fireplace to help get it started. Noudenet goes to his little stove because he has a mind to make a potent brew for Francel to help with the tail-end of his sniffles and cold. Being that he is most potent with fire, it’s very easy for him to start the stove. It takes only a snap of his fingers to bring it to warming temperatures. As it heats up with a kettle of water on it, he paces in thought of what to give Francel; yarrow, peppermint… maybe some sage along with something aetherically dense to boost his immune strength… He sees Haumeric and Francel still struggling over the fireplace. The growth of his fond smile makes the scar on his cheek tingle. 

    “Here, here….”

    He butts between the two to see the matches just simply aren’t taking on the paper wedged between the logs in the fireplace. A twist of his wrist, a snap of his fingers–he skips the paper entirely and catches one of the logs in a blaze. Francel looks awed, Haumeric only sighs at the necessity of it all and nudges shoulders with him. 

    “Thank you for the brute force.”

    “Well, we can’t have Lord Francel sitting in the cold while ill now can we.”

    Noudenet stands and paces back to his stove and starts going through his cabinets for the ingredients he’d been thinking about. The mix itself would be potent, and likely very bitter but somehow he doubted Francel had been taking the best care of himself so a dosing was long overdue. He mixes the leaves together in his own tea strainer and fills a cup with the steaming water from the kettle of the stove. He does not bother mixing any sugar in with it, it was going to have a strong taste anyways and a sweetener would hardly be able to cut it. Noudenet passes the glow of his hand over the top of it, steam disperses and aether flows around the cup making it seem to boil before it settles. Then he picks it up and and turns towards the sofa where the low murmur of chit chat comes from. 

Francel and Haumeric are sit huddled together on it, their thighs are leaned comfortably together and their heads are dipped close as they converse. To Noudenet, he is relieved that they can sit together so comfortably after what had transpired last–that there was no lingering anxiety or discomfort. It seemed the complexity of Francel’s feelings on the matter were not so unknown after all, and that as he had dealt with them one by one, his affections perhaps had grown as he came to know them. In this instance, as he learns from Haumeric the trials and tribulations he’d hoped to overcome by becoming one of the Heavens’ward; the dissolution of Trial by Combat having been one of them. 

    Noudenet comes to sit on Francel’s other side, their sides pressed together and their warmth shared. He passes the cup into Francel’s hands who looks at the drink with only some trepidation; perhaps remembering when last he’d taken drink from them, but the wrinkle of his nose betrays the purpose true of that look. Ah, so Francel is the type to have trouble taking his medicine. He looks as though he wants to say something, but as he glances to both Haumeric and Noudenet, finds the lodged complaint will make it little far and so he sighs and holds the cup to his lips. The first sip causes his brow to furrow and his mouth to frown. Potent indeed! But as he drinks he finds that while it tastes and feels like dirt in his mouth his nose begins to clear and the weight in his chest lessens-the itch disperses and the wrath at the back of his throat is soothed. He drinks it to the last drop under the watchful gaze of Noudenet and Haumeric, and when it is empty they both turn a heartfelt smile on him that causes a healthier blush to rise in his face and across his ears. 

    The room begins to warm in light of the fire at the hearth, Haumeric takes the cup and their coats (plus Francel’s bliaud) away. Noudenet cannot help but bring an arm around Francel's waist, his fingers press into the fabric at Francel's side to feel the feverish warmth beneath. He was still so warm, but had yet to complain about feeling unwell; he truly must have been fed up with doing nothing but laying about, and yet being here they likely had intended to ask the same of him. Haumeric comes back empty handed to look down upon them with a soft and easy smile, reaching out to trail his fingers through Francel’s soft locks first from front to back and then leaning further in to press his fingers down the back of his warm neck. His smile turns to something a little more sorrowful, as though looking upon an ill Francel, though recovering, was something to be sad about. 

    “I know that you hate it, but you really should be resting, my lord.” Haumeric says.

    “I should.” Francel agrees, looking up at him with heavy eyes and goosebumps on his arms-they’re hidden by the long sleeves of his button up. “Maybe it will not be so bad with you two there.” 

    When Francel pulls away from Noudenet and stands, it puts him nose to nose with Haumeric who does not move away; it makes Haumeric want to incline his head so that their lips may perfectly slant together, but he resists. Instead he takes him by the hand and leads him with fingers intertwined to the cool bedroom adjacent. The bed is low and would be easy to crawl into, fitted with several layers of sheets, a thick comforter and a weighted blanket. The pillows may not be downy, but they looked thick and comfortable. The bed looked big enough for two, but if they cuddled together could certainly fit three. Francel goes to sit on the edge of the bed, hands folded neatly on his knees as he looks up at Haumeric and Noudenet standing there. They glance between themselves before both begin to unfold from their clothes. First the buttons of their shirts, which they slip out of and let hang from the back of a chair, they feel the chill of the room in their fingertips even as they unlace their pants, stepping from them so that they stand only in their smalls. The cold touches their shoulders and tender bellies, so they are eager to undress Francel and slip beneath the covers with his feverish skin to press against. Francel stands again and comes into their arms. They unfasten the buttons of his button-up to reveal the smooth plain of his chest and soft stomach, where fingers cannot help but linger at the soft swell of supple flesh peaked above the hem of his gaskins. They eagerly unlace those so that they can fall to Francel’s feet and he may step out so that they might test the give of flesh at his waist with a pinch that has him chuckling softly. They guide him to the bed where they pull back the covers, Haumeric slides in and beckons to the space in the middle of the bed; Francel slips into his arms, tucks his face beneath his chin, and then there is warmth at his back where Noudenet slots against him, knees at the back of his own, his feet tangled with Haumeric’s. Arms hooked around his shoulder and waist. He feels cocooned and they feel warmed and comfortable against the bare skin of their feverish charge. Though it was still early, Francel finds that between the press of their bodies his eyes can still feel heavy. There are lips at his temple and the back of his feverish neck, but even this sensation dwindles away as he falls to sleep.

[[ For the Remainder click HERE. ]]

Thank you,

[queenofnohr]

誰もがキミに夢中？/Is everybody obsessed with you?

A HaumOde sketchpage by the amazing @/temporoyales on twitter, inspired by the MV for the Kedarui song, Primadonna!

Odeline, you will always be famous 💙

[the-righteous-heart]

Day 19 - Friends Noudenet knows hows right here...

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

on our fates alight--first warning

Augustine pulled the cloak around his shoulders, securing the ties together. Pausing to make sure his sword was buckled securely to his hip, he headed for the door.

“I’ll be back with the soup!”  He called, turning the handle. “In the meantime, just stay in—” As the door opened fully, Augustine found himself trailing off.  Standing in the hallway, a fist raised as if to knock on the wood, was Lord Haurchefant. There was a dark look on his features, and Augustine blinked as the elezen’s eyes met his own.  Then suddenly ice started to crawl up his spine—Halone flaring to life—just as the paladin’s eyes moved past the Fortemps lord. Directly behind Haurchefant were Zephirin de Valhourdin and Haumeric de Peulagnon.

Shite.

“Ser Augustine!”  Haurchefant said a bit too cheerfully. “I’m sorry, did we catch you at a bad time?  My lords of the Heavens’ Ward were nearby and wanted to pay a visit!” 

“I was about to head to the city, actually.”  Augustine replied, and then froze at the sound of a body hitting the floor. Fear made him whip around, staring at the hallway behind him.

“Mathye?!”

-------

Haumeric sighed.

“Not even aetherical exhaustion from Priming has the capacity for you to stay still.”  He commented dryly, pulling the tunic back over Mathye’s wound.  “But you didn’t rip open the stitches, so that’s good.”  Mathye didn’t say anything, electing to stay as still in bed as he possibly could.  Halone had alerted him to the presence of the two members of the Heavens’ Ward. Worry for Augustine had given him a brief burst of strength to get out of bed—but then that had been his limit. He’d fallen, and then suddenly Augustine was exploding through his door, Haumeric and Zephirin on his heels.

“You need to be more careful.”  Haumeric continued. “Your devotion to your duty does you credit, Ser Mathye, but you—like your brother—are both precious and valued by the Archbishop.  Surely there is no need for you to go haring off on every single little errand…” 

“I go where the work is needed.” Mathye countered. Gods, he was exhausted. All he wanted to do was curl up and sleep. He could feel Halone’s alarm—he was at his limit, he needed to rest—but he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not until Zephirin and Haumeric left.

“I apologize for my older brother.”  Augustine interjected. “Thank you, Ser Peulagnon, for looking at his wounds. I pray ask your forgiveness for taking up your time like this.”  Haumeric blinked.

“Ser Augustine, there is no apology needed!”  He said, gesturing. “If anything, this is a friendlier use of our time!”

“Reports have made it to the Vault of voidsent infestations out here in Central Coerthas.” Zephirin added. “His Holiness requested that the matter be investigated.”

“I see.”  Augustine got out. He didn’t dare look at Mathye, but he knew his older brother had gone very still. The other day the priest had dealt with a voidsent rift down at the bottom of Witchdrop with a friend of his, Tristan Galis. While normally such things wouldn’t technically be a problem…Tristan was actually a former Ishgardian paladin whose entire order had been executed by order of the Archbishop for treason and heresy.  He now was a fiend hunter, his former life as a paladin making him especially skilled in dealing with voidsent. How Tristan had gotten back into Coerthas and why he was dealing with the Witchdrop voidsent problem Augustine didn’t know.  Nor did he want to know. Tristian was his friend as well; their paladin orders had been allies. And given everything that had been happening ever since Halone had chosen him as her First Dominant…

"Your wounds have been cleansed, but there is a faint trace of Darkness." Haumeric frowned. "Did you encounter one of the void's denizens, Ser Mathye?"

"There was a aether-rift by the Weeping Saint." Mathye admitted. "I was traveling there to gather some water, and ran into a fiend. It was fairly powerful, and I ended up semi-Priming to fight it." Augustine inhaled, feeling his truthsense briefly flare to life. Mathye was lying--but he was also telling the truth as well.

"I closed the rift afterwards, and just had enough energy to teleport back here before passing out." Zephirin shared a look with Haumeric. Something seemed...off about the other knight, Augustine realized. At first glance the leader of the Heavens' Ward appeared to be normal. But ever so faintly Augustine could...sense something. Smell it, now that he was focusing on it...

Decay? Halone was in his thoughts, sharing his senses. She'd sensed the strangeness too. The smell was gone--but for a moment Augustine could have sworn that he'd picked up on the sickly-sweet smell of rot. As if the wind had brought the scent of a decomposing body. And it had been coming from Zephirin.

What the... Augustine's eyes flicked to Haumeric. The conjurer also had that feeling of wrongness, and again that brief flare coming from him--the smell of rot. What in the name...what is that?!

I don't know. Halone answered. But I think...I've sensed this energy before.

Where? Augustine thought.

From the Vault.

[mirageofthecrystal]

Junelezen 2022 - Day 11 I Orthodox Mayhem

"Ser Zephirin de Valhourdin, the Just.

Ser Vellguine de Bourbagne, of the Stone Spear.

Ser Chirbert de Leusignac, the Stern.

Ser Grinnaux de Dzemael, the Bull

Ser Adelphel de Chevraudan, Brightblade.

Ser Paulecrain de Fanouilley, Coldfire.

Ser Haumeric de Peulagnon, the Valiant.

Ser Guerrique de Montrohain, the Cleaver.

Ser Hermenost de la Treaumaille, the Levinlight.

Ser Noudenet de Jaimberd, the Wise.

Ser Ignasse de Vesnaint, of the Dragon's Tail.

These twelve names are etched into the history of Ishgard, the memories of its people, and the hearts of every hopeful young man or woman who ever aspired to the pinnacle of knighthood. I was no different, revering these men, these knights twelve, the noble warriors of the Heaven's Ward who served Ishgard and the Archbishop with the utmost faith and prowess. As long as I can remember, I hoped to be amongst their ranks. And for a time, that aspiration looked to be within sight.

It was a reward for service, for valor and bravery that I had shown on behalf of Ishgard and my House. I remember the day clearly, still sporting wounds from the battle before. I was bid to simply wait under the care of the chirurgeons, and that the honor bestowed upon me would await me when I was mended. But I was stubborn, so badly did I desire what I thought my just reward. And so I marched before the people to accept their honors, and in one swift stroke I was dubbed to be a squire to none other than Ser Ignasse, once comrade to my uncle and unparalleled in his lancework. He was the mightiest slayer of dragons I could have pictured in my mind's eye, a relentless force for righteous justice that was unparalleled. And it would be my duty to serve him, to learn from him, and perhaps one day to take his place amongst these knights when his arms grew too weak to uphold his charge.

It was to my great shock and horror, then, when the most noble and righteous Heaven's Ward revealed themselves to be traitors. Not only that, but they were Primals save but name, gorging on the desperate prayers of our people for salvation. The Archbishop, the Knights, then entire Orthodoxy was simply a machine for faith, for the power of Godhood and the might to bend a world to the whims of a madman. And among them was Ser Ignasse, the man who I adored as a mentor and a friend, even after he did nothing to spare me from my wrongly ascribed fate. A man whom I wondered if I should pity or despise, so thoroughly had be betrayed my trust and the trust of all those who believed in him.

For such a foulness to corrupt even these finest of men, it had to live at the heart of it all. I know not if the Holy See had always conspired to reap our fear for their own ends, or if the lies of the past had been seeded and forgotten, and it was only by the hand of Thordan VII that the decision was made to betray everything we stand for? Was it the machinations of the Ascians that darkened his heart with promises of power, those begins whom we now know to have orchestrated many of the woes ascribed to the sins of the Garleans, or did that hunger and lust for something more always exist within him? Or had our people been lead astray from the start, from the moment the deception was born, and each generation built upon the bones of the last to turn our fear and hatred of the dragons into a weapon mighty enough to smite them and rob them of all that which we could have built together?

Of course, questions of this nature do not present themselves so readily on the field of battle. When a war rages all around you, you often do not question all that which has brought you to its doorstep, only how to move forward. And the same question was posed to Ishgard when the sword Ascalon fell from the grip of Thordan, with his Knights of the Round slain at last, with the eyes of Nidhogg divorced from another host who had once sworn to slay the beast with all he had. When the corruption that had been born in the hearts of the church still burned in many of the fervent and the faithful, with so much vitriol that even after pardons had been passed they would threaten myself and my family, cry out for my blood as a traitor, and accuse my sister of laying with dragons.

Even after the war had subsided, and for the first time in a millennium could the people of Ishgard at last choose a new and better path, the voices that had poisoned us rose into a louder and more violent crescendo. And thus did the consequences of our ancestors actions continue to spiral out of control, to divide us and conquer us within our hearts where the greatest battle is fought for the soul of us all. Our legacy would be forever stained with blood, or people truly divided between faith and truth, and the shade of Nidhogg's power would go on to plague lands beyond our own, for he would not rest even when consigned to the deepest and darkest abyss from whence no one should have been able to return.

With so many questions left behind of the nature of the Holy See and the path that must be walked, it was with the greatest reticence that I took up the position I had long coveted. Where the Heaven's Ward had once served to protect the Archbishop and the authority of the church, no longer did their need to be a shield to protect the lies which were woven. We required a new purpose much like our people, and I took up the sword knowing that I would need to confront those questions on behalf of Ishgard where once I was merely a victim of them.

The Heaven's Ward would have to become something different, our new role dedicated to the people of Ishgard, her safety, and in serving our new place amongst our allies of the Eorzean alliance. Each day I took the steps I thought would carry us to a brighter future, while the shadow of Ser Ignasse stretched behind me, dogging my steps and doubting my conviction. If one such as he had faltered and fallen to the darkness, then how could I hope to be any different? It boiled inside me, rage, fear, hatred, regret, all the things he must have felt to drive him to make the decisions he did. How could I hope to be any better, when the best among us could not resist the clarion call of sinister power?

To this day I still have no answer for that. I still do not know if I am truly worthy of the office which I hold, or if I too will succumb to the same damning influences that consumed my idols and turned them away from their people. I can only hope, through my own deeds and my commitment to those I have lost upon my path, that I can provide to Ishgard even a modicum of the grace and prosperity its people deserve, and I would be willing to give my life in order to bring it to fruition. The sins of the past should ever serve as a reminder, not that those who came before us failed, but that any of us can be found fallible, and that it is in the ability to correct our mistakes that makes us great, not our inability to make them at all.

- Excerpt from the personal journal and accounts of Ser Faiolan Penderghast, Knight of the Heaven's Ward