Prompt 1: Crux

***** A few years back *****

The magistrate pinched the bridge of his nose and sagged backward in his seat as his Chamber hung in anticipatory silence. The two Serpents, the captain of the guard and the arresting officer, stood at regimental attention, in contrast to the drunken Ishgardian slumped in the seat before them in a heap. At the podium stood the witness, the unfortunate carriage driver who took pity on the sharp dressed, if disheveled, elezen who had stumbled into the street once the bars of the Lavender Beds had shut their doors for the night.

“Let us try this one more time WITHOUT INTERUPTION,” The magistrate said in a slow, measured tone. “You,” he pointed at the carriage driver who straightened immediately and wrung his hat, “picked up this…gentleman, who directed you to drive him to the Carline Canopy….”

“Well, that is, in a manner of speakin’ your honor, if ye beg my pardon,” said the driver. “See, he - that is, the gentleman here - didn’t know of the Canopy by name, no sir. He gets in, see, and he goes ‘hotel’ and then I go 'which hotel?’ but by that time he was sawin logs - that is, he’s asleep, see…”

The magistrate sighed heavily, “Yes, fine….”

“..But I ain’t no slouch, see,” continued the driver tapping his temple with a finger, “I see’s the way he’s dressed and all, fancy suit, good shoes, and I say to myself, 'take 'em to the Canopy! Ain’t no finer establishment for a gentleman, says I, let Miounne take care of him.”

“The picture is painted, dried, and hung on the wall, thank you” said the magistrate. “Suffice it to say, however, you did not reach your destination.”

The Ishgardian snorted. “Sort that out yourself?”

“Again, I remind the defendant to seize hold of his obstinate tongue,” said the magistrate, more tired than angry. “Continue,” he said to the witness.

“N-no sir, we never did. See, we was -waylaid-,” the driver said pronouncing the word carefully. He’d just learned it that evening and was proud he got to use it himself. “Waylaid,” he repeated, “by the 'ood.”

The magistrate looked toward the captain of the guard with tired eyes. “I assume you’re more familiar with the vernacular than I, Captain, care to translate?”

“The *Hood*, your honor,” said the captain sternly, “Alas: 'The Black Hood’, real name: Jerrik Gantry. Deceased. ”

“You have his sheet?” inquired the magistrate.

“Sheets,” the captain corrected, presenting the stack of papers before him. “Wanted for arson, assault, murder….name the crime, your honor, he’s committed it.”

“Dangerous then.”

The captain stiffened his jaw and stood straighter. “Killed four of my own, your honor. Good men.”

“Right,” said the magistrate, whose eyes drifted over the drunk nobleman with curious wonder. “And *he* killed him?”

The room turned their eyes toward Raven who had started to snore.

The captain turned to his officer who answered after a hard swallow. “Never saw the like,” he said in a near whisper, regarding the hunched over Ishgardian with wide eyes. “With the Hood’s own knife even…Fast as a blink, like it were easy.”

“Any clue as to his identity?” asked the magistrate.

Instead of answering, the captain gathered up the large envelope of personal effects and placed them on the magistrate’s bench and returned to his spot.

The magistrate tipped the envelope and emptied the contents in front of him. An empty flask, a pocket watch, voucher for an obscene amount of cash, and what appeared to be a passport. The cover was deep blue leather, embossed and filigreed in tarnished silver with the image of an ornate shield. He peered at the credentials within and raised his brows, glancing toward the captain who only nodded slowly.

“What should we do, your honor?” asked the captain. “Can we hold him?”

“Hm.” He tented his fingers beneath his chin and watched the snoring knight. He had been a soldier himself long ago but was fortunate enough not to know the horrors of real war. Not like what was transpiring in the mountains northward where the Ishgardians battled not soldiers but beasts that towered like buildings and breathed ice and fire. Endless hordes of beating wings, razor sharp teeth, claws the size of canoes. What must that do to a man? And how does one wake from such nightmarish misfortune.

“Therein lies the rub,” the magistrate said under his breath.

“Your honor?” asked the captain.

“Captain, take this…” he peered again at the Ishgardian’s credentials, “Ser Raven Alderscorn to the barracks. In the morning throw a bucket of water over him and inform him of his sentence: He is bound to community service as a servant of Gridania. Give him to Luciane,” he snorted. “She’s got a troublemaker of her own. Maybe they can sort one another out.”

With his judgement final, the magistrate stood, stretched and yawned. Stepping from the bench he noticed the worried expression on the captain’s face. “There’s a problem, captain?”

“Ah, well…potentially,” he said glancing nervously at the sleeping knight. “How…can we make him do that? If he chooses not too, that is?”

“Officer,” the magistrate said, addressing the subordinate who snapped to attention out of habit and nerves. “How did you place him under arrest in the first place? Dangerous man that he is,” he asked, knowing the answer already.

“W-well…I just…said 'you’re under arrest’. He said…'fair enough’”

The magistrate nodded and walked off. “There you go. Drunk or not, the man’s a Temple Knight. Evening, gentleman.”