A New Assignment East [Fal Sion]

[Jared Vanders]

Zoradin Fel

Zoradin dismounted his mare, a black horse with a white stripe on her nose he had name Daien. She was a beautiful creature. Zoradin left the horse with the stable master. His gait was slow.  As always, he was exhausted, but not nearly as much as he usually was. Last night he succumbed to his exhaustion. He had slept a few hours before he had started screaming.  It was never enough. 

A message from the new M'Hael had sent him on this trip. He had been stationed in Arafel, and was planning on investigating a fortress there. The whole thing stank, but when the M'Hael got through to him, he was ordered to immediately head or Shienar.  The situation was dire. 20,000 Andoran swords were on their way. That spoke of the dangers itself.  He was probably here to help hold the line, perhaps heal some wounds - if they weren't too bad.

He headed to the officers to report in. "Zoradin Fel, Asha'man," he said.

The officer scoffed. "I need an army and I get a single Asha'man that can barely stand," he sighed. "You can fight can't you?"

The Asha'man nodded. "I can hold my own with the blade and one power."

He looked at Zoradin incredulously. "Well - we'll need it. Need to hold until reinforcements arrive. We should have time if you need to rest for your trip."

"I'll be fine, Sir," he said. 

There was some more back and forth as Zoradin got more on the situation. He was led to a barracks so he could drop off his gear and he headed to the line. They had to hold until Andor arrived. That was his only goal.

[Kiyohito]

Lord Xavier Armendariz

Fal Sion boiled beneath its still surface, a fortress of quiet tension held firm by the will of its new lord. Xavier Armendariz had buried his father only a week past, and with the grave still fresh, he had taken the mantle of protector without ceremony or hesitation.

He was not a man prone to reflection. Action suited him better. So when report of an arrival of an Asha’man reached him, Xavier froze only a moment. “Thank the Light,” he breathed. Then, motion. Movement. Orders.

He strode to the high balcony overlooking the outer lands, expecting a procession of steel and banners. Instead, the horizon stretched empty.

Xavier turned sharply, understanding dawning.

“One Asha’man is worth a thousand spears,” he proclaimed proudly to all who listened. “Provide him anything he requires. Assign twenty of our best men to guard him when he goes afield. No.. twenty-nine.” He paused. I will be the thirtieth.

There was no need to speak that last part aloud. It was obvious to any who knew him: Xavier would ensure that such a power was protected at all costs.

“And summon Lord Kenta.”

The servant bowed low and vanished.

Soon after, Kenta arrived. Young, straight-backed, jaw clenched with a solemnity beyond his ten years.

“Father,” he said, bowing low.

Xavier regarded his son for a breath. “You have a new duty. An Asha’man named Fel has come. You are to be his personal host while he stays at Fal Sion. Do you accept this?”

Kenta blinked, and for a heartbeat the child showed through the stoic facade. But he recovered quickly, bowing again. “I accept. How may I serve Asha’man Fel?”

“Ensure his comfort. Guide him through the Keep. Explain our customs, as I have taught you. He is a guest of honor. Treat him as such.”

Kenta hesitated, then asked, “May I watch him in battle, Father?”

Xavier’s eyes narrowed, and he let out a low rumble, half sigh, half warning.

“You will defend this Keep long after my soul takes rest. You may observe the Asha’man and our warriors, but only from where I permit. Understand?”

Kenta nodded sharply, and without another word, turned and left to find the guest.

At the drawbridge to their inner Keep, the one that connected the Keep with the city beyond it, separated by two moats of spikes and poison, Kenta stood straight-backed between two armored house soldiers, the wind pulling at his long dark braids. He wore the formal blue and silver of House Armendariz, their sigil stitched proud over his chest. A knife hung at his belt, small but real. His boots were scuffed from training but sturdy, built for quick mounts and long rides. The sides of his head were still full with hair, the customary topknot not yet earned.

As the Asha’man approached, Kenta stepped forward and bowed, eyes roaming the pins of his uniform and their significance.

“I am Lord Kenta Armendariz. On behalf of my father and House Armendariz, I welcome you to Fal Sion Keep, Asha’man Fel.”

[Jared Vanders]

Zoradin Fel

Zoradin began to cross the drawbridge to the Keep of Fal Sion. His Asha’man uniform was immaculate. His coat was clean, pressed, and on its collar, the sword and dragon pins proclaiming his rank were polished. His face was clean shaven and his hair well groomed. He didn’t look the part of a man who had traveled to Shienar from Arafel on horseback. In fact the only sign of his travel were boots scuffed from rubbing against the stirrups of his saddle and the tired look in his eyes. 

As Zoradin approached, he noticed two guards and a boy, about ten, at the gate to the keep. The young one denoted that this wasn’t a group to bar his approach. He wore what Zoradin assumed to be a house uniform, based on the sigil on its chest. He approached Zoradin, offering a bow and a name. 

Zoradin hadn’t expected a child to greet him, but it wasn’t unusual enough for a scion of the house to greet honored arrivals. At least at this point he assumed he was an honored arrival. The lord of the keep hadn’t come himself, but he had sent his son. Truth be told, Zoradin hadn’t expected much of anyone to greet him in such a way. 

Zoradin’s eyes inspected the troops out of habit, noting their posture and readiness. His gaze looked over Lord Kenta in the same way. He then returned the bow and spoke, recalling a Shienaran greeting. ”Lord Kenta Armendariz,” he said, one hand of his heart, the other resting on th pommel of his sword. ”Peace favor your sword. I am honored by your welcome.”

Zoradin wasn’t completely sure that it was culturally correct or not, but it was said honesty and sincerity. It was a better response than they would have seen from one of his more gruff Asha’man brothers. The Shienarans were his  allies, however, and it paid to be more diplomatic. 

He raised himself from his bow and spoke directly to Lord Kenta. ”I am Zoradin Fel, Asha’man of the Black Tower. The M’hael has sent me to assist with the defense of Fal Sion and this keep.”

[Kiyohito]

Lord Kenta Armendariz

Kenta bowed low once more, his hand fisted over his chest in perfect form.

“Suravye ninto manshima taishite,” he said in the Old Tongue, his young voice crisp with practiced reverence. “May peace favor your sword, honored Asha’man.”

He straightened, chin lifted with the weighty poise of a child born to duty. The guards beside him mirrored his movements, though less precisely.

“I am honored to receive you,” Kenta continued, shifting to the Common Tongue.

“On behalf of House Armendariz and Lord Xavier, I welcome you to Fal Sion Keep. Quarters have been prepared to receive you. If it please you, I will escort you inside.”

Without waiting for a reply, though not rudely, Kenta turned with a slight, ceremonial gesture, and began to walk. The guards fell into formation: two ahead, two behind, the practiced formation of trained house soldiers.

Stable hands met them at the inner gate, offering to take over stabling Zoradin’s horse. One of them, a freckled boy barely older than Kenta, gawked openly at the Asha’man’s coat and pins before remembering himself and bowing so deeply he nearly dropped the reins.

They passed under the high stone arch of the keep. There were no hint of shadows in or around the bridge. Not in the borderlands where Fades could enter their walls at will.  The fortress was old Shienaran stone of squared angles, and built to endure not impress, but the banners of House Armendariz fluttered proudly from the battlements. Blue and silver, stitched with their crest in sharp relief.

Servants watched as they passed, whispering behind cupped hands. Many touched their hearts in cautious respect as the Asha’man walked by.

Kenta said nothing until they reached the men’s wing of the keep. A heavy door was opened for them by a steward, and Kenta led Zoradin through well-kept halls smelling faintly of pine and stone. At last, he stopped before a chamber door and gestured.

“These are your quarters,” he said. “If there is anything you require, you need only speak it.”

The room beyond was modest but comfortable. A hearth was already lit with clean linens folded at the foot of an elegant bed, a basin and pitcher of warm water was set out to wash away the road.

Kenta lingered a moment, uncertain whether to speak again. Then, remembering his father’s charge, he gave a crisp bow.

“When you are ready, Asha’man Fel, my father asks that you join him for supper in the Solar. A servant will escort you as soon as you are ready.”