By the time the red-faced and puffing foreman reached him, Bastion had a film of sweat on his own brow. That was something he would have to get used to, however. Estyria was much warmer than the Southern city of Rosendall where he was from; where he could comfortably wear a cloak all year round. With another look around, Bastion noticed most men didn’t wear a shit, and all the others had sleeveless shirts and torn-short trousers. His pants tucked neatly into shined boots, and cloak fastened tight around his neck would have to change. Soon.

Not catching what the short man said, and not bothering to ask him to repeat himself, Bastion stuck his hand out, grasping a rolled and sealed parchment with the red lion seal of Estyria.

“Bastion Thornwell,” Bastion introduced himself, taking his mother maiden name, as his Father advised. Of course, it made sense, if he claimed Bastion Were, he would be at risk of being taken a hostage and held for ransom, which the Lord would NOT be inclined to pay. Or if he claimed Ros, the name of his Mother's new husband, he ran the same risk. Of course, this all made sense to him, but Bastion couldn’t help the sting he felt hearing his father put it so bluntly as that. Even standing there in the midday sun, Bastion felt his throat close tight remembering the conversation.

Only after the foreman had taken the letter and stared at the seal, and whom it was addressed to blankly for a moment did Bastion realize the man probably couldn’t read letters, only numbers. Bastion tried to hide his look of disgust as he intermediated for the illiterate man.

“It is for your chief overseer,” Bastion said in a drawl. “I have found favor in the eyes of Lord Were, he has helped me in my need...and sent me here to find work.” He deluged more information when a look of uncertainty came to the foreman's face. Bastion already knew what the letter said, his Father made no move to hide his hand as he penned it, so Bastion knew he was to start as a field hand and advance as seen fit. But Bastion was hoping to talk some sense into this overseer.

The foreman raised an eyebrow at Bastion, and gave a sputtering noise of contempt, looking Bastion up and down. His black beady eyes lingered over the embellishment on his cloak fastener and cufflinks.

“Follow me,” the man belched out, not seeming pleased in the least with his new assignment. Not letting himself be roiled by the man, Bastion followed his stomping companion in a leisurely stroll; for every one of Bastions loping strides was equal to two of the shorter man's. Although the overseer's house was barely a league up the slight incline, the sound of crunching of gravel and scuffed stones was all Bastion could hear for the better part of half an hour. Bastion had tried polite conversation to help pass the time, but the foreman was obviously a man of few words. By the time they reached the stone cottage, even Bastions carefully concealed agitation was starting to break through. He blamed it on the scorching heat, but the rude man wasn’t helping the situation either.