Standing merely a stone throw from the ancient building, Bastion was surprised by how large it was, having looked much smaller at a distance. The main building was three stories high, with two towers- one on the Southwest side, and and the other to the Northeast, that jutted another two stories above the rest. The building itself was in great condition, either from repair or the excellent craftsmen of old truly just did that great of a job. Either way, this church turned plantation home was truly a work of art, despite the weeds choking the stone courtyard around the building. Bastions guide stomped heavily up the stone carved steps and pounded angrily on the great cast iron double doors that thudded and reverberated as Bastion stayed at the bottom of the small staircase.

A small slit opened in the middle of one of the doors, and a pair of sparkling green eyes peered out at them from beneath a pair of busy, white eyebrows. The brows met together in the center, then rose up out of sight when he took in Bastion at the bottom of the stairs. The slot shut with a sharp ‘fwt’. There was a moment of grinding and clanking and the heavy double doors swung inward to reveal a tiny, frail man with a large red nose, and a slightly crooked grin standing in an olive green tunic, blinking from the sun.

“What do you need, foreman? And who do you have with you? The lord of the house is not expecting guests!” The old man had a gruff, if not completely rude manner about him, in contrast to his friendly eyes and senile grin. Before the foreman had time to respond, Bastion took a step up the first stair, bringing him eye level with the other men.

“Bastion Thornwell, of Rosendale, my kind sir,” Bastion gave a slight bow to the older man but stopped short because of another man, not much older than himself, appearing in the doorway. The new arrival showed enough resemblance to the old man, with his sparkling green eyes, and big eyebrows raised in anxiety. ‘But with the difference in years….it must be his grandson’ Bastion reasoned. The old man seemed to ignore the arrival of his kin and inclined his head in turn to Bastion.

“My young lord, welcome to Estyria. My name is Frank Wesley, and I am the steward of this fine plantation. But what brings you to my lord, so far from your home?” Frank's eyebrows moved up and down, seemingly on their own accord like two albino caterpillars. Both the young arrival and the foreman showed their agitation at being ignored through this exchange. With a grunt, the foreman shoved the note at the old man and muttered something about getting back to his field. Waddling back down the stairs, kicking up dust on his way down the road, back to his field he went.