The Stories Told Winds Above The Garrison

[Karwelas]

[A towering stonefolk, standing at the top of Garrison of Misfortune, the Fourth Legion. He stands, looking toward the night sky, in his Jannisary gear and as the winds move his cloak, as ash is tossed through his shoulder. He whispers, to the winds, as they listen - and only to them, safeguarding himself by a symbol of Warrior and a prayer...]

[hide="The Days of Baz'eel"]
Welcome back, o winds.

The City of Gardens. Chair of Sultan. Wonder of Desert. Diamond among Ashes. The ancient city, polished and peaceful, to a point of shine. The green gardens among the water channels, so fresh and mirthful - the hours of walks lost between these, carrying things and helping the family. Learning, yearning and feeling. Yes, Adu. Do you remember that time? Do you remember your family and stories from Singers, told among shades of archs and columns?  Many titles, many legacies, many thoughts within the walls. But for some of us, simpler, much simpler word.

Home.

I remember, o winds, when the Tablet of Great Baz'eel finally released me from its area - the time I spent learning. How to be a servant - an art, something few without knowledge would consider. To be a servant, a good one, is an art. And my family served the Legions for years untold. A legacy to live to, without a doubt. I still remember my father, telling me the rules, the ones who are expected and the ones I should know regardless of what my master or mistress shall wish. The best way to serve boar meat, how to clear the stains from robes in yellow hue, how to wash with sands, when there is no water in sight. Yes, many lessons. All of them useful. Thank you, Father. I thank you.

The day, I remember like yesterday. They took me to introduce me to my new master - one, that I did not know, would be my only Master. So it was made. The road, through the night - Master always prefered the darkness of the night for meetings and wine tasting, as well as planning... I saw the starts and I thought of what life was ahead of me. Of who I would become. Of my duties - the duties, most important. I remember walking through the arches of great restaurant - as my Master wished to meet me over between meetings with his fellow Jannisaries. Sergeant, at that time. I remember walking and smelling dishes I could not name, at the time, of spices I would learn to know by heart, while helping in the kitchens. Other, more illegal substances, smoked and ingested. And then we approached the table, in much more humble chamber of the garden than I expected - one more suitable of an officer of Jannisaries.

He sat behind the table, wearing an armor - a parade one, of course, made much more comforable. An Ashfolk, in middle age, with short, black hair. One of his eyes was marked by a small tattoo - something of a recruit years, as I learned, much, much later. A bet made and lost. The word means much, to Sattar family - an oath given stands. He looked at me, from above pipe and bunch of documents, before blinking and learning forward. He nodded to the Jannisary escorting me and beckoned me to sit down, by the table. I remember it like it was yesterday...

"Ah, yes." he nodded. "You must be Abu." he spoke, not waiting for confirmation. "You cousin, you have to know, was servant of my family for years - many years, in fact. My father spoke grand things of him, while he was alive, may Twindari grand him peace. Before he retired from his service to Tablet, he told me of you.", he looked at me, for first time in this talk. Right in the eyes. Like searching for something in it. "He told me that you have -potential-. And that is something I look in people who serve me, even among these who take care of my house. Do you consider yourself good servant?"

"This one was trained by his father and his father's father." I spoke, calmly, hidding my nervousness. "He shall be one who you need - all you need to do, is to give an order or instruction."

Maimun smiled and nodded. "Well spoken, indeed. You shall be given your chance. You start tommorow - at the dawn. Meet with head of my service, by the gates of my family's residence." he nodded, sending me away with a gesture, as I bowed and turned around. He spoke, once again, suddenly. "And Adu... do not fail me. I dislike to make mistakes about people, you see." he said.

And I knew that mistake, I wouldn't be.
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[hide="The Toil"]
The weeks made into months. The months, made into years. The time has no mercy, for anyone. But as it is, it does not mean that the time passing has to be sad or painful - not always, at least.

I remember the toil - the Master's Majordomo was harsh, but fair man. Trained well, as I learned, by his life among the Rings. One of Ringrunners, as it was said - finding his home in our Great Ash Desert. He quickly caught on life of Mother Baz'eel and became a man savvy in its ways. Izdu's blessing, he used to say, when we drank the wines gifted us by the Master, years after my training. I would never pressume him to be my friend, after my first whipping, for dropping a flask of rare indeed drink.  He whipped not to harm, but to deal pain. It was brief and shameful experience. But I was not one of the young brats, who wished to earn some coin. I knew mistake was mine and mine alone. I remember, his face surprised, when I did not scoff at him with hateful look, but instead, asked for advice.

Master, as any ashfolk noble, was a man of his habits. His favourite mizzar pipe had to be cleaned only with rosewater, as it have the huffs pleasant to his tastes. His mizzar itself had to be dried, only with rosewood. Curious taste, for roses, so. However, his habits were also what made him an excellent officer. He had discipline and wit few could match and hid it well. I learned it in more than one way, during many times he cleaned his chambers. He enjoyed speaking to me, while he was sitting above documents and speaking to his scribe. More often then not, he tried to ask me about something, which could reveal a fact from more than private talks - he was checking me. And I saw that I was, somehow, passing his tests. He called me more and more often. For his journeys, for parties, for dinners. This one was by his side more and more. One day, after especially harsh party, he told me - between using a bucket...

"You are worth of your cousin praise, Adu. Know this and be proud." he said, weakly. "I am glad I listened to his words."

And that meant more for me then a word of praise from my Father himself.
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[hide="The Hour of Trial"]
Pra'raj is without mercy. He is an enemy of life itself - during many years of travels with my Master, I felt him burn my skin with hateful gaze for hours untold. Days, after days, of travelling whenever Third Legion was called. The Third Legion, my second home - or rather, my Master's. A Sergeant, at the time. Commander of small squad of men - some locals, some outsiders. I learned them all by name - even if they did not refer me by so. This was my duty, as a servant, to always know when my Master ask, even by saying one word or just voicing a thought. I learned them, as he did - by their character, likes, dislikes and opinions. I was, finally, his ears and eyes.  He had to know what ails his men, even when he didn't speak with them. Time is harsh mistress, but thankfully, servants exist, as he used to say.

I have never killed a person, before that day. I had a weapon, in my hands, a few times - receiving a gift from a fellow Jannisary officer and cleaning them, presenting them to guests on Master's orders - he enjoyed his collection. But to kill, no. I saw people killed. I saw them wounded - many times, I carried Jannisaries of Third, under command of my Master. I saw them live and die. I ate bread and gruel they did, I served it to them. For many, I was not even worth of a name - but that was fine, for I knew I serve my Master.  I felt how Jannisaries live by, serve by and die by. I served, as they did, the Sultan, serving my Master. And it was rightful to do so.

Some, however, began to notice me. They asked me things - I think, it started on fifth time I served with them. One man, with eye cut by an Melek blade, pointed by me. I remembered him. I carried him out of many caves of the Great Ash Desert and he told that I saved his life. He approached me... and pat my arm.

"Hey, Adu. Do you have some free time tonight? We plan a bit of drinking and I every single day, I see you working your ass of for Sarge. You should rest a bit." he said, with a grin across his face.

"This one has his duties, Soldier." I said, carefully. "But if Sergeant allows me, he will be happy to spend some time with you."

Master only smiled from above his paper, nodding to me. "You are free to go, Adu. It would be horribly inappropriate to not allow a man who you saved to celebrate his life with its saviour, would it not?" From that time on, this one had served with Jannisaries... or so he was told. Despite being only a servant, he was refered to, as one of them. It felt weird, almost alien - but it was good to belong. O Warrior, if I understood what they felt back then, I would repay their friendships tenfold. But that was to change even further...

I - it is hard to speak of that time. It is hard to remember the moment when all of things were on the blade of a knife and the pain that I felt in my chest. I remember it still, for it was a moment when all of this changed - for the better, this one is asked, often, by people of the Well. 'For the better, Adu? Are you content? Are you happy?' Am I happy? Am I content? My question is - does it matter? Does it matter so much, for them? Or is it a question for that one that died, that day? i have no idea and what I believe... matters little. But yes. Yes. Yes!

The Ash Storms of that age were nothing, compared to the ones that came after Ringfall. Few ask, if there were any, but they were. This day was harsh on everyone. Pra'raj had no mercy even more so - I saw men and women of Jannisaries and servants, the outsiders, faint from the heat. The order was given - strike a camp in shadow of the oasis. We need to stop, the commanders said. We all were glad, so glad. Then, the Ash Storm came. The anger of ash upon us, encamped within the source of water, among scorching sands, burning the Life of Mother from our veins. We were tired, dirty and barely standing from the day's march and barely could move to set up the tents... rarely one sees even the officers to toil in the heat of the moment - but Ash Storms take no orders, nor capitives.

When night came, we all prayed. To Warad, Guardian of the Roads. I remember this prayer, still echoing in my ears. "Guard us - from Ash, from the wheel in cart broken, from the hungry jackal and curved blade in the night..." Curved blade in the night, a tool of a bandit, of a scum, of a water-thief. And, despite our prayer, the came, under the cloak of ash. They were desperate, I was told later. They did not expect to find a quarter of a Legion camped by their water-stop. And they attacked, like lions cornered by hunger of their young.

I saw at Master's tent, at that moment. I tried to keep the mizzar warm for the Master's pipe. He sat there, on one of the lounge chair, barely awake. That day took a great toll upon him and his force, more so on his guards. But they stood, bravely, in the storm. But from this ash, a fiend came, to sneak upon our tent. I remember the cover rip apart, when curved blade cut it, blinding us with wave of ash. I gasped, shielding my eyes as Master raised, vide eyed, to stare upon the man who walked in... despite the years, I still remember his face. Twisted by anger and fury, calling forth Wroth for taking their place by the water. He looked at us and grinned, with yellow and broken teeth twisting in the mouth. He did not see any of the Jannisaries, for there were none inside. He muttered, but I heard his words, freezing my heart and soul.

"I will gut you open like a pig, Sultan's whore." he said, his voice hoarse, as he took first step. And then another. And another. Master raised and yelled for soldiers. Another, faster. I remember it, like a painting from Baz'eelian Academies, hanging upon the wall of Master's family manor. I remember how world froze, like my heart, my very soul. My hand moving forward, without my reaction. I felt - something, which I could not know, at the time - how the world twists into two paths. In one of them, I would do nothing. The man would rush forward and impale the man I loved like my own family. I would see his death, repaid by his own death, as Soldiers would rush inside and shoot and stab him to death. I would be myself, but my Master would die.

And in the other... I remember grabbing something, of wooden handle. I remember a roar, a thundering sound humming inside of my head like a drum, as my knees moved forward, my muscles hurting. I remember as the man turned toward me and for first time, I saw a fear in his eyes. I saw an image in his irisies, something which would curb blood in my veins as well, if I were there. A towering stonefolk, rushing toward him, roaring, with an ceremeonial axe snatched from the table. One of many gifts of my Master's friends. He thrusted his blade up, to stop the stike.

Another, move toward the cupboard, to support himself. A desperate jumps as the blade strikes the sparks on top of it, as the axe almost pulls it away from his hand by the strike. A desperate stab, missing its target. A desperate defence - for first time, I felt blood on my face, as his shoulder was struck apart by the axe. I heard his scream and my eyes were covered by red liquid. I struck. Again. And again. He raised his curved blade, grasping it with second hand, trying to hold my axe away as I raised and STRUCK.

I have never seen a blade to break apart, from a strike, before. I did not think it was even possible. But I saw it, the crumbs of copper hurting my face. I saw how the axe hits and strikes his head, I saw the skin and muscle and even bone itself to give way. I saw how life in his eyes disappears as he looks at me, with scream cut apart. I felt all of it, on my face.

And then, I died. He died. This one died. Adu Lar, the servant, the stonefolk of old... died. And... I was born.

I remember vomiting, despite all my effort not to dirty the Master's carpets. I remember Soldiers running it and freezing in place, as they saw man next to me, I rememeber collapsing backwards, and looking at the Master. I saw fear in his face. On all of their faces. But a moment later, it disappeared. I saw something else - respect. Gratitude. Even praise. I remember it only for a brief moment, before spasms of my body made me almost faint.  When I came to my senses, the battle was over. Almost no loses on our side... and one less, I was told. Thank to my efforts. Master came to me and... hugged me. We talked, for whole night. About killing. About Kinslaying. About being a warrior and what it means to take a life. He asked me: "Do you regret?" And I was ashamed to say, that I was not. I did not regret taking a life, for I was protecting one I promised to serve. I did not tell him that I did not kill one person... but two.

Soon after, Master arranged meeting with priest of the Axe, his long time friend. I learned much, from him - but that, o winds, is a story for another time. I remember his teachings - of Warrior-Protector, for the first life I took was to protect another. I was destinied, he say, to serve Protector. And for a year, I trained. O Warrior, I know you remember this, for I split blood in your name, my blood, many times. Then another. Then I was taken into the Church... and I felt You. O my Patron, o Warrior.

Warrior, O Warrior. Please let my friends and enemies battles be glorious.
Warrior, O Warrior. Please let their stories sound through the ages and their glories be remember.
Warrior, O Warrior. Please let us protect these who cannot protect themselves and find their own glory in their battles, of many battlefields.
Warrior, O Warrior. Please let me never forget that All Life is a Conflict, for each step taken and each breath inhaled is a fight against the death itself - for even crafter fights against the earth and wood, as he builds, for even diplomat fights war when he calls for peace, for even lover fights against apathy to captue heart of another.
Warrior, O Warrior. Please let me serve well for my Sultan, for my Bey and for my commander and friends.
Warrior, O Warrior. When time comes, Let me Die Well.

I ask for none more.
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