Darkness had fallen on the river ford, smoke drifting over the battlefield that the combatants had all conceded defeat upon before withdrawing. Bodies encased in armor, robes, or only rags lay in the churned muddy ground, in the shallows of the river, or slowly moved downriver with the current. Great war machines, still emitting multicolored arcane sparks from shattered runes and empowered crystals, lay scattered across the battlefield, in the shallows of the river, or jutted only head and shoulders from the black water.

Among the dead, small black scaled raptors moved. They were only waist high on a human male, but measured nearly seven feet from the tip of the snout to the end of their tails. Their powerful back legs allowed them to hop through the mud, although they left no tracks. In their clawed hands they held lanterns that shined with a pale yellow light, but did not cast light upon the ground, but rather just illuminated the bodies. Those bodies held within the lanterns glow either showed a pale, ghostly form still within the body, or the form standing next to the body. While the body might have been rent or torn from the savage battle, the spirit was unmarred.

These were the Daughters of the Black Moon, servants of the Son of the Black Moon, God of Souls, who found those who had fallen without ritual, without family, and without the blessings of the holy men. They were charged with finding and guiding souls to await judgment, so they did not wander the mortal plane.

Those who were dying the Daughters of the Black Moon knelt near, setting down their lanterns so that the raptors could cradle the heads. The gentle magics of the god they served flowed through their hands, bringing forth memories of family and more pleasant times to ease the dying's spirits, rather than anchor them to the pain, fear, and loneliness of a death on the battlefield.

Some few rebuked the lights of the Daughters of the Black Moon; duty, loyalty, and sometimes rage empowering their bodies past death, allowing them to deny death itself. These struggled to their feet, their eyes burning with fire, and they trudged from the battlefield to join their fellows who had withdrawn in defeat.

One small Maiden, the nails driven into her eyes copper rather than finer metals, knelt near one who was dying, reaching out for him. He sat up suddenly, causing her to jump back, her hand snatching her lantern as her powerful legs and tail flung her beyond the mortal man's reach. Once she landed she chastised herself for her foolishness, remembering that very few could touch her.

The armored figure sat up, groaning, one metal sheathed arm pressed against his stomach. His other hand sank into the mud as he pushed himself to his feet. The graven runes on his armor flickered to life, then slowly faded away, leaving the grey armored figure a dark shadow under the moonlight. He dug in the mud for a few moments, seeking the blade that fit comfortably in his hand. Surprisingly it was not only found, but intact, the runes that covered the blade igniting with cold amber fire before the blade was sheathed.

Pain filled Daln as he began to stagger from the battlefield, eager to leave it before ghouls arrived. The carnage of the last decade of the Lich King War had swelled their numbers, and battlefields drove them into a frenzy of hunger. Long ingrained habits made his fingers reach for his left forearm, pressing his index and middle fingers into large runes, inset with a precious gem that had been turned to liquid through magic and poured into the deep etching. The touch brought a flash as the runes engraved on the fingerpads of the gauntlet met with the runes, but just sparks spat angrily in the darkness.

Daln cursed himself, the gods, the powers that had brought about this battle, and the Fates themselves as the rune designed to cure him of all but the most horrific wounds failed. He tried another rune, that would repair even grievous damage to the armor, only to be met with more sparks and an arc of arcane energy that snarled up his arm for several inches.

Pain stabbed into his chest, and Daln knew from experience that broken ribs were jabbing into his body. Left unhealed, untreated, the splinters of bone that would break away would surely take his life.

He tried the last two runes. The first merely deadened pain, washed away fatigue, and pushed back thirst and hunger; the second struggled to perform minor repairs on his armor and the runes that covered it, only shifting the plates and knocking free the crusted blood and mud.

The pain gone, only the strange painless stabbing feeling in his chest remaining to warn him of his injuries, Daln kept moving, his innate sense of direction telling him he was heading west. Despite the loss of fatigue, his legs still felt leaden, heavy and clumsy, as if they weren't his own. Discipline and habits ingrained over decades of military service allowed him to keep marching, even though his brain was full of fog.

He had grown up only a few days travel from Nine Sheep Ford, where the savage battle had taken place. Everyone knew that the eternal IV had fallen, that the Blossom of Death himself, Gor duMay, had been destroyed. Both had been slain with the Iron Circle, over two years ago.

Nine Sheep Ford should never have happened. Only chance had made it so the Armies of Light, convinced that the Iron Legion had betrayed them by refusing to continue the war, and the Lich King Armies, angry over the withdrawal and perceived betrayal of the Stygian Wave, had caught the Iron Legion and the Stygian Wave as they had been crossing the river. The Stygian Wave and the Iron Legion, bitter foes before the loss of their leaders, had merely been returning home and had agreed to cross the river in equal numbers, so neither army would gain the advantage over the other. Both had found themselves fighting for their lives when the other two armies had attacked, war making allies out of bitter enemies who respected each other nonetheless.

The battle had raged for days, each side determined to destroy the other. Hatred and anger had ruled those days, as each army threw itself at the other with no holds barred. Daln himself had been caught waist deep in the river when the attacks had launched, his personal guard with him. They'd waded ashore, advancing into the charging masses of the Lich King Army; trusting in skills honed on countless battlefields, the best equipment the Six Worlds could provide, and legendary discipline.

Daln and his retinue had fought to the banks, then pressed inward, Daln rallying the scattered pockets of men, forming a lance he drove into the center of the Lich King forces to give the others still crossing the river time to get to shore.

He'd fallen on the last night, the thick chest plate of his armor caved in by a blow from a War Titan, and he'd been left as one of the uncounted dead. Left to the mercy of the Black Moon.

Daln kept reliving that battle as he moved forward, off the battlefield, and into the forest. When Daln had been young, the forest had been tamed; now it was wild with decades of overgrowth and old growth. Animals moved about, but Daln ignored them, half delirious in his state. Part of him was marching down the highways of the Six Worlds to the next battle, the rest of him struggling to get home. He was no longer aware of how far away from home he was, only that it was to the west, only that it was where he wanted to be.

More than one wounded of the Lich King War had died while staggering home, refusing the Black Moon, their body infused with unlife and the raw drive to return home. They had managed to attain their goal, only to slump to the ground, with Maidens of the Black Moon surrounding him to escort him to the Halls of the Dead and their eternal reward. Daln was unaware of the Maidens of the Black Moon keeping pace with him, watching him, curious as to whether or not he would become a Duty-Bound, surrender to his wounds, or manage to stay alive long enough to reach home.

At a signal only the Maidens could hear, all but the small one that had first encountered Daln withdrew, called away to where they were needed elsewhere. The small raptor moved in the shadows, vanishing when she crossed the beams of moonlight, a creature part of the world of the dead as much as the world of the living. She could feel the man's pain that was masked by the magic, feel his drive to return to his home, and watched what he was reliving.

She stayed with him, watching him stagger through the forest, until after all three moons had set; she felt the pull of a soul who was wrapped in despair and loneliness. Between one step and the next she vanished.

Daln was unaware of his fellow traveller, of her attention, of her concern for him, as he moved forward through the thinning forest and brush. The stubble of a field long given over to fallow came next, and he stumbled across the abandoned furrows, his eyes fixated on the buildings ahead, focused on a feeble light flickering in one of the buildings. His armor creaked with each step, the warped plating on his shoulder squealing whenever he moved his arm. All that mattered was that glow that grew nearer with every squealing step.

He did not hear the dulcet tones of the dirge being sung in the small cottage. If he had, he would have recognized it as the hymn for the dying, sang in sorrowful tones that spoke volumes in the singer's rich untrained voice.

The shoulder plates squealed as he reached one leaden and almost unresponsive arm to the heavy and cheerily painted red-oak door, the pain of bone punctured muscle unfelt. He pushed, harder than he meant to, pushing the door from the frame to crash to the floor.

In front of a small fire, lying on a pile of blankets that were stained and dirty with age, lay a young woman. Her face was thin from hunger, her eyes dark and haunted, and in one hand she held a virtue dagger, the blade painted with runes begging for forgiveness and mercy. Her skin was a rich mocha color, her honey colored hair tangled and dirty, and her brown eyes full of loneliness and sorrow.

Around her wrist was a braid of her own hair that wound around her hand, tied off to the guard of the virtue dagger, binding the dagger to her hand.

When Daln burst in she merely turned her head, tears making clean tracks down her dirty face, resignation in her eyes as the massive armored figure burst into the room with her. The point of the dagger dug into the inside of elbow, preparing to draw the razor-sharp blade up and across her forearm to open the thick veins beneath the skin.

Her eyes widened when the figure didn't advance, instead fell forward, the armor squealing as the limbs went spread-eagled. She jumped as the massive armored man fell to the floor with a crash, dust puffing up from the stained and moldy carpets. She could hear his rasping and struggling breath as she stared, and felt the fear leave her.

At last, for the first time in weeks, another living person. Clad in the armor of the Iron Legion, the army that had defied the Lich Kings, faced the Stygian Wave, and pulled the yoke of slavery from the shoulders of the peoples of the Six Worlds, the person in the armor was less a threat than she had expected.

She moved toward him instinctively, then paused, remembering that despite his armor the figure was still a man, and men were not to be trusted. Her eyes narrowed, and the grip on the dagger changed. Despite his heavy armor he was unconscious, unmoving, and she knew that a thrust under the lip of the helmet, where the underside joined the neck-guard, and he would be dead, unable to harm her.

She crawled forward, her eyes slitted with hate, intending on slitting the man's throat, when a shadow resolved before her. Sleek scales, large soulful eyes pierced by copper nails, a lantern held in one hand that the Daughter of the Black Moon was shining on the armored figure.

"No!" she cried out, thoughts of murder pushed aside at the terror of being alone again.

She scrambled over to him, throwing herself across him as if to shield the man from the herald and servant of the god of souls. She held out one hand to deny the night black female kobold, crying out in wordless denial, her eyes closed tightly with fear of both the armored figure breathing below her and the sight of the servant of the Son of the Black Moon.

Reaching out with her other hand, the Daughter of the Black Moon touched the forehead of the now weeping young woman, a small spark jumping from the woman's skin to the kobolds sharp talon, sticking there like a brightly burning snowflake, intricate and beautiful. She lifted the spark to her snout and exhaled sharply, the spark drifting from her talon, swirling through the air to fall onto and through the grey armor and into the man.

Heading the intricate chorus of the Fates that made up the backdrop of her existence, the small Daughter of the Black Moon withdrew into the shadows, moving fully back to the Lands of the Dead, but watching the two closely. Neither's survival was woven firmly into the Tapestry of Life, and so she would patiently keep watch.

The woman felt the stillness that surrounded the small kobold suddenly vanish and opened her eyes. She glanced around, searching for the divine figure, but found nothing but the inside of the cottage.

She tried to roll the figure over, but the weight of the thick armor and the man inside was too much for her. She gave up, slumping across the figure again, her thin chest heaving. She had been without food for a few days, and her strength was a wan thing.

The figure's helmet front was a graven mask of a handsome man, and she could see the closed eyes of the mask and briefly wondered how the man could see through the steel mask. Her fingers were trembling as she felt around it, finding a small catch below the chin. Fearing what she might find, the horrid visage of an ancient Duty Bound or Loyalty Bound Knight, or a cruel man turned to banditry, she paused for a moment to gather her courage. She was still trembling, a tear running down her cheek from the fear, when she undid the catch.

The mask suddenly seemed to stiffen, no longer the face of a sleeping man, but a stern man. There was a flicker of arcane, with several sparks jumping from the deep grooves that marred the masks, and the mask suddenly parted down the center, smoothly swinging open.

She stared at the face, surprised by what was revealed. A soft face, hardened by warfare but not unkind in sleep. The eyelashes were longer than she expected a man to have, and his lips full even if they were marred here and there by old scars across them. His brown skin was scarred here and there, but the unconscious man was not made cruel by them in the young woman's eyes. After over a century of brutal warfare for the future of the Six Worlds, few the woman had seen were unscarred. While the face didn't alarm her, the thread of blood pulsing from the corner of his mouth disturbed her. The dark red blood was something she had seen before, and it never bode well.

The man's eyelids fluttered open, and his eyes took a moment to focus on her.

"Alben." The man gasped. "Wret duAlben." His eyes closed again, the man lapsing back into unconsciousness.

The words were familiar to the young girl. Alben was a kingdom a few days away; wealthy, powerful, and largely intact even with the war. Wret was a small city on the border, and 'duAlben' meant 'of Alben', which her vague knowledge of geography confirmed that it was indeed Alben he was worried about.

"You need to move, Messier." She said, using the honorific for someone of unknown rank. "Please, Messier, you need to move further in so I can close the door."

The man groaned. His eyes did not open, but his arm swung above his head with the squeal of metal on metal. Fingers dug into the wood, cracking the floorboards, and the arm slowly pulled the man forward almost as if it was moving on its own. The feet of the figure moved a few feet, and the figure repeated the motion again, and again, and again, until the helmet bumped against the leg of the table. The hand relaxed, going limp, and only the sound of the man's breathing gave hint that he still lived.

Nervously the girl pushed the door back up, the weight of the door and effort leaving her slumped against the door once she'd braced it with a moldy chair. She shook uncontrollably for many minutes, breathing heavy with fatigue, sharp stabbing pains in her stomach. Finally she could trust herself to move and she crawled on her hands and knees next to the figure, laying next to him and staring into his face.

"Please, don't die, Messier, and leave me alone." She pleaded, tears coming again. "I can't bear it again."

She stared at his face as the sun rose, unable or unwilling to move, willing the stranger to live. She sang softly to him, songs of warmth, of summer, of hearth and home, of life and love. Twice she reached out and stroked his cheek with her dirty fingertips, relishing the warmth of the man's skin and the physical sensation of no longer being alone.

In the shadows the small kobold felt the pain from the young woman and keened softly in sympathy for her. To the ink black raptor what she did was not cruel, life was cruel, and what she watched inside the small cottage made fat tears of sorrow roll from her eyes and down her long supple neck. Their emotions drew her, washed over her, and made her long to gather them up so their deceased loved ones could welcome them to their eternal reward and away from the pain that filled them both.

But the Fates' chorus sustained her, gave her the will to withhold her blessing from them. Their song was growing stronger, not weaker.

She still watched from the shadows, unwilling to leave them alone. She stood silent vigil as the sun rose and the cottage warmed. Twice she moved forward and stroked the sleeping girl's hair, crooning softly to her, the woman's nightmares making the small kobold weep in sympathy. Her long taloned fingers combed through the dirty hair as she made soothing crooning noises to the sleeping woman. As the dreams faded and the woman slowly rose from the Sea of Dreams toward wakefullness and the man's pain pulled him from dreamless slumber, the black kobold withdrew to the shadows, out of the sight of the living.

But still she watched as the man's eyes opened and he groaned in pain. The girl jerked awake, her arms coming up over her head and she squealed in fear.

"Easy, girl, easy." The man said, coughing.

Blood trickled from his mouth with each cough. He felt like his armor was crushing his chest, like a dragon had him in its claws, something he'd felt before.

The girl stopped, her back against the wall next to the fireplace, where only embers remained. Her eyes were wide in terror and she held her virtue dagger pointed at the man, her arm trembling with the effort.

"Where am I?" The man asked, coughing again. He groaned, and brought his arms over his head, his fingers fumbling to touch the two runes that still worked on his forearm. The lines of pain on his face eased as the magic did its work, sweeping away the pain and clearing his mind.

"I... I do not know." The girl admitted.

When the man rolled onto his back she curled up tighter, still pointing her virtue dagger at him. She jumped when the armor squealed as he sat up, and jumped again when the metal on metal shriek sounded as he levered himself up and struggled to his feet.

Daln looked at the small cottage, taking in the dust, the dirt, the mold, the animal nests in the corners and the rafters. The cottage had been deserted for a long time, possibly years. Daln wondered just how long the young girl had been living in the cottage.

"Where is everyone else?" He asked gently, leaning against the wall.

He banged on the defunct runes on his forearm with a mailed fist, shaking his head when touching them only produces sparks and snarls of arcane energy feedback that danced across the metal plates.

"There is just me." The girl admitted.

"Do you have a name?" Daln asked. He made sure his voice was gentle, realizing that the girl would likely panic if he moved quickly or spoke sharply. She shook her head and he frowned. "You don't remember, or you don't have one?"

She stared at him for a moment. "I do not have one." She admitted.

Daln sighed. It was not unheard of, and usually a sorrowful tale was involved. Judging from her rags that passed as clothing, the virtue dagger that belonged to a young noblewoman's daughter with blackened runes showing that the owner was dead, and her appearance, he was willing to bet his sword that she was orphaned, and had been for some time.

"Do you live here?" Daln asked.

"Now." She admitted. "Soldiers will come and I will run away so they will not hurt me."

Daln shook his head, the open flaps of his mask squeaking slightly. "I will not let them hurt you, little one." He said softly.

When he looked up the girl gasped and pressed herself tighter against the wall, her knees coming up so she could hug her thin legs tightly to herself.

"Have people been hurting you, little one?" Daln asked.

The girl nodded. "If I cannot run fast enough. It hurts, but the pain goes away after a day or two." She shrugged. "When my belly was large, it was hard to run." She shrugged again. "When it came out, it was easier to run away then."

Daln clenched his fists, the plating of the gauntlets squealing, as the young woman spoke of abuse in the same tones she would use to tell someone that it was raining. "Your child, what happened to it, young one?"

She made another shrug, her thin shoulders rising and falling under her rags. "It never cried or breathed. The night lizards came for its tiny soul, and I hid its body under some bushes so the animals didn't eat it." Her stomach rumbled at that and she looked ashamed. "I thought about eating it, it was fat, and I was so hungry."

Daln didn't react. He had seen how low the war had brought so many people. He could remember ancient cities burning, kingdoms that had stood for the lifetime of elves cast down and destroyed, and the people starving, desperate, tearing at each other as well as the governments that had failed them. Still, it rent his heart to hear it spoken in such unemotional tones.

"Come with me and I will protect you." Daln said. In the land of the dead the small kobold opened her fanlike ears and leaned forward, her toenails clicking and the tip of her long hair twitching. The sound of the Fates Chorus was swelling as Daln kept speaking. "You have the word of House Ralvden."

The girl stared at the large figure in the armor. To her eyes he was more a huge man made of metal that happened to have a face of flesh. The runed plates were scarred, melted in places, and she could see that many of the runes and inlaid gems were badly damaged. Still, he was a fearsome figure, different than the soldiers and bandits that had chased her for as long as she could remember, but still a figure to be feared.

Still, she had little fear of the man. The man inside the armor looked exhausted to her, with pain showing in the lines on his face. As she watched he coughed, covering his mouth with the back of his right hand, the shoulder plates screaming as his right arm moved. When the gauntlet dropped she could see that the man had coughed a fine rest mist of droplets onto the metal.

He's dying. The young woman thought to herself. She had seen that before in people who got wet-lung or had fallen hard onto their side and landed on a rock, or that soldiers had hit in the stomach or side too hard.

"Where will we go?" The young woman asked, her voice shaking. While the man was scary, there was always safety in numbers, and the man certainly looked capable of handling any bandits.

"To Alben, to my home in Wret duAlben." The man answered, then coughed again. "We should get moving soon, while we have daylight." He gestured at the window, which had survived with all four glass panes still intact somehow. "We need to move on, and find shelter by nightfall." He looked around. "Gather up your food and belongings, and I will make sure you do not fall behind."

The girl stood up slowly, still feeling slightly frightened by the man, and moved over to the pad of blankets that she had intended on sleeping upon. She pulled up several grimy blankets, setting them over her thin shoulders. She dug the scabbard out for the dagger that was still bound to her hand and shoved it into a rent in the quilt that she'd layered on the outside of the blankets she had over her shoulders. The flexible metal clip at the back of the scabbard held it tightly in place. She brought the dagger and the hand it was bound to up to her mouth and chewed through the hair she'd woven and wound with her sharp yellow teeth.

Daln noticed the girl's lack of hygiene and added it into the reasons that the girl had probably never had an actual home.

Once the dagger was loose she sheathed it and moved over toward the armored figure, stopping just out of the man's reach if he was to lunge at her with outstretched arms. She gathered the blankets about her, looking more like an ambulatory pile of rags than a young girl.

"Get your food." Daln told her again.

She shook her head and Daln frowned. "No food." She told him. "No rats." Her stomach rumbled. "Rat would be good."

Daln stared at the young girl for a long moment then moved to the still upright table. His left leg dragged behind him, squealing every time he swung his leg forward. Daln couldn't feel anything wrong in his leg, despite the use of the rune that swept away pain, fatigue, and hunger. It felt like his armor was warped, or perhaps was out of place. Unlike his right leg, his spur was still intact on his left leg, making the ringing noise sound off to Daln.

He stopped by the table, reaching into the small bag tied to a loop of metal on the waist of his armor, his arm disappearing to halfway up his forearm. He rummaged around for a moment and pulled out a steel vial. Daln opened it, sniffed at it, then nodded before pouring what looked like a thin stream of mist onto the table. The mist billowed up as Daln untipped the vial and screwed the top back on. The mist suddenly rippled and solidified into a loaf of bread, a quarter wheel of cheese with wax covering, some butter cubes, and two apples with a lime.

"Eat." Daln told the young girl, moving back from the food. He watched as she waited until there was no way the Daln could quickly and easily grab her, then fell on the food like an avalanche. She ripped off huge hunks of the bread, barely chewing, tore apart an apple with her sharp yellow teeth, ate the butter cubes whole, and kept shoving food into her mouth until Daln stepped toward her. She backed off as Daln blocked her from the food.

"Stop, little one, you'll get sick." Daln told her, reaching down and picking up the remainder of the bread. He tore a chunk off and tossed it to the girl before eating the larger piece. When he was done he picked up the lime, peeling it and then pulling it in half. "Eat it. It is sour, but you need it." He said. She bit into it, made a face, and shook her head.

"Eat. Now." Daln growled. She started, then shoved the whole thing in her mouth. The sour taste brought tears to her eyes, but she chewed and swallowed quickly.

"I know, it tastes terrible." He smiled. The girl noticed that several of his front teeth had been replaced by metal implants. "But it will keep you from getting sick."

The girl nodded, making a face at the taste. Daln held out a wineskin from off of his weaponbelt and the girl took it, gulping greedily at the cool water that tasted slightly of lemon, making it tart. She made another face and Daln chuckled again.

"Come on." He said, moving to the door. His ribs were still stabbing into him, but having company, even on a rainy and overcast day, made him feel much better.

The girl kept a few steps back, scurrying from cover to cover as she moved through the abandoned town. Several buildings had been burnt down, and in a few places Daln noticed bones lying scattered in the grass. Whatever had happened to the village had happened months or years before. While it wasn't his beloved Alben, it was close enough to make him fear for his home. Alben had been prosperous, and had rebelled against the Lich Kings early.

He found himself pressed to keep up, his legs leaden and always feeling like he was out of breath. The young girl flitted from cover to cover, never exposing herself for long. He was reminded of the Goblin Storm Marines, or the Kobold Lightning Strikers in the way she moved, maximizing her cover and minimizing her exposure. Every time his heavy steel covered boots landed on a branch she'd freeze in place if she was in cover or scurry to cover and freeze.

Near darkness she came scurrying back, motioning at him to hurry up. He noticed that her hand movements were a combination of Stygian Wave, Iron Legion, and Lich King Scout hand-signs, probably picked up from fellow refugees.

She led him to a fortress, the walls tumbled down, the towers shattered, much of the rock showing arcane damage and chipping from sheets of steel tipped arrows striking it. The girl didn't go straight in, but rather around to the side, where the breached section of the wall was open and allowed the rock strewn courtyard to be easily seen. Daln could see the remains of the feed-shack near the tumbled down stables still stood, its slate roof still intact. He leaned against a section of wall that had collapsed, tapping the rune to ease the pain in his chest and hip. He wasn't entirely sure what had happened to his hip, but judging from the melting on the plates around it he was willing to bet he had been hit by magic.

The young girl popped out of the doorway to the feed shack and motioned at him, making a blood-wren call. He moved quickly over to her, staying to the long shadows, unaware that twice he passed through the small black raptor that still watched over them.

Inside the shack was dusty, with thick cobwebs that the girl paid no attention to as she quickly went through the rotted wreckage that still remained. She found part of a wool horse blanket and a leather strap that wasn't in too bad of condition. She hung the blanket on the strap, then buckled the strap around her waist to add another layer of clothing.

Dahl shut the door, his magically altered eyesight adapting instantly to the dark. The girl was squatting in the corner, near a pile of moldy wheat, relieving herself, watching just to the right of Dahl with narrowed eyes as urine splashed. He watched her cover up the puddle with the moldy grain, then move to the other corner. She dropped the blankets off her shoulders, made a nest, and burrowed into it like a small animal.

"I have heat." Dahl told her. There was a startled squeak from the blankets and he chuckled, digging into one of the pouches on his weapon's belt until he came out with a small brick inscribed with runes. He set it in the middle of the floor, tapped several runes, and sighed deeply as warmth rolled off of the brick.

"What about your armor?" The girl asked. He glanced at her and saw that all he could see of her was her eyes, watching out of a gap of the now steaming blankets.

"No war-smith, I can't take it off." He told her, shrugging with the squeal of bent plates.

"Then be quiet." The girl hissed at him.

Her rumbling stomach disobeyed her orders.

"Here." Daln said softly, tossing her a roll of bread pulled from the small pouch. Her hand darted from her nest to snatch the roll, vanishing. The gleaming eyes watched him even as he could hear her chewing on the roll.

The girl watched Daln open his mask again, noting how his brown skin was pale and he had a blood stain on his chin. The inside of the mask was spattered from where he'd coughed fine sprays of blood against it. For a moment she could almost see the Maiden of the Black Moon again, hovering over him in the shadows.

"Will you die?" She asked softly. The thought of being alone again made her almost weep.

"All things die, even the gods, even immortals." Daln told her, slowly sliding down the wall to a sitting position. His breathing was tight again, the band tightening across his chest again. Daln stared at the young girl's bright eyes. "I, myself, saw immortals, gods, demons, and angels struck down during the Valley of the Stacked Skulls. I almost died myself, but I was rescued by the Iron Legion."

The girl still watched him, her eyes bright. The blankets that were covering her were steaming in the lightless heat given off by the thick rune covered brick. He knew she couldn't see him, but silently approved of her watchfulness. At first he had thought that she was trying to watch him, but had quickly realized she was watching the entrance to the feed-shack. Only a single door led into the tone building, and he dimly remembered his trainer's voice telling him that if there is only one way in, there is only one way out.

"What will happen to me when we get to your home?" She asked. Daln could hear the vulnerability in her voice, her fear of being cast out or abused.

"You will be rewarded for saving me." He said softly. "Without you, I would be dead already." It was painful to admit, but her presence gave him a reason to keep going beyond just getting home. She needed protection, and the House of Ralvden did not abandon those in need. "You will be welcome to stay, and since I doubt that you have any skills beyond mere survival, I will personally ensure that you are apprenticed to a master that will teach you skills you will excel at."

"Why?" The girl asked.

"You earned it, by saving me, girl." Daln answered, then chuckled. "In Alben, you get what you work for."

"Oh." She said softly. Her stomach rumbled again, and Daln answered it with a chuckle, tugging out another roll and tossing it to her. Once again she snatched it out of the air. When she bit into it, cheese and spiced beef gushed into her mouth and she gasped in pleasure. She wolfed the roll down and licked her fingers clean.

When she was done she noticed the large armored warrior was asleep. She stayed awake as long as possible, watching the door. She heard him cough off and on, the coughing sounding wet, tearing, and he often groaned in pain in his sleep.

Eventually sleep took her, and the only one in the ruins whose eyes were open was the small black kobold, who watched over the two, listening carefully to the Fate's Chorus.

Daln awoke with a jerk, his sword half-drawn, the blade lighting up with a flash as arcane energy filled the complex and ornate runes, as the gems poured into the engraving lit up with an internal fire. The girl screamed, burrowing deeper into her nest, as Daln caught a flash of long thin leg and a bruise smudged buttock as she scrambled to hide herself. A half eaten rat had been dropped on the ground, the entrails already sucked out of the ragged hole in the abdomen, its eyes missing and the top of the skull chewed away to reveal she'd eaten the brain.

Daln slammed his sword back into the scabbard, biting off a groan of pain as the squealing of the damaged armor plates mirrored the agony from his shattered ribs stabbing into his chest. He coughed, covering his mouth with the back of his palm, and took some comfort in the fine mist of blood was not thicker than it had been the day before. Perhaps he would survive his wounds after all.

"Come out, girl." Daln ordered, then coughed again. "We're safe, I had merely been ridden by a night hag."

She peeked from the blankets, and Daln noticed that the damp of the blankets had cleaned her face. While the blankets had dried in the night, they'd still mostly cleaned her skin, even if her hair was still mostly tangled except a wide section in the back, and very very dirty.

"Hags?" She asked, her voice timid. She glanced around, as if expecting something to leap out of the rubbish and cobwebs at her.

"They come at night, drawn by dreamers, and give them nightmares so that they can ride their spirits on their foul errands." Daln explained. He shuddered like he'd just been doused with cold water. "They are the heralds and crafters of nightmares."

"Is it gone?" the girl asked.

Daln chuckled. "Yes. They do not interact with the waking, and cannot be seen. They are evil spirits, nothing more."

"Oh."

"Eat." Daln said, digging back into his ration pouch. He was glad he'd filled it just before that last clash that had left him unconscious on the battlefield. He had twenty days of food for someone of his magically enhanced metabolism, and he doubted that the thin girl could eat enough to really change the amount by more than a day. He had decided to carry that much after letting his commander know that once the Iron Legion had crossed the river he and his retinue would be making the journey to Alben and home.

He set three rolls on the brick, which was still putting out a cozy warmth. It was old magic, used by practically everyone to heat homes, and of great value to military forces. The brick would last a long time, getting slowly smaller over time as the magic consumed the compressed coal and alchemist brewed chemicals the coal had been soaked in.

When the girl reached for the brick, he stopped her. "Let it warm, it'll melt the cheese and warm the meat." His own stomach rumbled in time with hers. "Trust me, they're better that way."

The girl watched him, confused still by his kindness. She'd expected him to ravish her at his first opportunity, then expected him to leave her behind, rob her of her meager scavenged possession, or at least demand favors from the food he so willingly shared. It wouldn't be the first time for any of it.

Perhaps his armor prevented him from acting on the same urges so many others had? He said he could not remove it without aid.

"They're ready." Daln told her, picking up one of the rolls and tossing it to her. She snatched it out of the air and ducked back into the blankets. Daln chuckled, watching her blankets move as she ripped into the roll. He picked up the two for him, tapping on the rune to cool the brick. It clicked softly as they both ate, cooling enough for him to drop it back into the pouch.

"What now?" The girl asked, handing back the wineskin, water dribbling down her chin.

"We walk." Daln told her, coughing.