Pain rolled over Daln, forcing him out of a peaceful dim place, where he had been dwelling in a forested glade while peepers played around him. They had been singing, dancing, chasing butterflies and dragonflies, and playing their innocent games. He had been wrapped in his armor, his blade grounded by the tip into the soft rich loam of the glade.

Then the pain began. Making his breath hitch as it pierced him deeply. The peepers viewed his pained gasps with alarm, leaving off with their games and running over to him. As the pain speared deeper they joined hands in a circle around him, dancing and peeping. He felt himself start to fade away, the breeze no longer cool on his face, the rich smell of loam and the perfume of the flowers and berries lessening until it was nothing but a memory.

A small silver ran up, throwing back her head and letting out a long piercing cry. The glade shimmered and vanished, replaced by blackness that he floated inside of, pain filling his body. It was silent, there, in the void. Then a single noise penetrated the darkness.

Lub-dub.

Silence.

Lub-dub.

Silence.

The sound was strong. Lub-dub. Lub-Dub. LUB-Dub. LUB-DUB.

With a groan Daln opened his eyes, the light making them tear up. He could smell old hot metal, sweat, coal, and lumber. He could smell the spices that accompanied Loyalty Bound or Duty Bound, Dread Knights and Honored Dead. The smell of an unwashed body, and... and...

Blood peaches?

Shadows were moving across his vision as the pain in his body lessened. He could hear noises, and knew he should be able to make sense of them, but at the moment they were just noise. He tried to make a fist, but felt a tingling, burning feeling down his spine. He relaxed when he felt the warm flush through his body.

Someone had activated healing magic. He could remember the runes on the inside forearm of his armor being melted, damaged, barely active. That meant that either one of the rare priests that still held divine power had laid their hands upon him, or someone else had given him an increasingly rare healing potion. He could tell by the warm glow it wasn't alchemical, but rather the remainder of a divine being's blessing and grace.

"Aaaann ooooo eeee-raaah mmmmeeee?" The sounds stretched and warped weirdly, reminding Daln of fighting deep underwater in a failed attempt to break the port defenses of Anteniel-Traxx. All that was missing was the sparkling silver bubbles that rose upward from damaged armor seams.

Daln gasped again, the deepest breath he'd taken in...

in...

how long?

Another gasp, and oxygen flooded his system. His heart evening, steadying out, growing stronger as it beat in a strong, slow rhythm. His muscles tensed, and he felt himself make two fists, could feel the bunching of his muscles up his arms, across his shoulders.

"Daln duRalvden, can you hear me?" The voice was high pitched, a young girl's, but full of authority that Daln was used to hearing from older warriors, from nobles who shouldered their responsibilities.

His vision swam, and when it focused he saw an intent looking woman, her eyes blazing with authority and command, staring down at him. The image only lasted a second before it was replaced with the face of a young woman who's expression was far too grim for a girl her age.

"I can hear you." He tried to say. His dry throat reduced his words to a croak. "Water?"

"Slowly, uncle, drink slowly." The young woman said, her voice still carrying the snap of command.

The lip of a metal cup touched his cracked and dry lips, the metal cool and soothing against the sensitive skin. It dribbled water into his mouth, and he was suddenly aware of just how swollen and dry his tongue was. He choked for a moment, the water spraying from his mouth, but then he greedily gulped what little trickled into his mouth. He reached up, trying to grab the cup, but his hands were grabbed by heavy steel gauntlets that burned with the ice cold of an undead wearer.

"There you go, uncle. Let the waters of our lands refresh you." The young woman said. Daln could hear the weight of ritual in her voice and shuddered. "Drink deeply, uncle, for you have travelled far to return home."

"Can you sit him up?" A woman's voice asked. It was raw, husky, and filled with an old pain yet unhealed.

"Not yet, Beshette. He is as of yet unsure of what is..." The woman/girl said.

"There was a girl. I remember a girl." Daln said. The image of the girl, frightened, scrawny to the point of emaciation, greasy hair and dirty skin, clad in old dirty rags held onto her with string and knots.

"Nadrak is here, by your side, cousin." The woman/girl said. "She led you to loyal wood-cutters, who brought you the rest of the way home."

Daln sighed, feeling the weight of is concern lift. He could remember the girl trying to feed him, hiding him when she thought he was in danger, and bringing him water in her cupped hands.

Daln sat up suddenly, the hands attempting to still him sliding off of his body, unable to restrain him. The heavy steel guantlets on his forearms went from keeping him from touching anything to helping him sit up.

He was in a smithy, an old one that he recognized, dimly, from his youth. He had spent hours in the smith, watching the grouchy and gruff forgekin work on blades, plows, kettles, axes, wrought iron decorations and frames, and armor.

The smithy was full of people. He could see another forgekin, this one younger than the gruff one that he had watched, tapping the runes on the inside of the plates of his war-machine armor, tracing the mystic energy lines that powered it. The others, with the exception of the young scrawny girl hiding behind the woman with extensive arcane burn scarring, were all strangers.

"Home." Daln whispered, his voice still raw, his throat still parched.

"Aye, home, uncle." The scarred young woman said. She held up the copper cup with one hand and Daln took it in both of his, greedily sucking down the last half of the cool water. "Your house is grateful to have you return, as we are in sore need of your presence."

The stilted, formal phrasing used by the young woman threw him, and he gave her a second look. Young, fourteen, maybe fifteen, years old. Her body was all wiry sinew and muscle instead of a normal child's softness. Part of her shoulder had been replaced by an implant, which Daln knew as a last ditch effort to fix a terrible wound inflicted by a blade that prevented healing. Her face was serious, and her eyes were intent enough to pull his gaze from the metal stitched gash. Next was drew his eyes was the massive orcish razor sword, built for a man Daln's size but held confidently and with long familiarity by the little girl.

"War-souled." He croaked.

The girl nodded slowly. "Aye, uncle." She said gently. "It is not a failing of anyone or even the house, it is just how the dying fates wove my destiny." She shrugged, the blade scraping against the implanted pauldron. She waved her other hand at everyone gathered.

"This, and you, are all that remains of those who guide House duRalvden." The girl said. She nodded imperiously. "I am Elshon duRalvden, Patron of House duRalvden." She shrugged. "I do not know what our house was like when you left, over a century before, but we still strive to care for our facet of the jewel that is Alben."

Daln nodded respectfully. He had met a few war-souled during his service, during the long war, and all of them had spoken in careful, deliberate cadence, their words sounding ritualistic and archiac. He had to admit, he'd never seen someone so young war-souled.

"That is not all of your name, Patron." The massive undead rumbled.

The girl glared at the undead with her one good eye. "Thank you for that, Grandfather." She turned back to Daln. "I am more commonly known as Bloody Elshon."

Daln raised an eyebrow. He had heard of Bloody Elshon, the Warlord of South-Eastern Alben. She was rumored to be nine feet tall, one of Wilmeena's Pale Horsemen, an undefeatable titan who lived for combat and crushing all who opposed her.

Elshon didn't react with offense, just a slow smile when Daln chuckled. "I take it that this is not what you expected to see when you met Bloody Elshon." Daln shook his head and smiled. Beshette watched with more than a little jealousy at how Elshon and Daln seemed to treat each other like long-time friends within moments.

"May I have a robe?" Daln asked, looking down.

Elshon turned away slightly before waving at one of the maids. "Bring my uncle something to cover himself with. This is not an encampment, and he does not deserve to walk around bare." She turned back to Daln, looking slightly to the right of the massive man. "I have an unpleasant duty to attend to, uncle. Will I see you at dinner?"

"Yes, Patron." Daln said. It came easy to him. During the long war it had not been uncommon for one sex to don the honorific or titles of the other sex in order to keep command, control, and power.

"Beshette, my sister, take our uncle to dress." Elshon ordered. She looked at the skeletal woman. "I will change, as you have demanded, into something more befitting for this unpleasant duty." She made a moue of distaste.

"You must be betrothed, Patron. It is unseemly that you are still unpromised." The undead whispered.

Daln stared at the undead, who wore the insignia and jewelry of the House Keeper of Honor, and wanted to burst out laughing. Force someone like Elshon into a marriage? The undead would have a better chance of taking the rubble that made up the ring in the sky and reforming the white moon with her bare hands.

Elshon looked up at Daln. "Must I, uncle? Must I be betrothed to some unblooded whelp?"

Grandfather could fell the forces of destiny grinding and pressing against him, and knew that this moment mattered much more than anyone but maybe the Eternal Matron of Honor could know.

Except...

The little girl, just named, huddled down, casting her eyes fearfully around before looking between Elshon and Daln as if she expected them to lunge at one another's throats.

How interesting. the huge undead mused. He had idly wondered how the small girl survived all of this time. If she could feel the shifting of fate on some level, it would have guided her away from threats, away from dangers to herself. And guided her to Daln, and to this House, and to her name.

Daln acted as if he was thinking it over, and finally he looked over at the Eternal Matron where she rested in her ornate throne. "How many of age are available for marriage?"

"Patron Elshon, although she is not of marriage age." The undead rasped. Daln noticed that Elshon made an expression of disgust at that. "Lady Beshette is of age and is still capable of breeding." The tall pale woman with the heavy arcane burn scarring winced. "And you."

Daln raised an eyebrow of shock at that.

"And Lady Nadrak." Elshon growled. The little girl shurnk back, trying to hide behind Beshette from the ancient dead.

"She is not of the house." The undead protested.

"She is." Elshon growled, punctuating her words with scraping the blade against the implanted pauldron. Daln realized it was a habit, something she had picked up on her own, not a habit of the war-soul she carried inside of her.

"Her name is not within the Book of Blood." The undead said.

"Then place it there." Elshon ordered. The pauldron scraped slowly across over half the blade, arcane sparks jumping and arcane lightning dancing across the mystical alloys. When the undead protested again Elshon growled low in her throat, her shoulder muscles bunching. "She has done House duRalvden a service beyond any in recent memory, by Alben law I am allowed to name her of the house, as her own family is lost."

Daln nodded. "I had an older brother who earned his name through service to the House." He shook his head. "He was slain in the tenth year of the war."

The undead surrendered, bowing her head. She opened her book to an empty page, then held out her sharp metal quill toward Nadrak. "Approach, Nadrak Ralvden."

The young girl looked up at Beshette, who was holding her hand tightly. Beshette nodded, smiling with affection, and guided the younger girl over to the undead.

The sight of the Eternal Matron filled Nadrak with fear. She had seen the dead that lived many times, usually searching for people to lead away in chains, never to be seen again. Or sacrificing people to dark powers. Or just devouring them when they caught them. The dead that lived were to be avoided at all costs as far as Nadrak was concerned.

"Open your mouth, girl." The undead whispered. Nadrak looked at Beshette, who squeezed her hand and nodded. Nadrak did as ordered, and the metal quill tip poked into her tongue, making her cry out and jerk away, covering her mouth with her hands.

Grandfather could feel the pressures of fate grind against him with greater urgency.

The undead lowered the quill, which had a gleaming drop of blood on the tip, and inscribed the name Nadrak Ralvden, House du Ralvden, into her book.

The clash of destiny made Grandfather's soul shudder, but the pressure, if anything, increased.

"Welcome, baby sister." Elshon said, standing on her tiptoes and putting her hand at the back of Nadrak's head. She pulled the older, taller girl's head down and kissed her forehead. "You are now of the blood of House duRalvden."

"The only viable members of the house are Elshon, Beshette, young Nadrak, and myself?" Daln asked, still staring at the Eternal Matron. A maid came in, holding a robe of soft brushed cotton with House duRalvden's sigil on one breast and the sigil of the Arch-Duchy of Alben on the other.

"Yes, Lord Daln." the skeletal woman answered as Daln pulled the robe on. It covered him, but from the gathered maids' point of view it made his musculature stand out. Despite his injuries he was still built massively, a war-machine that had served in the most powerful armies of the Six Worlds.

Daln looked down at Elshon, who stared at him, the blade stopping mid-grind. "Patron Elshon, your duty is clear. You must marry when you are of age, and you should have been betrothed by five as is custom."

"But custom has been shattered with the war..." Elshon protested.

Daln just folded his arms. "Are you the Patron, who submits to her duty to the House, or are you a whining child playing at Patron." Elshon's good eye flashed with anger and Daln pushed on. "You demand others abide by the needs of the House, yet you refuse to be betrothed?"

"Fine." Elshon said, her voice animalistic. "I'll do it."

"The House does not demand joy in compliance, just compliance." Daln said.

Elshon felt her will shatter against her uncle's reminders of her duty. She hated submitting to anything, even if it was custom and ritual, but her uncle was right. She was to lead by example, and she could feel the war-soul within her driving her toward bending her knee to custom.

"Patron Elshon..." Daln said softly.

Elshon drew herself up. "I apologize for my rudeness, Eternal One, Uncle. I must withdraw, for I am to look over my prospectives."

Grandfather felt his soul shudder as the fates and destiny collided inside of him as Elshon submitted.

Behind his graven steel mask, his dead face smiled.