The smithy slowly filled with observers.The throne and its occupant were set down outside, the poles withdrawn, and two of the muscular women were now carrying the throne containing the long dead matron into the room. Grandfather came next, holding tightly to the arm of a wan looking woman who stood out from the rest of the living. Where everyone else's skin was a deep, rich brown, her's was pale and washed out. Her eyes were red, her hair white, and she had a fine network of scars covering her exposed skin that glittered in the sunlight. She had deep purple circles under her eyes, and she moved like she was exhausted. From behind, the just named Nagrak was peering around the woman.

"Beshette. So kind of you to heed my summons, eldest sister." Elshon said, watching the two Dread Knights lay Daln on the flat plate of steel. "I realize that this has been a difficult time for you, but House Ralvden is in need of your knowledge and skills." The girl turned and looked at the older living woman, bringing into focus that they both shared the same strong chin and cheeks. She pointed at the armored figure, who shared the same features on his unconscious face. "The House has reason to believe that this man is one of our esteemed ancestors, forgotten during the long war."

"It's Stygian Wave armor, My Lord, despite the coloration." The war-smith stated, running her fingers down the armor over the man's shin. "War-Machine armor, to be exact. Looks to be a design from thirty, forty years ago adapated from the armor of the Armor Lords. Not the most recent design, but still high quality armor and actually superior to the later designs that had to take into account the loss of resources and manufacturing facilities available to..." The dwarven woman blushed, realizing she was rambling, and glanced at Elshon, who acted as if nothing had happened, her eyes on her older sister.

Beshette, still pale, moved over to a counter and leaned against it, looking as if the few paces had exhausted her. "If it is truly War-Machine armor, than I cannot help, little sister, seeing as..."

"Patron." The little girl interrupted. "I do the duty of House Ralvden."

Beshette nodded, sadness in her eyes. "Yes, Patron." Her eyes were cast down as she continued. "War-Machines are hardened against magic, their armor, their bodies, even their souls. My skills in the arcane would be of no help."

Elshon snorted. "I know that, Lady Beshette. However, he may have markings upon him which could lead us to discover who he is." Elshon's voice grew soft. "I know it may be painful, sister, especially after your time among the Stygian Wave, after you were injured, but House Ralvden insists that we all do our duty no matter how painful."

Beshette nodded, her eyes still downcast.

"I can remove the armor, Patron." The dwarf said, standing over by the metal encased body. She turned from the body and moved over to a drawer, pulling them open one by one until she found a box of slim metal rods. She picked through them, examining runes, until she selected a black iron rod with runes that lit up with a warm amber light. She moved back to the body and began running her fingers over it, eventually moving up to his face. She closed the mask twice, latching it each time, then left it closed on the third time, leaving it unlatched. She took the iron rod and began tapping places on the armor. Each time she tapped the rod onto the armor, the runes on it lit up then slowly faded. The dwarf circled some runes with chalk, marked through others, and traced the lit up lines of power.

"Some of the armor is badly damaged, My Lord." The dwarf said, pressing on the half-melted plates on the side.

Elshon had moved to look closer. She stood up on her tiptoes to see where the dwarf was touching, and then nodded.

"What could have caused such damage without breaching his armor?" Elshon asked.

The dwarf shook her head, causing the beaded plaits down her back to click together. "Could have been dragon's fire, heavy magic cast by an arch-mage or experienced war-mage concentrated upon him, or perhaps he got caught up in ritual magic cast by the other side when the ritual defenses of his own side failed." The dwarf ran her fingers along the half-melted metal. "Whatever it was, it damaged the arcane energy lines and some very important runes." She tapped the rod several times and shook her head. "I may have to cut this section away from him."

Elshon nodded, stepping back, holding out her hand to the Dread Knight. Grandfather held out to her the sheathed orcish razor sword and Elshon drew the sheathed blade to rest the razor sharp edge on her shoulder plate, balancing it carefully and holding onto the leather wrapped hilt as she watched the War-Smith work.

Those in the smithy stood silently as the War-smith got out implements to first break the welds where metal had ran and sealed places together, then used other tools to straighten the plates slightly so that they could be removed when the dwarf was ready. Finally she worked a blade with a rounded end under each plate to cut away straps, making sure she didn't injure the man inside.

"The interior padding and leather armor may have been breached." The War-smith stated, carefully unlocking the breastplate. Unlike some armors, War-Machine chest breastplates were made up of several different interlocking plates to provide the maximum movement, deflection, and protection. The plates were interlocked in such a way that the angled plates would work together to provide the best angle for deflection in order to guide away arrows, blades, and even magic.

Several times when plates were lifted clear sparks flew, or arcs of arcane energy snapped between the two plates. Each plate was inches thick, and several times the War-smith's muscles bulged as she lifted up a particularly heavy piece. Each piece was stacked carefully, until only the back plates that the man rested on remained. The padding was thick, the cloth outside inked and inlaid with runes, some of them burnt and blackened, the padding stained with old blood.

"I don't believe that his armor was penetrated, Patron." The War-smith said, moving to undo the buckles on the padding.

Elshon just watched impassively as the thick padding was removed to reveal form fitting leather armor beneath. While the armor was black, with dyed leather highlights, the markings of the Iron Legion were upon the shoulders, arms, and breast.

"This is rune-folded leather, another Armor Lords feature and one that even the Nine Cities could not produce in the final decades of the war." The War-smith stated, more to herself than anyone else. Those gathered could hear her appreciation as she ran her fingers over the embossed and inlaid leather.

"He is marked as an Iron Lord. High ranking indeed." Elshon told nobody in particular.

"I will have to cut the leather away, Patron." War-smith Larakan informed the room.

"Then do so." Elshon stated.

Beshette stepped forward. "I can unseal it." She shook her head as she moved forward. "He's been injured. The leather seals tight to the skin to prevent blood loss and to keep broken bones from shifting around too much." Elshon moved out of her way, careful not to strike anyone with the sheathed blade. Beshette ran her fingers over the man's leather armor.

"Broken ribs, damaged shoulder, cracked collarbone, damaged lung, and damaged armor anchors." Beshette stated. reading the glimmering runes on the leather. "The leather armor is keeping him in a state of hibernation, but as soon as I remove it he will need immediate aid." She turned to her younger sister. "If he does not receive it, Patron, he will be dead in minutes, hours - a day at the most."

Elshon nodded, her hand moving to the weapons belt she had across her body. She pulled free a steel vial and tossed it to Beshette, who caught it easy. "That will heal even a mortal wound, provided it is administered prior to death."

Beshette nodded, tilting back the man's head and opening his mouth. Beshette unscrewed the vial with the same hand she held it, her index finger and thumb moving with long practice. Once it was open she tilted the vial, slowly pouring a honey-colored liquid that burned with an inner fire.

"The underplate was crushed and warped, pressing into his rib cage, it would have prevented his ribs from being properly set." Larakan the War-smith said, moving it over to by the anvil. "I can repair the armor, but it will take quite some time and will cost a great deal."

"Repair the armor, I have faith in your skills and that you will perform to the best of your ability." Elshon answered. "Spare no expense."

"As you will, Patron." The dwarf answered, running her fingers across the inside of the chestplate. "They don't make armor like this anymore outside of the Stygian Lands, Von-Lon, or Novak-Eck, and even there it is very rare." She chuckled. "Well, there is the Armor Lands, but those suits spoken for even before the wearer is born."

"I thought you said that it was decades old." Elshon asked, moving over and looking down at the inch thick armor plate.

"It is, Patron. More recent versions of War-Machine plating are lighter, offer less protection, and don't have as much runic protection. This type uses folded rune steel, well, felvaven alloy, with a rune-glass core." The dwarf tilted the plate, examining the faint runes covering the inside then shaking her head. "I've heard tales of this kind of armor, but I've never seen any with my own eyes."

"It is a heavy assault plate, designed to protect the wearer under the most adverse conditions." Grandfather intoned. "The Iron Lands produced them for a short period of time, but they proved too expensive and time consuming to create. The Lands of the Blossom, the Stygian Lands to you, produced them for much longer, until the city of Kradevera-Gor was sacked and burned by the armies of the Ifreet. Once that occurred, the suits were rarely made outside the Armor Lands."

"Thank you for your knowledge, Grandfather." Elshon said softly, her voice full of affection.

Beshette checked the unconscious man's color, smiling softly as her fingers traced over the tattoos on his face. "Strange. He bears the tattoos of a Stygian Lord, one of the masters of the Stygian Wave and one of Gor duMay's High Lord Marshals." Her fingers traced over three places where silver colored wire stitched closed wounds that still seeped, coming away bloody.

"I thought you said the potion would heal him?" The previously nameless young woman said quietly, reminding everyone that she existed and pulling attention from Daln's motionless body to herself.

"Those wounds will never heal, just as the wound upon my cheek shall never scar and heal." Elshon said, moving over to the older girl and taking her hand. "Some blades are enchanted such that wounds made by them never heal outside divine grace or the touch of saints, and with the death of the gods and their saints they cannot be healed by mortal means."

Nagrak nodded, noting that the metal thread on both the child's face and Daln's was made of the same material. "He said his name was Daln duRalvden." She said softly, hunching her shoulders to appear smaller.

Elshon looked at Grandfather, raising one eyebrow. Grandfather stood motionless for a moment, the lights of his eyes dimming as he went through over a century of memories. Nagrak shrunk back from the massive undead, hiding behind Elshon, who reached out with her free hand to take the older girl's hand in a protective gesture.

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"Daln Ralvden?" He tapped one armored forefinger against the armor of his leg, making a ringing noise. "Either before or after my time, for I slumbered deeply until the voice of the Patron roused me."

Elshon looked at the ancient dead on the throne. "Eternal Matron, does the book of family honor contain his name?"

The skeletal figure snapped her fingers and held out her hand. A young girl, dressed in fine servant's clothing and a tattoo of an apprentice Keeper of Honor on her left cheek, moved forward with a thick leather-bound book that had black iron and copper accents. The ancient dead took the book from the young girl's upraised hand, setting it into her lap while the young girl remained kneeling, head down and hands upraised. The young girl hoped to eventually take the dead woman's place, and had been training for six years, learning the ways of honor, of tracking blood lines, and how to determine heraldry. Normally the Keeper of Honor would go to one of House Ralvden's bloodline, but with the loss of any blood members of the House in a position to take over the important office, Beshette's mother had appointed the young maid. Should the young woman succeed in her training, she would be adopted as a cousin of the House, a member of the bloodline, but one that could not inherit any power within it.

"There is a Daln listed, several in fact. Is there any clue as to when he might have been trained as a War-Machine?" The ancient dead whispered. She tapped the book, getting the young girl's attention. "You shall examine him first, Melidre. Remember your lessons."

The girl nodded, moving over next to Beshette, who was watching Daln's breathing. As far as Beshette could tell, it was getting stronger, and she could see the man's chest shifting beneath the leather armor, his rib cage on the side popping back into place with muffled snaps. Bashette touched the glowing runes on the leather and felt a phantom ache in her chest as they darkened. Not too long ago she would have been able to manipulate the arcane energy used in the runes and would have been more capable of assisting in removing the armor. She had been skilled in magics subtle and powerful, from complicated ritual magics to furious combat spells.

Then IV was destroyed. The resulting magical backlash killed arcane wielders all over the Six Worlds, had burnt her magic away and left her an empty husk filled with raw arcane fire that burned deep inside her at all times. She had been in the center of a battle, not even on the same world as where IV was destroyed, when the cascade of arcane backlash came crashing down upon the battlefield. She had been wielding ritual magic, her powers enhanced and amplified by the score of lesser mages who were feeding their magic into her, the raised henges and monoliths providing stabilization, amplification, and additional focus. Then the backlash had hit, destroying the ancient monoliths and henges, burning her mage-line from the inside out.

Out of over six thousand mages on the battlefield on both sides, less than a dozen had retained any magical ability. Less than a hundred, Beshette among them, had survived at all.

Touching those arcane runes, she once again wished she had not survived. She could feel the magic tingle against her fingertip, but there was no connection, just a deep burning pain within her where arcane fire still existed. It was a cruel reminder of what she had lost, what had been cruelly amputated from her. She felt tears well up in her eyes and spill over, but she ignored them as she watched the unconscious body of her kinsman, carefully.

The young assistant examined the facial tattoos, the tattoos on the shaved head, including checking the flat half-inch wide metal studs embedded in the flesh for runes. She traced the wreath tattooed into the cheek, her fingers tracing the ornate rune inside the wreath. Finally finished, she moved back over to the ancient dead, her lips next to where the ear would be on a living person, and exhaled slowly. Glittering silver motes moved from her lips into the skull and the lights of the Eternal Matron's eyes flared.

"Yesss. Yesss." The ancient dead whispered. She flipped through the book, stopping on a page that was mostly blank. "Daln Ralvden, born of Esha Morilphan, Decnias Orvilain, Mishka Soyvette, fathered by Herakast Ralvden." With Alben's badly skewed birthrate all of the mothers in the marriage were named, as any children were considered coming from all of them. She shook her head. "It states that he was born almost two decades before the rebellion against the Lich Kings, his life-rune showed that he was destined to be a warrior, and he was sent to the Von-Lon Martial Academy at age five." She looked up from the book. "That is an early age, but not unheard of." She looked at the hulking Grandfather. "That was when you were selected, Illekrian?"

"Yes, honored Eternal Matron." The undead rumbled. "Although I did not leave for the Academy until I was nearly nine years of age. Even then, I was never selected as a War-Machine."

"What else do your records tell us, honored one?" Elshon asked, narrowing her eyes as she shifted focus from the armor to the unconscious man.

"Merely that he attended the Academy, and was selected four years later by the Stygian Wave to attend the Academy of Steel Blossoms." She looked up from the book. "Nothing after that."

Grandfather Illekrian rumbled thoughtfully at that. "Does it say the Stygian Wave, Eternal Matron?"

The dead woman looked up, the fire flaring in her eyes. "Yes, it does."

"May I see the annotation?" Grandfather asked.

"No, you may not. None but the matrons may gaze upon the contents of this book." The ancient dead snarled.

Elshon moved over to where the two stood, weaving slightly so the unsheathed sword avoided hitting anyone in the room, and stopped in front of the Eternal Matron. "Show me." She demanded.

The ancient dead stared at her for a long moment. "You are the Patron..." she began.

"I am the House." The young girl snarled. She reached forward with one hand and grabbed the point of the jaw on the skull. Her tendons stood out in her hand and her fingernails whitened as she tightened her grip. The ancient dead gave a low, living sound of pain. "I will look."

"As you will, Patron." The ancient dead said quietly. She tilted the book, one finger of bone touching the page.

Elshon looked at the script and snorted. "This is why you need the eyes of the living, Eternal Matron." She turned and looked at Beshette. "He was not 'selected by the Stygian Wave' but rather 'taken by the Blossom of Steel', a rather distinct difference." She shook her head, moving back over toward Daln. "So he's not some butcher from the Lich King Armies, but rather a professional soldier of the Stygian Lands." She put her small hand on Beshette's lower back. "Remove the leather; if it is safe for us to do so, we need to see his condition."

"Yes, Patron." Beshette said softly. It still confused her to hear the snap of command from her nine-year old sister, a tone usually reserved for commanders with decades of experience.

The fact that her younger sister had been war-souled was just more salt into the wounds of her failures.

Bashette gently moved her finger across the leather, stroking the runes at the seams of the leather. The leather parted easily, along seams designed to release the wearer from its snug grasp, allowing Beshette to remove the arm pieces first, and then the chest piece, revealing flesh that was scarred, stitched in places with metals, tattooed, and branded. On the upper right arm was a blood thorn rose, done in inks that made the flower's petals look as if they had been made of steel. On the upper left was a peeper reaching up for a butterfly. Both tattoos had runes beneath them in the spidery script of the Stygian Lands.

Elshon let out a pent-up breath she was unaware she was holding. "Thank the dead Gods." She said softly, reaching out to touch the highly detailed peeper.

"What?" Nagrak asked. Elshon ignored the lack of honorific.

"That particular peeper and butterfly tattoo is only allowed on the personal guard of the Living Lich King, the Eternal Elba." Elshon said quietly, her fingers tracing the tattoo. "His conversion to the Iron Lord is authentic, not a ruse to keep him from being attacked as he journeyed home."

"So... he's not a bad guy?" Nagrak asked softly.

Elshon laughed. "Good or bad, he is a member of this House, and has upheld our honor." She bent down slightly and kissed Daln's forehead. "Welcome home to Manor duRalvden, uncle." She backed up and turned to the maids clustered at the entrance to the smithy. Most of them were the personal maids of Beshette, but three that considered themselves Elshon's maids were outside also.

"I need a volunteer." She said softly to the maids, rubbing the naked blade on the armor piece on her right shoulder and bringing out a crackling rasping sound. The maids all stared at Daln and then nodded, more than a couple of them knowing what the request was going to be.

Elshon waved at Daln's unconscious body. "He appears intact, but we must know certain facts, for House Ralvden. I will not order or command, and while it is duty it is one I will not insist upon. Instead view this as the request that it is." She closed her eyes and made a moue of distaste. "I need a volunteer to gather his seed so that the Eternal Matron may ensure that Lord Daln is able to carry on the House line."

Elshon felt pride as every maid stepped forward, without a hint of disgust, hesitation, or concern. She selected a wide hipped high breasted maid with a vigorous reputation and waved her over to the matron. The maid curtseyed, blushing slightly and looking at Daln through her long eyelashes as she moved toward into the smithy.

"Your House thanks you for your willingness, maids." Elshon stated, moving over to face Beshette. "Sister, turn away, grant our uncle his privacy as the needs of the House are seen to."

The selected maid moved to the Eternal Matron's side, listened to her instructions, nodding with wide open eyes and her lower lip held breathlessly in her teeth. When the Eternal Matron held out the graven and inlaid copper cup that the maid was to catch the seed in, she took it with a grave expression and moved over next to Daln with her lower lip still held between her teeth.

Nagrak watched as the maid serviced Daln with mouth and hands, bringing him swiftly and easily to completion and catching the results in the copper cup, which glowed with an inner light along the runes and chasing. The maid's willingness surprised Nagrak, since all of her life any sexual contact she had witnessed had all been forced or coerced.

"When do you think he might awaken, sister?" Elshon asked Beshette, staring up at her with her one good eye. "My soldiers were drawn from the ranks of the Dread Knights as well as common people. We fought with what we had, and none living were such as our long lost uncle."

Beshette started to turn to look but Elshon tightened her grip to prevent her sister to turn. The peeper had climbed up to sit next to Daln, watching the maid with small black eyes.

"I do not know." Beshette admitted. "He's survived a grievous wound, he is lucky that bone shards did not puncture his heart as the shards punctured his lung. He suffered broken bones, magical backlash, and exhaustion." She shook her head. "Without the modifications done to men such as he? He would be dead, plain and simple. As it stands, he will awaken when his body feels it is healed well enough for him to move about without additional injuries."

Elshon nodded. "The potion did not work?" She asked, tapping the few steel vials remaining on the leather belt that crossed her chest. "I can spare a scant more, these are rare since the death of the Gods."

"It will heal him, but it will work slower upon him, he is more resistant to outside influences, both good and bad." She shook her head. "War-Machines are the lords of the battlefield, nearly unstoppable, and magic effects are completely nullified or at least greatly reduced against him. Healing magic can assist and sustain, but it takes longer." Beshette closed her eyes as the image of ranks of War-Machines charging through magic that should have vaporized them welled up in her mind. Elshon gripped tighter, almost painfully, allowing Beshette to anchor herself and bring herself out of the memory of those armor clad soldiers shedding magic like a duck sheds water as they charged her lines, howling war cries in anticipation of the slaughter.

The maid had moved to the Eternal Matron, her eyes glowing with satisfaction and the cup held out in a steady hand. The Eternal Matron passed the cup to the young woman next to her.

"Follow your lessons, and ensure that he can carry on the family line." The ancient dead whispered.

The young woman nodded, digging into pouches for dried herbs she ground between fingertips to put a dusting of the herbs into the cup, dropping drops of several different liquids into the cup, before stirring it with an inlaid and engraved ivory rod. She looked at the liquid for a long time before pouring it on the hot coals. She moved back over and slowly breathed again into the hole where the ancient dead's ear should have been, golden motes streaming into the thinly fleshed skull. The lights in the skull dimmed as the ancient dead concentrated, flaring up after a few moments.

The Eternal Matron made a grinding noise that was often used to simulate clearing one's throat and everyone turned to face her. She held up her hands, her rings of office, station, and house glimmering on her fleshless hands.

"He has not married, nor fathered children." She ancient dead whispered. "He is fertile, although the subtle and powerful magics worked upon him to prevent him from quickening a woman shall have to be undone. It is a simple task that can only be completed by a matron or a willing woman."

"Leave it for now." Elshon ordered.

"That is my..." The ancient dead began.

"No, it is not. The matron's chair sits empty, leaving its responsibilities to the house Patron, to me." Elshon moved forward, grating the sword across the steel plate on her shoulder. "It is a matter for the living."

She glanced at the naked Daln, then back to the Eternal Matron. "Is he an eternal?" Elshon dreaded the answer to the question. If Daln was an eternal he could not accept any position that mattered to ensuring that the house was indeed a valid house. His life would not count toward making sure that the house stayed viable.

The Eternal Matron shook her head and Elshon felt relief as the Eternal Matron kept whispering. "No, while he has been steeped in magics both arcane and divine, he is still a mortal man."

"Thank the gods." Beshette said quietly. "Our house is saved."

"Perhaps." Elshon said quietly. "After all, dear sister, the gods were unable to save themselves and thus are now dead."

Daln's eyes opened and he groaned.