Two Dread Knights carried Daln between them by his arms, his feet scraping on the floor. The young girl that had been found with Daln was being escorted by another Dread Knight into the throne room, her arm held tightly in the gauntlet of the undead warrior. She'd tried to run away, but her worry of Dahl, terror of the massive Dread Knight, fear of the buildings of the town they had journeyed to, and fear of being alone overrode her desire to flee.

As they entered, the young woman by the door intoned the ritual in a loud booming voice. "The Patron duRalvden is in residence."

Elshon should have been swallowed by the ornate chair on top of the dais, as it was built for a large man in armor to sit comfortably in, but she seemed to fill it, and the dais, with her presence. The peeper, beside her, squatted on the floor. He seemed larger, although he was not quite the size of a small cat. The empty matron's chair was beside the patron's chair, seemingly abandoned despite the gleam of polished wood, metal, gems, and the comfortable cushions on it. Behind the chair stood the massive Dread Knight who stood with her outside every morning. He had just returned to the throne room after ensuring that the wood-cutters were who they said they were as well as making sure that Daln was indeed a member of the House and the owner of the virtue dagger that had been presented.

On the other side of the glaring peeper was a portable throne, with iron rings set on the sides, that contained a skeletal figure wrapped in expensive cloth and expensive, ancient jewelry, which told all who knew how to look that it was the jewelry of a matron which was draped on the reclining skeleton. The girl would have dismissed the skeletal figure as a corpse had it not had orange light burning in the eye sockets. The hair had been replaced by fine metal wire and done up in a long braid that coiled around the back of the skull and the ends of the fingerbones gleamed with carefully applied enamel.

"Who is this?" The living skull whispered.

"A living member of the House Ralvden." Elshon said, her voice strong and steady.

"Approach, girl, and let me look at you." The Eternal Matron whispered.

"Not her, Eternal One, the warrior." Elshon corrected. There was no rebuke, no childish snide in her voice, just a simple statement of fact.

When the two Dread Knights released Daln he went down on one knee, his fist pressed against the tile, his head hanging down. While everyone could hear him breathing, he did not move. The runes on his back flared red and began pulsing again, a silent warning that the armor's occupant was badly injured and his armor seriously damaged.

"Has he woken since he was discovered?" Elshon asked, staring at the kneeling form of her kinsman.

"No, milady, we..." the young girl started.

"My Lord." The Dread Knight, Grandfather, stated.

"Milord?" She asked, in confusion.

"He means that you will address me as My Lord, Warlord Ralvden, or Battle-Master duRalvden." Elshon said. "Your name, girl?"

The young girl looked confused for a moment, and then her skin darkened as she blushed. "I have none that I know."

"That is unseemly." Elshon answered. She tapped her small fingers against the arm of the throne she sat in. "You have done this House a great service, if that is indeed one of my ancestors, and you should be honored and remembered for it. You need a name, young one."

The young girl, who had lived all her life without anything beyond "you, girl" stared at the little girl on the throne. Her body seemed like any other little girl that the young girl had met, but Elshon's presence was that of someone much older, much more powerful, and it filled the young girl with fear. She just nodded at Elshon, the younger girl's presence drying up her words.

"Eternal One, if you would, a suitable name is needed for this lass." The Dread Knight, Grandfather, stated. "Can your eternal sight spy her name?"

The ancient dead woman lifted up her bejeweled hands, pressing bone fingertips together, as her burning gaze settled on the young girl. "Her name is lost, only known by her and those of her village, wiped from memory by the armies of the Lich Kings a decade and a half before." The words were whispered, but filled the room, the whisper strong and authoritative. "For her service to the House Ralvden, she shall be known as..."

"Nagrak duRalvden." Elshon broke in, the first word the guttural syllables of the orcish tongue. "Jewel who was Lost of House Ralvden."

The ancient dead nodded. "Nagrak it is, Patron Elshon." The whisper agreed. "An interesting choice."

"It is in one of the old noble tongues of the Orcish Imperiums, it fits her. A name is the least the House can provide." Elshon replied.

"Naaah-graaahk." The young girl tried, stretching out the vowels. It felt... good

"Yes, Nagrak." The skeletal figure stated. "I shall enter your name into the family book."

"Grandfather?" Elshon asked.

"Yes, My Lord?" The massive Dread Knight asked.

"My sister, Beshette, where is she?" Elshon asked.

The armored knight made a grinding sound, which Elshon knew was a sound of frustration, but made the newly named Nagrak draw back. "She is abed, where she has been for many weeks."

"Bring her down, so that she may be present." Elshon ordered. "I have need of her."

"And if she will not come?" The ancient dead whispered.

"Then drag her by her hair." Elshon ordered. The Dread Knight crashed a fist against his breastplate and moved away, his spurs ringing on the tiles. Elshon turned her attention to the kneeling man before the dais. "He is bleeding. Why has he not been given aid?" She brought attention to the fact that Daln had coughed, spraying the tiles with fine red mist.

"We cannot remove his armor." One of the women who had been working in the logging camp answered from where she was half hiding behind the Dread Knights.

"Step forward." Elshon ordered. The woman meekly moved up, afraid of the small child. "His armor. Have any runes lit beyond those we can see, or has he said anything?"

The woman nodded. "Those red runes flicker on his shoulders if he has been left alone, when someone approaches, or if we move him."

Elshon nodded. "He is incapacitated from his injuries." She turned to one of the Dread Knights at the edge of the dais. "We shall adjourn to the war-smithy so that we can have my honored relative extricated from his armor. Please alert the war-smith we will be bringing an injured soldier to her,. We will need herm's services as well, so herm's presence is required at the war-smithy." The Dread Knight saluted by crashing his fist against his breast plate and quickly moved away, his spurs ringing. Elshon's attention returned to the woman. "Your name, good woman, and your rank?"

"I am Duweena duTakket, foreman of the Takket wood cutters." The woman said.

"Dread Knight Varakia, Dread Knight Pravaskas, follow, if you would, and bring my honored ancestor with you." Elshon stated, standing up. The two Dread Knights lifted up the man they had been carrying, putting his arms over their shoulders to support him. Elshon motioned at the muscular women dressed only in ornate loincloths, thick shoulder pads and oil to make their well-developed muscles gleam in the light. "Eternal Matron, will you accompany us? I could use your counsel."

"Of course, Patron." The ancient dead whispered. The women, all of them beautiful in a muscular, roughhewn way, moved over to the wrought-iron throne that held the Eternal Matron. Two of them carried thick steel poles that were inserted into the rings on either side of the throne. Without any sign of strain, the eight women - two on each end of the poles - lifted the iron throne up to set the poles on thick pads.

Elshon stood up from the throne, her movement matching the lift of the throne that the Eternal Matron sat upon. The little girl led everyone through the vast hallway to the southern side of the manor grounds. The peeper hopping along next to her, his head moving smoothly from side to side so that he could watch his surroundings with his tiny black eyes. Other peepers playing in the rose bushes bracketing the path called out to the small green peeper, and he flicked his fan-like ears in acknowledgment, although he did not join them in their child-like games.

The silver bells woven into the women's ornate loincloths tinkled gently, the spurs of the Dread Knights rang on the cobbles and the little girl's hobnailed boots clicked as the procession moved past the rosebushes, through a patch of trees, and came out into a clearing where a small building stood.

There a short stocky figure was pulling a looped chain quickly to raise the metal covered wood side of the building. The figure was inside the superbly stocked smithy, quickly and efficiently opening the sides to admit light and fresh air. Beside the door to the interior of the smithy stood the Dread Knight she had sent to alert the war-smith that their skills would be needed. The old smell of coal and wood fires, hot metal, and sweat was present. It made Elshon smile as she walked up to the heavy door of the smithy and knocked heavily with the hilt of the sword. The girl was holding the heavy orcish razor sword by the hilt and the middle of the blade, between the serrations on the back of the blade hilt-side and the razor-sharp backside of the blade point-side.

The door opened up to reveal a bearded short woman in a leather apron. Her hands were heavy and thick fingered, with burn scars on the back of them. She stepped back, her hands moving to the long thick beard, which was expertly woven into two thick braids that were interwoven with wire.

"Warlord duRalvden." The woman said, her voice low, rough, and gravelly. The voice had no female tones, instead it sounded like a low-voiced man. The woman curtseyed deeply with her hands spread out from her with fingers spread, despite the fact that she was wearing heavy leather pants and a leather vest under her apron.

"War-Smith Larakran." Elshon answered, nodding slightly. The dwarven woman stood back up, waving Elshon into the well-stocked and highly equipped smithy. Elshon handed the blade to Grandfather, who sheathed it before holding it by the middle of the scabbard in one hand.

"How are your children, War-Smith?" Elshon asked, as the two Dread Knights dragged Daln's unconscious form into the smithy.

"Growing. My oldest will be of marriage age soon." The woman nodded. She clenched her large burned scarred hands in front of her and looked Elshon in the eyes. "My life-mate, My Lord, has there been any word of herm?" There was hope in her eyes, but also resignation.

Elshon shook her head, but then pointed to Daln, who was being pulled over to the large magically and alchemically hardened steel plate used to repair large metal works. "Not as of yet, honored War-Smith, but I hope that this man, who wears the sigil of the House Ralvden, might be able to shine some light into the darkness of our ignorance."