Chapter 1

Anarelle entered the room where she had lived for much of the last ten years and sighed. Packing and moving was always so difficult. There were so many items to make sure were carefully protected so they wouldn't be broken in the transport. Still, it would be good to get out of a rented room and into one that was truly hers. Well, hers and Arak's. And it was finally complete: the Sentinels of Laíredaíle guildhall was finished and just waiting for the guild members to move in.

She smiled remembering the night Arak had made her cover her eyes and had helped her over and through the logs and stones of the construction area, climbing towards the top of the unfinished structure before finally halting her. He'd told her to open her eyes and when she had she'd laughed in delight at the sight of the double pallet on the floor and the makeshift 'furniture' he'd cobbled together inside the area that had been designated for their bedroom. What a wonderful night that had been for the two of them!

Well, standing around in reminiscence wasn't filling the bags and crates that Arak had fetched for her so with a second sigh she moved the first crate over by the bed and began to fill it, carefully wrapping the cherished mementos of her family in blankets and clothing to protect them.

She picked up the chiaroscuro drawing of her parents, which showed the two of them in a typical pose that she could remember seeing them in many times over the years, his head inclined towards hers with a smile on his face and an arm around her shoulders and her face laughing up at his as she leaned against him. The artist had truly captured the personality of both her parents as well as the love they shared. She had always felt warmed by the obvious love between the two of them. They had been together for almost 1500 years when she was born and she knew that their love was as strong now as it had been when they first met. A wave of sorrow filled her heart and a veil of tears misted her eyes as she carefully packed the framed drawing away. She still missed them both terribly.

It had been almost twenty years since the two of them had left for the West following the accident that had left her mother lame - her gentle mother who was always on the move, always running from one place to another because she had so many things she wanted to accomplish. It had hurt both her and her father to see her mother in so much pain after breaking her back falling down a steep hill when a rocky outcropping broke under her during a raid on Meadowhaven. The healers had tried, but there was damage to the bones and tissues that could not be repaired, even by the prayers of the most devout of the priesthood. A year after her injury, her parents had decided to make the trip west to Númenyelle and she knew that it was the best thing for them. Her mother could not live with the pain and her father could not live without her mother.

It left Anarelle alone at a young age, but she was well equipped to fend for herself thanks to her training in the disciplines of the reclusive and small brotherhood of monks in a hidden valley deep in the Hísie Range. The decade she had spent with them had taught her well, as it had others who were lucky enough - or determined enough - to find them and persuade them to pass on their knowledge. Whatever other training she received, she would always remember their teachings and apply them to her life.

She rubbed her left shoulder, the small ache that she felt there during rainy weather a reminder of the arrow she had taken through it during her final testing almost 60 years before. It had been the only arrow out of 200 shot at her that she had failed to deflect or dodge and it had almost crippled her shoulder. She still had to do extra exercises on that arm to make sure that it retained its full strength.

As she lifted one book to place it in the bottom of the second crate it fell partially open and something slipped from between its covers. Stooping, she carefully picked up the tissue-protected fragile petals of a sunflower pressed long ago between the pages of the book. The volume was a thin book of Sindarin poetry, one given to her on her twenty-fifth birthday by Arak. She carefully returned the flower to its rightful place in the front of the book, stopping for a moment to reread the lines inscribed inside the front cover:

Just as a sunflower always turns its face to the sun,
So will my heart always turn towards you, where ever we both may be.
No matter how far apart our current paths may take us,
Like the sunflower finds the sun we will always return to each other.

- Araknar

It had been so hard on her when he left. He had been her best friend and childhood companion most of her short life. She was just beginning to understand what love was in an adult world when he had left her to seek out his destiny. It wasn't until years later that she truly understood the full meaning of his words — he had known so much better than she what their relationship was to become when they met again. Perhaps that was because his blood was not fully of the elven race. Yet his words had proved prophetic — though elven youths had courted her over the years, she was never able to find the emotions for them that even the memory of Arak evoked in her heart. But it had been almost a century before they met again.

Lost in her memories, Anarelle continued with her packing mechanically, her body going about the task almost unguided while her mind wandered back through the years, reliving the past.

She still recalled that day — could it really be more than a dozen years ago now? — when they had seen each other again. She hadn't even recognized him because he had changed so much. His face, his voice, were so different now from the youth she remembered. But the love in his eyes hadn't changed except to grow stronger. That and the touch of his hands on hers told her that she wasn't dreaming and that he really had returned to her. Changed he was, scarred in his soul in some ways and tempered by fire in others, but what was at his core — his essential being — remained the same and the physical evidence of his draconic heritage would never be able change that. They had been together since that day, apart from the rare times when they both sought solitude to renew their minds and bodies to prepare them to continue in their chosen paths.

She recalled how appalled he had been at the way Laíendaíle, called Meadowhaven in the Osthian language of Men, had changed during the century he had been gone. So many elves had chosen to go West, others had been lost in the defenses of the Daíle as the minions of the Dark strove to find their way past its defenses. As the two of them walked through the Daíle and he pointed out the weaknesses in its defenses, she came to see them too and agreed with him when he proposed they approach Lord Ayen.

His proposal had been a startling one: that a group of warriors be gathered, specially trained, and charged with but one task — the protection of the valley and its inhabitants and the treasures that all that lived in the valley were sworn to protect for the prophesied heirs of Uandor. Lord Ayen listened to their initial presentation and agreed to give them a fair hearing at a later date, provided they found others who held similar views and dedication.

And so had they embarked upon their decade-long quest for dedicated warriors of the Allied Folk who would be interested in joining them in their chosen duty. The task had been long and arduous, culling through applicants and speaking with friends and associates who felt the same pull towards the goal as they did.

Slowly they began to pull their people together. The first had been the man still known to her only as 'D.D.' who was a holy warrior and a steadfast companion in battle. Next had come the cleric Tack, who was also a doughty warrior who felt guided by his Lord to join them. Others had followed: Rurika, another cleric who had only recently returned from a long and arduous journey to renew her faith; Deshmene Inthria, a paladin of strong conviction and personality who had been untiring in her efforts to assist the forming guild. She had brought them Aleon Jarrino, another cleric who had agreed to join their ranks and keep both their souls and bodies healed and who was also an inspiration to them all. The next to join was an old friend and yet another cleric, Terenith Snydurthur, who had been welcomed for the insight and wisdom he would bring them even as he sought aid for a personal crisis of his own. With the joining of Maril Swift, a bard and rogue who felt drawn to dedicate himself to their cause, their ranks were now full enough to re-approach Lord Ayen.

And so they had. Standing before them with their fellow warriors gathered around, she and Arak had spoken at length and had walked the valley with Lord Ayen to show him places where defense was weak and suggesting alternatives. Ultimately he had agreed and had implemented many of their ideas. He had also given his approval to allow their guild to provide protection to the Daíle and had agreed to allow them to build their guildhall in the valley.

Months were spent talking with elven and dwarven builders to determine the best configuration and defensive capabilities for their guildhall before construction had finally begun. The original drawings that she and Arak had spent many hours poring over and making changes on were lying now on the table across the room where she had been looking them over last night one more time, trying to ensure that everything was included that needed to be.

Once building had begun, Arak's focus had shifted. Now he was content to let her make sure the construction went the way it was supposed to while he focused on the armor. A former Ranger had come to them — an accomplished weaponsmith and armorer who wanted to do something to help but was no longer physically capable of the strenuous activities that being a Ranger required. He and Arak spent weeks going over possibilities before ultimately determining the best configurations for their guild needs.

Anarelle caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror across the room and stopped to admire the new guild armor she had received only a week ago. As one not trained in using heavy armor, she herself wore what Arak called a 'battle outfit' but she had to admit it was striking on her. In fact, with her wings one might even say awe-inspiring.

She frowned as she looked at her wings. Although she had never asked for them, she had accepted the gift of her chosen deity Omirë with gratitude and humbleness when he had granted them to her. But in her eyes they had proven to be a less of a blessing and more of a curse. Perhaps that was His intent in giving them to her — to teach her a lesson. What she had discovered was that it caused some people to fear her and others to hate her, even among the Allied Folk.

Just as Arak had faced discrimination and hatred based solely upon his draconic heritage, so she had been treated when given her wings. And then there was the other side of the coin — those who wanted to worship her because she had been fortunate enough to have been blessed by the gods — the ones who wanted to treat her as a higher being. Indeed, she had even encountered two others who had also been granted the gift of wings or other forms and had promptly assumed that they were higher beings. She shook her head in disgust at the memory of their pride and arrogance. In her mind, all were equal in the eyes of the gods and the fact that some had been granted gifts was not an indication they were to consider themselves to be better, but to consider it a charge to be fulfilled — an indication they had been found worthy of taking on a more difficult set of duties.

Indeed, she had found herself laying aside more of her own duties as a priest and becoming more of a warrior of late, especially as the guildhall neared completion. And now, with both her duties to the guild as well as her duties to Omirë, she had been forced set them aside entirely to focus on the arts of war. Her monkish training had come in quite handy there — enabling her to draw forth the extra power of the blade in her hand to hit the vulnerable points on her opponents and do more damage to them. With the dark shadow creeping across the face of the land, Omirë and the other gods had more need of her monkly skills as a warrior on the battlefield, especially with the other four clerics their guild had inducted.

A movement in the mirror brought her attention back to her wings again and she frowned. If only they were gone! She had found that they still threw off her balance in a battle after all these months of sporting them and she still had not enough control over them to enable her to fly or even to allow her to use them to buffet her enemies. They also took up so much room and she still found it awkward to carry a shield and to have them. It would be so much easier without them. Then and there she decided to pray about it and to petition Omirë to take back his gift — to allow her to be a warrior in his service without the outward markings that denoted his favor.