As he sits on a balcony,
High above the woods,
Organizing his backpack,
Counting his gold and his goods,

Keen senses suddenly heighten,
He feels the air isn't right,
The forest is never this quiet,
Especially at night...

Quickly, he rises,
And grips tight his spear,
He calls for his pack,
But no one comes near,

Hastily moving downstairs,
Taking leave from this keep,
He slips into shadows,
While the citizens sleep,

To the gate he rushes,
No fear in his eye,
Summoning all of his strength,
He has no fear to die,

Brandishing his spear,
Heading down to the gate,
No response from the pack,
And no time to wait...

Up against the brick,
He steadies his breath,
As senses overcome,
In the air of death,

And in that moment,
As he peers into night,
The howls burst out,
Into the sight...

A raid on the city!
Quickly jumping to view,
Two outsiders move in,
Advancing on through,

Tripping one to the left,
As he parries a strike,
He jabs to the right,
With the thrust of his pike,

More invaders flank in,
As he falls prone to a sweep,
Falling on soldiers,
Bound to in effortless sleep,

Tumbling back,
From a swordsman's quick thrust,
A smirk on his face,
From the rush of blood lust,

A deft strike up,
Stuck deep in their side,
The soul of the dragon,
Now in his stride,

Up to his feet,
Spear taking their breath,
Their lifeless body and soul,
Now resting with death,

The arrow skins by,
Grazing fast past his ear,
As more outsiders,
Quickly rush near,

He takes his last stand,
To defend her gate,
Drawing his will...
Calming his state...

And then it happens,
Like a gift from the sky,
The howl of the pack,
Rumbling in from behind!

Greeted with a pat,
As his mentor runs by,
And a "job well done",
From the wink in his eye,

It was a call to arms,
To take defense of his home,
A solid reminder...
A Sentinel is never alone.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Scarlatan, in the year 603 AF.