The hill is quiet, with only the sound of the wind gently blowing through the orc grass. The pale sun provides little warmth and the air is chill, hinting that winter will soon be at hand. Dominating this quiet place is a ruined watchtower that still retains its ancient grandeur, despite its gapping holes and broken battlements. Even with its defenders long since dead, it stands defiant against the Shadow in the North.
    Breaking the silence is the sound of an aged man and a mere boy struggling through the heavy grass along the broken remnants of a road that once stretched across the plains. When they finally reach the base of the tower, the old man, leaning heavily on the youth, closes his eyes and quietly whispers while facing an opening in the tower. A light blossoms in the dark recesses of the tower revealing a large basin surrounded by crumbling mortar and ashes from a recent fire. After scanning the tower for any signs of danger, the two figures enter.
    The boy, looking at yet another monument to the defeat of his people, turns to the old man. “Master Renold why are we here?”
    “We’re here because I can sense the magic within you and I am getting too old to make the journey to the sentinel.”
    “What sentinel, there is nothing here but ruins.”
    A small smile crosses Renold’s face. “The orcs destroyed the tower but left its greatest gift intact. Walk toward the basin and look into the water; tell me what you see?”
    The boy clears the scum off the water and looks into the basin. “There’s nothing here, I see nothing but water.”
    “Do you see the symbols along the basin?” The boy nods. “Good, place you hand on any two that are the same. You must repeat what I tell you exactly and don’t remove your hands from the basin no matter what you feel. You must trust me that you will come to no harm.”
    Fear creeps into the boy’s eyes, but he still places his hands on the basin. He listens to and then repeats the old man’s words, which sound like a prayer to spirits of their ancestors. A tingle runs through his body and he feels both lightheaded and a little weak. As quickly as it started the feeling passes.
    The old man’s smile lights up his face. “Excellent, I knew you could do it. Look into the basin now and tell me what you see.”
    “I see the northern pastures and our boro. How can I see this?”
    “That’s the great gift of the tower. The basin allows us to see all the lands around our clan. Each set of symbols shows another area. Do you think you could try another set of symbols?”
    You could see both the boy’s willingness and excitement as he chooses a different set of symbols and repeats the words, his prayer to his ancestors. As he completes the words, Renold arrives at his side and peers into the water. When the boy opens his eyes, Renold asks again, “what do you see?”
    “That’s the pass of Doral and there are people there!”
    Renold places his hands on top of the boys and whispers a new prayer. The image expands, clearly showing a group of over fifty heavily and armed and armored figures. “Orcs! Run boy, run to the Mhor, tell him that a raiding party, at least 50 orcs is coming over the pass. Don’t stop for anything, the alarm must be passed.”
    The boy races out of the tower as Renold watches the doom approaching his people.

    The Eyes of the Sentinel was the name given to the rune inscribed basins in select watchtowers in northern Erenland. The Dorn used the power of the basins to keep watch on the wide expanse they had to defend against the Shadow in the North. Many of the basins were destroyed at the beginning of the Last Age, but a few survived and the knowledge of their use passed from father to son.