Above the low clouds only the humped backs of the beinns may be seen. The great golden disc in the heavens cascades showers of heat across my ebony back. My feathers rustle in the cold breezes high above Eilean Arainn and I cry out a call for my brother, Croí. I am called Anam. My wings have carried me from my home in Lochlann to this place, Manannán's island sanctuary. Croí and I have served the Áth-Caomhnóir of Lochlann since the ships left the Four Great Cities. In recent history, we have followed the current Keeper of the Ford, Abhlach, into exile on Eilean Arainn. In the Apple Emain we have made our home, employed more often by his grandchildren than to the Keeper of the Ford, himself. The clouds break into misty whisps across the island, revealing patches of Eilean Arainn's harsh nothern terrain. From Loch Ranza in the north, there is the lowland quay of the Fir Bolg, a race that keep to themselves. Fisherman and seal-poachers, mostly. Following the Iorsa to the south, the steep valley yields to Beinn Bhreac and Beinn Tarsuinn to the west and Cir Mhòr and Caisteal Abhail to the east. Their grey peaks boast patches of Otherworldly green along their slopes, and the occasional glint of the golden eagle can be seen screeching through their echoing gorges. Dense woodland, with its rich greenery, red squirrels and waterfalls sprawl along the length of the island, keeping hidden many secrets yet undiscovered by the Sons of Míl. The sun defeats the clouds toward the southwest, where lay Emhain Abhlach in fields of gold and olive patchwork. Croí's call answers my own. From the top of a standing stone, my brother launches skyward. We cross flight paths and give a respectful nod to the crannog where the Áth-Caomhnóir makes his home. Now back to the beinns where I have left young Balbhuaidh and Clarissant. They can take care of themselves, but one can never be too careful, especially with the watchful Gruagach always about.