Warren walked through the towns few buildings and stopped at the small way-house. He had rented the only room for the next few days. He walked up the steps and entered the home and headed to his room. He placed the bag by the door and sat at the small desk. He opened the tattered jornal and began to write. He carried several old journals. Each filled with the tales of his long life. Over 150 years were recorded in those books. It was his way of keeping his past ad present in mind.<br/><br/>He finished it and then went out to sit on the porch. It was cold out, afterall it was snowing, but the porch was protected from the wind. He sat on a bench and pondered the strange shifter from the diner. He had sensed she was a loner, much like himself. But something about her grabbed his attention and held it. He supposed it diddnt matter. he was a mixed blood, and as such she wouldnt even acknowledge him unless it was to insult him.