His spirit had left his aged body, finally at peace after years of disability, questioning and scrutiny. Gavinrad Kenaado was dead. Burned upon a bed of twigs and leaves, wrapped in a ceremonial robe of a champion, sword laid atop his torso. The flames licked the air, smoke and ash entertwining in the skies above the young boy sitting closest to the warm flames.<br/><br/>Dinu was a young man, athletic in his build, yet flexible in his demeanour. His black hair was long and unkempt, with small ties dangling from the ends. Dinu watched as his teacher burned, his best friend melt, and father be incinerated, and felt the tears flow down his dirt-covered face.<br/><br/>'I'll keep your memory strong, Gavinrad,' Dinu whispered, now the last person watching the hero burn. Slowly, he rose to his feet, and threw a rose onto the burning man, then turned and walked towards the tavern.<br/><br/>People looked at him from the windows of their homes, sadness and sympathy etched on their faces. How could they possibly begin to understand his pain? No one gave the old man the time of day except the young man walking along the cobblestone path. Dinu saw the tavern, and a young woman was leaning against the wall outside the door.