Brisinge sat in the gardens on a stone bench he was wearing his jacket over a ragged looking black shirt it looked like it had been dragged along the ground a few holes here and there his hair covered one of his eyes as the other stared out at the flowers he plucked one that was dying and smiled softly "oh pretty flower such a shame your life is much less then ours and yet your beauty will be remembered for much longer then my name shall life is such an odd thing.." he said to himself or maybe to the flower who knew