A lonely gloomy boy sits in the Town's Church Cemetery of the woman he held dear to heart. She had only been ill for a week but death seem to be a hard man to persuade. For he came barging in without invitation, clashing through everyone who tried to stop him, for to claim the soul of this once Valkyrielike woman was worth more than the idiosyncratic perusal of the little boy. He was never one to shed tears even at this moment, the horde of passers-by saw one lost in thought and erased from the present for the woman whom ever showed him care was gone and the culprits lay wasted by liqour, for no one dare challenge this venomous bunch as they troded without care and spewed without remorse on whomsoever they thought an hindrance to there wasting lives. But one thing was certain the death of this woman was the birth of the story of another tale bearer whose author is carved in a history drawn in armoury.