An old man stood over a cliff looking over the ocean. He was slightly hunched over, his cloak was torn and frayed, his hair long since lost all it's color, leaving it stark white. His boots were worn and dirty from years on the roads of Albion, and he leaned on his staff, with its one green leaf. He looked at the shattered remnants of the tattered Spire, a sad look in his eyes. From behind approached a young man, a Dweller, if the fur and leather clothes were any indication. He wore a blindfold, yet he walked as if he saw everything. "So it's finally come" said the old man, as the Dweller, came to a stop at his side. "Yes" said the dweller. They stood there, looking out to the horizon, not a word said or move made by either.
"Young man," began the old man "I don't believe I know your name."
"It's Gabriel." replied the Dweller. They stood in silence a moment longer. "The days of the heroes have finally come to an end" Said the old man.
"Not true." replied Gabriel. "The world will always need heroes."
The old man chuckled at this. "Yes I suppose it will." The old man turned and left. Before he could get to far, Gabriel asked a question. "What will you do now, old hero?" The old man stopped and seemed to consider the question. "I will move on. The world doesn't need a relic of age that passed long ago"
"That's not true." Replied Gabriel. "It's always nice to keep a memory."
A chuckle was his reply, in a voice stronger and deeper than what an old should've possessed. "Good luck, young Gabriel. May there always be those willing to answer the call." Gabriel turned to look at the old man, but he didn't need eyes to see that he was gone. No, not gone he thought. There will always be the memory that he was there. And a memory is never truly gone.