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One city after another. Wood creaking and wheels rattling on the stones. Cool in spring, sweltering heat in summer, and cold in winter. Rain, sunshine, snowfalls, roadside berries and fresh water from the stream. That's how much I remember of my early childhood years, a to and fro, from caravan to caravan until my parents managed to settle down. A small house, humble and clean, the smell of food and an absent father when they managed to settle in a small village that no longer exists. Running up the hill, and my mother's patience teaching me how to read, numbers, how to behave.

Then the war turned the absent merchant that was my father into an absent soldier. My mother's death, loneliness, and curiosity for an unfathomable world pushed me to go my own way. And now I know that it is freedom itself that spurs me on, the yearning to see, to taste, to experiment, to know and to learn, to live intensely. Ainvar is my name. "He who travels far" its meaning, "the Wanderer" the name by which some know me. 16 years, according to the years of man just an anecdotal fact, a footprint on the path.

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