wild roses in the wasteland

With all the shifting and strangeness in the land, the rot prince feels a strange power coming over him. Convictions growing stronger, growing stranger. Not out of sorts, but at his best. Feeding on chaos, feeding on the strife within his system. It lives in his chest, and he's becoming something worse. Far worse.

Know better. Do worse. His antlers growing to their full height, and the boy reaching near-terminal velocity in his bulk. There's a burning within him, an aching to dig into the world around. To dig into flesh, as well. Squaring up on the battlefield under the red light of sunset, Björn tipped his head back. An echoing, rakish call. Looking for a brawl... when is he not?

"Björn"