no man's son

Scanning the beach, Björn can't put the right words together. The red sun, the moonless nights, the skies... they should be having more of an impact on the sea. He doesn't get why it wouldn't, especially as he takes in the Bay. Watching the way the land slopes and curves before him, the space it takes up. He rests heavily on his hip in the sand, trying to make sense of it. No sense would come, but then, how much sense was there to the end of days. Studying the land from his perch in the sand, trying to draw it in. Hold it to himself, as best he can. If only anything made fucking sense.

Björn isn't alone for long... when is he ever. A voice shattering the silence, breaking the spiraling patterns in his head. Gaze snapping up to the stranger, coated in gore and speaking with all of his teeth. "Is it?" Björn's tone is stiff, squinting against the red sky as he assesses the stranger. "Ragnarök is on the horizon, but I guess it's the closest we'll get to fine." A strange grin of his own slipping over the boy's features, a tilt of his antlered head. Watching. Waiting. A prophet of the end days, he'd call himself as much.

"speech"