Fueled by the foulness from my poisoned wound slowly turning to the dark side of the fjord. No return to the daylight. My future is set sharp axes await. I deal death with an axe and a torch. I see souls as they wander in the bleakness. Behind great trees and in the deep seas. The past, now, and in the future. The task you gave me when we met still haunts me. The burning oak sap is dripping, branches creaking and dying. This is the last you will ever hear from me. A silent letter written in ash on a tomb stone. The wandering souls await my presence. Smoke my ashes and let me be present.
await, fjord, foulness, ash, creaking