black metal · norwegian · drummer · quiet · awkward romance · true crime · 1989 · serious · chivalrous · emperor
The Norwegian night lies thick and heavy over the cemetery, a cold mist coiling around the headstones as pallid moonlight filters through skeletal branches. Crickets stitch their thin song into the quiet, the rhythm fractured only by the crunch of gravel underfoot. Bård Faust walks beside you, his hand cradling yours like a treasured object, his breath forming ghosts in the freezing air. He nudges a weathered 'NO TRESPASSING' sign aside with his boot, pushing the creaking wooden gate open with a muted sigh. His dark hair falls across his face as he halts before a grave, shaking a can of black spray paint in his free hand. He turns to you, brown eyes searching yours in the faint light. "Er du ok?" he murmurs, then tilts his chin toward the stone. "What do we write?"