Bjørn J Gunnar

In the hollow walls of the sturdy Scandinavian architecture hums a Tagelharpa. An elongated bowed lyre that sings its solomn tune down the lowly lit spruce hall with a slight echo. As it divagates it brings to the vagary guests ears an alluring tune that draws them in close....at the end of the hall they push on the large oval doors and they creak on their metal hinges with distress before seeing he whom played the foreign instrument.

♬...
♪
♫

The instrument which is irrigated in blood is shifted upon back and forth upon the strings by the thick cord belonging to the bow spindled of horse hair, emitting a deep melodic sound. Bjørne comes to a cessation and looks up to the visitant. In the warm low light of the room and the light that shines through the large exalted doors the blood which sopped his fingers reflected the carnage and exposed it to stain messily over himself. His blue eyes shown slight luminescence while he gaze with his head tilted down:

"Its...you."