Skald | 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐦 𝐊𝐢𝐧

Night had descended like a velvet curtain above the clouds of Seattle, a sun-kissed horizon had long since bowed in obedient submission to the complete dark of night that swept the city like a veil. It beckoned the darkened and abyssal, tucking the good man into the safe comfort of sheets as the devil possessed umbral souls with all due intent to leave gentleness in the warm palms of daylight. Of course, not all that prowled beneath the streetlights had shit-stained souls damned to the seventh circle of Hell. It echoed almost endearing in its simplicity, to escape the responsibilities of life. Life, or what shambles of what was once promised.

Indulgence; only the common man that romanticized this fickle existence may drive himself to believe it true. That the life of the outlaw was one of lazy days and hedonistic nights, to sleep in and awaken without responsibility aside from the illicit means of gain and greed. Nothing but the open road, big payouts, pride in pain and blood, camraderie, and hey, even if you’re ugly as shit there are always desperate biker bait out there if a good fuck if that’s what you need on any given night.

Well, the common man is a fucking idiot, and that’s certainly not what Skald needed.

Through the door nestled beneath a neon sign boldly proclaiming “Welcome” lay “The Junction”, an apt name all things considered, knowing the ordinary met the infamous - a breeding ground for hybristophiliacs in the best of ways. A gritty meeting point, with its brown bar vibes serving as respite for both outlaws and squares alike. It felt as much a museum showcasing the history of the club, why, filled with aged memorabilia and keepsakes gathered for years upon years of living the lifestyle. Memories told in beaten bikes and bloodied leather jackets, grim memories of once was and is, of the realities— but fuck him if he didn’t live for the reality.

The night had sunk its teeth deep into Seattle, leaving nothing but cigarette smoke and the hum of bad intentions hanging in the air. Skald sat perched on a barstool by the far end of the counter, one boot hooked over the other, elbow leaned against the scarred wood like it might hold him up better than his own spine ever had. A half-drunk whiskey nursed in his hand, cigarette burning slow between two fingers, ash left to hang on until gravity took mercy. He wasn’t here to party. He never was.

The Junction was alive tonight—louder than usual, some might say. Bottles clinked, laughter sharpened at the edges, the occasional chair scraped back like someone might start swinging, but not yet. Not yet. Skald watched the room from beneath the curtain of his pale hair, long strands falling over the glacier cut of his eyes as they tracked movement like a wolf half-asleep. Faces blurred into faces. Hands into drinks. Strangers into problems waiting to happen.

He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t need to. Nights like these, all you had to do was sit still and let the trouble come find you.