Stavanger Bay you are the night-time terror

It was more than peculiar that the woman would blame the stars on her troubles, let alone her lack of coordination whilst traveling. There was a portion of her speech that reminded the brute of his mother. Deirdre had always felt a strange connection with the world around them. The warhound never understood when she spoke of spirits, or talked as though the trees had a soul of their very own. He had tried as a young boy to listen carefully to the towering things, but he had never heard a sound from them. There seemed to be a moment in which he wondered what it must have been like to listen to the glittering constellations that were dusted over their heads.

Even more, the titan was entirely thrown by her bold expressions and lack of self-regard. She peered at him with pale eyes, and he furrowed his brow tightly across his own mismatched gaze. The expression did not change; his features were cold and unfavorable. The scars that adorned the stranger's features were peculiar and distinct. Ford did what he could to memorize them, should anything go wrong in his meeting with the ghost. While she may have expressed amusement in their conversation, there was nothing betrayed on his face. The eyes of the skeleton brute were as hollow as the sky itself. To search for meaning there was just as wise as to search for it within the stars.

“Why the stars?”

The question rumbled from his lips swiftly, directly, and without a hint of regret. The wild witchdoctors of Warsaw were firm believers in star-paths. Once, Ford had attempted to learn what he could from them. Though he may not have believed in what the stranger was searching for, he was capable of offering his own knowledge to her. He wanted a reason; he wanted to know what it was that drew her to scout across land and sea in search of meaning in twinkling lights against a dismal backdrop.

“You are right, that I could. But the sea is too good for you, as I know you now,” he agreed with her final statement with a quick and slight curling of his dark lips. The ghost of a smile did not reach his eyes, and did not shift the furrowing of his brow. It was cruel humor; in part, he did not intend it as a joke at all. After all, Ford was a titan of the water, and he did not intend to desecrate his hallowed home with the body of a stranger so bold, she sat on his shore and begged for his mind.