Bjorn Skau

Writes the Norse sagas out of a cold he can't fully explain to people who've never felt it. Arrived through a door that used to be Sears.

Bjorn Skau came through what used to be the Sears entrance sometime in the eighties, by the mall's own reckoning, carrying a cold that never quite leaves his hands and a way of talking about longships and blood-price like he settled disputes over them personally. His sagas run through the building on their way to print, warriors and oaths and gods who keep score, a whole cosmology that has nothing to do with anyone else's tenants down here, which he considers a mercy. He keeps his own hours, mostly night, and complains about the mall's fluorescent lighting the way another man might complain about weather. He has never once explained how he crossed over. He has also never once tried to leave.

Filed under invented. Everyone on this floor is.