One evening several days later, off the coast of Norway.
A string of utterly unremarkable little islands lay here. Norway had a total of 150,000 islands of varying sizes, and aside from the fact that people lived on this one, it was no different from its brethren.
These islands had formed millions of years ago when retreating glaciers carved up the continent. But in recent years, as Earth's temperature had risen, less and less of them remained above the water.
The rock faces were lined with stones bleached white by wind and frost. Below the cliffs, the sea endlessly battered the island, producing rhythmic music.
The little island was covered in moss like a thick lawn, though the season had given it a faint reddish-brown hue.
A tiny stone house stood at the center of the island. It looked as though it had been built only days ago, because not only was there still moss on the walls, but even the wood serving as its roof was still growing.
The house was exceedingly crude. Pushing open the door revealed a fire pit, with a pot suspended above it. Not far away was a bed made of piled stones, covered with an animal-hide mattress.
There was nothing else. This was what it meant for a home to have nothing but four bare walls.
Not far from the hut, two people sat on rocks by the sea, each holding a fishing rod.
The waters nearer the island had more microorganisms and attracted schools of fish, but the complex undercurrents and waves also made the fish wary. It was hardly a good place to fish.
However, neither the man with two ravens perched on his shoulders nor the fellow with a cigar clenched between his teeth cared about that.
"Actually, if you paid