Bewitched by a single innocent gesture Francis closed his eyes and sighed in mere contentment. Though their bodies slowly cooled down, he wished they could stay this way forever, safe inside their bubble out of time, enjoying each other in every way possible. No fights. No sarcasm. No attack, no defense. Solemn truce. Mutual understanding. The promising option of some fragile love.

(You are hopelessly romantic, Francis.
No, I'm not. I know reality all too well. There is no love for a crippled scavenger like me. I just savor the moment. I take in the now. Even me deserves that. Don't ruin it, please.
What do you think, you idiotic mortal creature? That I nourish on your grief? You say you know reality, I'm real as well. So you should know me, too. I had my share of passion tonight, now do as you please. Whisper of love and get stabbed again. Perhaps I will save you. Of course I will! I need you as much as you need me. That's our deal. Just protect your heart, silly man. It shines through the cracks already.)

Uncertain worry sneaked up: a bit of doubt. This dream-like state... for how long will he be blessed to stay this way?
With another sigh Francis tightened his embrace. I won't let go. Not now. Will has marked him four years ago. Will marked him again by kissing his brow.
„I don't hate you, Will. I seriously never did. Not even when you ripped me open. Sure, this very moment has offered no room for hatred or any other emotion, this very moment was filled to the brim with pain, liquid fire submerging me, dragging me down to the bottom of absolute silence, so it's easy confessing without hesitation. There was no hate. No hate, no fear, no self-pity. Not one clear thought anymore. I remembered your face. Then I lost grip on reality. I drifted away. I fell asleep with eyes wide open. I died. I was almost dead already.“

I know the abyss, Will Graham. It's cold and, yes, it's silent there.
It didn't rain that night, though it was wet all around. Black pools of shimmering moonlight. My clothes were drenched in blood. Yours, Hannibal's, mine. Mostly mine. I was bare of weight. My heartbeat slowed down. My breath turned to a low gurgle inside my wounded throat. I started to freeze. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. There was no tunnel at all. Maybe because my eyes were still open. Maybe because I was still able to see: an endless sky speckled with stars and the moon above me veiled by clouds.
The Dragon roared in panic. He tried to reach my tilting mind. Wake up, you fool! All of a sudden fear gushed up. Incredible sorrow. And disappointment. The reptile hauled me up, pushed me back to the surface. He sparkled my nerves. He enkindled my impulses. Goddamnit, Francis! You need to survive! He moved my arm. So I drew my cell phone.

Do we really have to talk about this night again? Do we have to talk at all?
„I cannot hate you, Will. I cannot hate you for something...“ Francis bit his tongue. His eyes got heavy with tears again, yet he was able to swallow them down. He wasn't ashamed, he simply didn't feel like crying. He was moved. He was worried. Somehow he was despaired. Why can't this star-crossed night on the cliffs fade to oblivion? Forgiven, forgotten, erased; not even memory anymore.
(Because your entire body is covered with scars. Paramedics, doctors and cosmetic surgeons did magic on you. You needed more than a year to recover. Your wounds were lethal. Your blood loss was lethal. You survived because Death turned his back on you. The Universe smiled. You once walked through all circles of Hell. Now you returned from the Netherworld. But why? To repeat this one fatal night over and over, again and again, twisting and turning it like it would be locked inside a holistic diorama and anything would change if we change our points of view? This makes no sense!)

But it did. It made sense. Apathetic cog wheels gripped into one another: the machinery of fate worked perfectly well. Fortune is blind. Justice as well. It was just fair.

Francis opened his eyes. His third sigh turned to a low moan. Blinking he looked at the man in his arms, who was so close that he didn't even feel like a second person anymore. Underneath the cocoon of his coat they were still connected.
His worries subsided. His despair became desire. I won't ask you to make me the center of your world, Will has said, but... you are the center of my world right now. In the truest sense of the words! And it feels so good! So fvcking good, Will!

A second moan followed, louder this time. He got hard again, really hard, his erection eagerly throbbing against the walls of his tight sheath. His entire body reacted, tingling in well-known need.
„You...“, he whispered, taking a deep breath, inhaling his lover's scent. I will learn you by heart. I will leave a map of shivers on your skin. I will explore you with all my senses.

Cool hands ghosted up Will's back, caressing his shoulder blades and getting a grip on a bunch of sweaty curls. He wasn't really used to tenderness, yet he tried his very best, just inflicting a little pain to stir and spice their carnal longings. Mmm, you...
His hips bucked up, rhythmic thrusts, slowly, slowly. His mouth found Will's throat, increasing heartbeat tickling his lips. Likewise slow he bit down, carefully, the tip of his tongue circling Will's Adam's apple. Playfully he nibbled the stubbly flesh. I won't harm you, you know. Just take a sample. Just hold your life between my jaws. Synchronizing my pulse with yours. My rhythm. My breathing. You taste of rain and tears. The salt of the earth...
You marked me, Will. Now I mark you.

With a growl and a tight grip around Will's shoulders Francis swiftly rolled on top, straddling Will's legs for better access. Pinning his lover to the flattened grass, he smoothly slid up, his pelvis circling, his lower body tightly pressed against the other's member. The coat was gone. The cold breeze dried his sweat and covered his skin with goose bumps.
He looked down on Will and smiled. Now the moon was high above, pouring liquid silver down his spine. His tattoo became alive, muscle by muscle, vertebra by vertebra, the reptile stretching with every move he made. The Dragon purred: if you really want this man... exactly him...

Lost between clothes he found the rose again, reaching out to pick it and drape it on Will's chest, dark red petals spreading on bluish skin. A bleeding heart.
„You... are so... beautiful.“ Francis gasped. Breathless, uncertain warmth in his voice. „I cannot hate you... for something... this perfect.“

But I could love you. If you give me a chance.
 

And into the forest I go: to lose my mind and find my soul.

Referring to psychoanalysis the forest reflects our dark self. It's what we fear and what we crave for. It's what we reveal, but hardly dare facing. Ritual, cult and sacrifice. Adventure and danger. Prison and shelter. Deep spirituality and wild animal lust. It's womb, childhood, adolescence. It grows in us. Some know it by heart. While others get lost.

What happens in the woods, stays in the woods.

If you step in there, make sure to know the rules. Obey and you find a home. Violators disappear without a trace. Nature survives at any cost. Footsteps fade to dust. Ruins get covered by green. Rust never sleeps. And if you find bones underneath the mossy surface... let them rest. Their ghosts dance at night. They whisper and sing. To those who listen. For those who understand.

~*~

Besides his cigarettes and his flask Ascarion always carried two things with him: a knife in his right boot and a flute in a leather sheath on his belt. Her name was „Indigo“, and whenever he felt like playing on her the melody was her decision. With each tiny whistle she told him more about her life. Most things were sad.
Sometimes, lost in bittersweet tunes, his eyes closed, his cheeks wet with tears, he wished he would have known her before all things had happened. He could have been brother to her, mentor, someone able to love and understand. But this opportunity was missed. He never got to know her when she was alive. He came too late. 17 years too late. She drowned herself in icy water. Her body was never found. The river decided to keep most of her. So one night Ascarion found a bone on the river's embankment far away from here. Just a shimmering bone, flotsam, covered by all kind of trash. He picked it up and heard her sobs. Her life had been useless, so she thought. Fish ate her flesh, water rolled her remains. She had been one with the river till her skeleton fell apart. Her given name was Gail, but she called herself by the color of her favorite hour: twilight hour. Dusk. Suicide hour. Blue hour. Indigo blue. Blue like her.
Till an Irish immortal found her, asking a dirty bone for allowance to make a flute out of it. The bone wept tears of pain and joy. Her name was Indigo. A precious young life... simply wasted. At least her left ulna found sense again.

His fingers caressing the pivot head of his bone flute Ascarion looked up at the man looking down on him from the porch roof, his cerulean eyes meeting the other's for a single moment. A wave of confusion made him furrow his brows. A touch of resentment made him snarl.
Somehow he wasn't even sure if this guy was really looking at him or just straight through him, staring to the misty end of the clearing, the borderline of trees.
Ascarion didn't turn round this time. He knew that there was nothing to see, not with the sun slowly rising, yet he sensed a certain presence. A scent. An echo. Tatters of a fading nightmare. (Sinister things, forcing this man out of his bed and into the open. Sleepwalking. A blind date with the unknown. Although... this man seems to know. At least a bit. O nay, this man wasn't common at all.)

Ascarion wished to say something, but because he had no idea which kind of words would be able calming the storm inside the other man's head, he decided to remain silent.

~*~

A gypsy woman he called his sister, though they weren't of the same blood, once said to him: „Some men have fear in their name, and some have storm. Your name is full of roses and poetry, you walk the Earth and make it shine. But you suffer; not because of the shadows following you, but because you know who is hidden inside.“
Solemnly she has shuffled her Tarot cards, fanning them out, nodding. „Six“, she said, but Ascarion picked just one, showing it to her without looking at it himself. „This one I will take with me.“ He put it in the back pocket of his leather pants.
„Now my deck is incomplete“, she protested, her smile turning to a delicious pout.
„No one will miss this card. But I will miss ye. So... when me heart is too heavy with yearning I'll bring it back.“

From this day on Ascarion collected Tarot cards. He found them in the weirdest places. Seriously he found them everywhere. His strange deck grew. Sometimes he spread them without consulting them. He didn't need to know about a possible presence, past or future. He had no questions about health, fortune and love. He simply liked their art and symbolism, twisting them between his fingers and touching the lives of their former owners.
The card from his sister remained his favorite, though he had many of them in the meantime. None of the same deck, their backsides all different. Some bigger, some smaller. Some new, some old. The Tower is ruin. The Three of Swords the broken heart. Some clean, some smeared with fingerprints. One he has found in a pool of blood. The Five of Coins is a serious warning. The Five of Cups is loss.
His deck grew nearly daily. He wouldn't wonder finding one card around this house. The Hermit, maybe. The Hermit is the constant search for truth. Reversed it's loneliness and isolation. Ascarion sighed. The man from the porch roof has finally disappeared. Excited barking was heard.

Some minutes later the front door opened and the man stepped out. They met face to face. Motionless for a moment. Then the immortal dropped his cigarette and exhaled a puff of gray smoke. The other man released his breath, his eyes still wide and unfocused. Fear gushed up. And sorrow. This man was bothered to no end, his undefined age carved by things common people never get to see, except in movies. Blood. Death. Incredible horror.
Ascarion shivered. I'm not the one ye need to fear, he thought. I'm not the one bringing pain to yer door.

With another sigh the Irish closed his eyes, enjoying the growing warmth of this newborn day. He loved the sun on his skin. He knew how unreal he must appear to this sorrowful man, who finally stepped closer, asking an unexpected question: "Dare I assume that it's true? That not all those who wander are lost.“

With a slow nod Ascarion smiled. „Nobody is really lost at first. Yet so many think they are that they ferget to see their path. So they stumble around, summoning their own demise. Ye know wot I mean? People change things by projecting their bad expectations. It's like staring at a dog, suspecting them to bite. So they will. It's just a matter of time.“

Another moment of silence occurred. Ascarion's glance was clear and open and blue like the morning sky. His smile did not fade. „Yer pack won't bite“, he said and offered his right hand, his palm dirty, his fingernails long and black. Instantly he drew it back again, sniffing on it. „Fergive me, I smell of fox puke. Or... I possibly stink of all things ferbidden. Should take a bath, me know. But... blimey! Name's Ascarion. Ascarion Hawkmoon. And aye, I got a car, but it's not here. It sleeps at home. No one with feet or paws or hooves needs a car here, aye? But I could need a drink. Or a coffee. Wot about ye?“
 

Come, o Death, you brother of sleep...

Can pain ever be measured? Is there a scale, and you define it from one to ten, so one is just a bit and ten is unbearable, and in between a fire builds up, towering your mental horizon, getting more and more tense till seven, eight, nine. Ten.
And ten is hell. Ten is everything you never wanted to taste, experience, go through. Ten is dear Lord, please let me die, but God has turned his back on you a long, long time ago, and you are alone with this ten of pain, and maybe you know that agony should approach you, soon, soon, like agony usually approaches, it's a standard physical process, this blessed moment pain subsides and a kind of scary solemnity washes over you and you welcome it with open arms and open senses.
Yet, even agony refuses. So you ride the fire, or the fire rides you, it doesn't matter, there are no directions, it's all over you and inside of you, you get no chance of passing out. There is no angel mildly smiling and kissing it all good again. Angels are for righteous men... So why should one of them smile at you?

Maybe there was a moment of mercy (or bottomless cruelty), a midget particle of time, memory catapulted him back onto the cliffs, the bed of grass becoming gravel, and there was nothing but blood, spreading around him like giant wings, because for this midget particle of time he felt it again, this ten of pain finally slipping from his grip and agony submerging him, lowering all sounds to static murmur. Fire turned to ice with his limbs becoming numb. Death inched closer, replacing his blood with silence. He crawled up the final threshold. His world turned cold. Colder than it used to be, for his world rarely has offered any warmth.
Predators die alone. (We all die alone. This last step is solely yours.)

Yet the Dragon kept his promise and saved his life: Francis did not die. He survived the night on the cliffs. So after four years this ten of pain returned, returned tonight, ran through his veins again and set his entire body on fire. There was no escape. This time he surrendered. This time he died. He dissolved. Liquefied. Became one with the fire. He didn't need the Dragon to save him, for he didn't long being saved at all. He wanted it, craved it, relished it, because finally he knew that it wasn't a dream. No dream could be so shamelessly real.
He surfed the wave, dived deep down and drowned. He died again, his eyes wide open, his fingers buried into the naked thighs of the man who ripped him open four year ago: scratching, kneading, massaging quivering muscles. His angel of Death became a cherub of light, the moon a halo behind his head, his smile cruel and sweet and full of hunger. O yes, Will, yes! Feel me again! Feel what I feel! Sacrifice yourself on my stake. Ride the Dragon! Feast on me: kill me anew!
Tonight the scale twitched and exploded. Seven, eight... 8,3 sore inches measuring what couldn't be measured, at least not with words. Blood and breath. Sweat and semen. Pleasure and pain.

When Will collapsed on top of him, panting and trembling, bathed in sweat and captivated inside their bubble of carnal consumption, Francis allowed himself breathing as well.
He felt stoned, completely drugged with a lack of oxygen and an overdose of lust, yet he knew it wasn't enough. It was just a well-deserved break, a time to exhale, listening to the echoes of drumming heartbeats and lecherous moans, his nerves sparkling in another afterglow, his member unable to soften, unwilling to withdraw.
He wished he could see themselves from a distance, walk around them and wallow in the view, his eyes a camera, taking pictures from each angle. Two naked bodies stuck together by their drying juices: molten into one, the outlines drawn by liquid silver, the air drenched with the poetry of their porn.
He wished he could taste what trickled out of Will's delicious orifice, for he sensed it wasn't his sperm only; it was blood as well.

„I hate you“, Will broke the silence. Francis shivered. He turned his head and looked at his lover, his hooded glance focused on these tempting lips repeating the words. Will's breath brushed his face. „I hate you.“
With a sigh he nodded and wrapped one arm around Will's back, while his other arm reached out grabbing his coat, covering them both with it. (These April nights still offered a touch of Winter at times...) He held him tight, sealing Will's mouth with his own, kissing him slow and deep, his tongue chocking more words to come. Don't tell me, Will. I know. I know...

Lovers. He rolled this term like the sweetest of treats, assuming that Will wouldn't like it. Yet Francis did, and it was his alone, and he kept it save for the inevitable moment they would part again for whatever reason. (Wrap it in disgust and spit it into my face, make me feel filthy and ugly for even thinking it. Tell me that I won't be able to reach such blessing, not in a thousand of years, I don't care! In my shattered world we are. Lovers. Right now, this incredible moment.)

Francis smiled. His tongue slipped out to moisten Will's lips. „I hate you, too“, he said.
 

"When I would say that I want to sleep, would you let me sleep in your arms? It's hard to breathe, and I'm not sure if I still want to, but let me sleep in your arms and if I don't want to breathe, will you let me just sleep in your arms until it's cold? I just want silence, most of all from myself. Stop my own insanity. But not today. Not tonight."

Francis' head swam. His mind tingled. It's a dream, he thought, it's still but a dream, and I will wake up somewhen, not now, please, not now!, and I will find myself alone in my own bed, in my own house, in my own world, and my body would ache from an undefined longing. I would still feel the grass underneath and Will's weight on top of me, and Will's tightness, this painfully wonderful tightness, and my morning glory would kill me, but I would know... that this is real now. Real. As real as it can be... Hard. Throbbing. Lonely. Real.
(Where is this freaking reptile when I need him? Where is his annoyed growl telling me that I'm not dreaming, for if I would be dreaming, I wouldn't be able to remember, because I nearly never remember my dreams. So: where is he now? And why do I hear Will's voice, and why do I smell Will's scent, and why do I feel him, Will Graham, wrapped around me like a second skin? Why? For Heaven's sake: how real can a dream be?)

Maybe I should pinch myself. Maybe I should bite my knuckles and offer Will my blood like I did before. This tiny sting, this thorn, was real! Or was it not? Is this just a(nother) part of my insanity, one of so many, a hallucination, a fever vision? (Where has the rose gone?) A secret wish, carefully kept in the dark depths of my old Mustang safe upstairs in the attic, finally breaking free and coming true in the parallel universe of my mind? And why do I even ponder the option to wake up? Because Will has mentioned Hannibal?

Hannibal... again. Omnipresent. A ghost from the past. A bitter taste on their tongues. The sword of Damocles still hanging over their heads.
Francis whimpered. He refused to talk about Hannibal now. He refused to even think of him. It is me, Will. Me, Francis Dolarhyde, and if you like we could do all these things. Movies, Pizza, whatever... We could allow a bit of sanity into our lives, we could be normal. Just common people. It works! I know it works!

And maybe it doesn't work at all...
Because scars can't disappear, because the past can't be erased. Because Francis' path was plastered with 42 corpses and the shimmering shards of a thousand fractured mirrors.
So maybe Will should be next. (The moon was nearly full!) The next victim, the final sacrifice, the cherry on top, so to say. (He couldn't kill Hannibal, but he could kill Will Graham. Right now. Here, bare of clothes and defense, on top of his own body, cover these amazing eyes with two fitting pieces of night and put the rose between his teeth. And he'll explode inside the dying body, and he would see himself reflected in his lover's eyes...)

When I would say that I want to sleep, would you let me sleep in your arms?
The answer was yes. Yes, Will. Sleep in my arms. You're safe there. I'll hold you all night. I'll even breathe for you. And no matter if this is a dream or not... we are both here. And I won't kill you. Not with my hands. And not with my hardness. (Not even with my insane kind of love.)
For this was beautiful. Beautiful simply because it happened.
And though it appeared like light-years of questioning any kind of possible reality, it took just a split-second to get him back to the ground, his muscular body stretched on the grass, his aching erection suddenly sheathed by pleasure and pain.
Francis blue eyes watered, his sight got blurry with unshed tears. „Shhh, Will, shhh... Calm down, calm down.“ Gasping for air his husky voice drowned in moans. He shivered all over. „I know it hurts. It pains me, too.“
He sat up and wrapped his arms around Will's back, dragging him into a tight embrace, his fingers ploughing the heated flesh. His fingernails left traces along his spine, thin red lines, a map of his passion.
„Don't move. Don't move now.“ His hands fell down, his fingers dug into flesh again, covering his buttocks, spreading them slightly, stabling Will's position. „The fire. The pain. It's yours, it's all yours. Every single inch. Allow it.“
Again Francis gasped for air, his head falling onto Will's shoulder. He was close, so goddamn close... „Just feel me. Feel me! I'm all yours. My breath. My heartbeat. My body... Relax... your muscles... I... do it... I...“

He did not do much. He couldn't do much anymore. Just a tiny thrust, a single roll of his hips, and his world collapsed in blazing white fire. A climax making him roar in lust.

"Wolf Trap, Virginia...

He liked the place, but he didn't like the name. There was pain in it, unnecessary torture, despair, death. A trapped animal was one of the most pitiful things he could imagine. All these screams, snarls, whimpers. All the blood. Nine of ten captives suffer for hours, trying to get out, gnawing off their own legs, if needed. Dragging themselves away to die in freedom.
A trap offered no mercy. Yet what could be expected from a species that rarely showed mercy, either. Humans were cruel. They hunted for fun. They hunted without respect. At least most of them. Hunger was no reason anymore. Not in this corner of the world. Wolf Trap was full of noble houses and cultural events. It wasn't a poor place.

Maybe he would leave soon. Maybe he should leave...
Yet he wasn't sure. Something about this place trapped his attention. Vague he could feel it, breathing, whispering, mostly at night, but whenever he reached out to get a grip on it, it slipped through his fingers. His pack felt it, too. An uncertain kind of magic. Shimmering footprints on forgotten roads. The sweet perfume of decay. Noises. Echoes. Stains. Marks. Scars. A veil, thick, and transparent at the same time. Gossamer enchantment. Spots out of time. Imagos...
(He has seen a black stag lately.)

These woods were confusing. Usually the Irish man never lost his way. He relied on his senses. His eyes, his ears, his nose... The difficile colors of night. The lulling sounds of a sleeping world. These special fragrances of darkness. He knew them by heart. Yet here... something feverish has crossed his path. Something old: darker than night, drenched in grief and silent fear. Something possibly evil.
He touched the trees, he tasted the soil, he asked the animals around. He told his pack to take care. Something goes on here. Something goes wrong. Mostly at night. Ascarion caught himself waiting for it.

~*~

With early dawn the spell was broken.
Ascarion drew a deep breath and exhaled a puff of smoke, watching it dance in the morning breeze. The air was fresh and clean, filled with the scent of grass and dew, the promise of warmth throughout the day.
He emptied his coffee and stretched his back, combing his long crimson curls with his fingers. Smiling he blinked, his cerulean eyes focused on the first rays of sun trickling down the canopy of leaves. Bare of nightly shadows the world wrapped itself in all shades of green. Birds and insects greeted the day. Nature stretched like the Irish man before.
He dropped his cigarette and called the pack to his side. „Lake“, he said, „Fish fer brekkie, aye?“
Sasha barked and jumped down the patio steps, waiting at the giant oak they called „the entrance“. Her creamy-white fur glistened in the morning mist. Kazimir, a black wolf, followed. The last one was Robbie, a red fox of 3 years, still a cub in his behavior, trying to jump onto Kazimir's back. Ascarion laughed.
Maybe three were too less to be called a pack, yet he always counts himself in, being one of them, feeling more familiar to animals than to human beings.
Sure, there were similarities, leftovers from the great banquet called evolution, lots of emotions like love and fear, pity and empathy, yet Ascarion was far from being human. Once he has been mortal. A long time ago. Now he wasn't anymore. He was unique. One of a kind. Living amongst those who accepted him without feeling inspired to trap, study and kill him. (Watching his wounds heal. And kill him again. Over and over. As if pain were a friend... It never was.)

~*~

Returning from the lake, their fishing adventure ending with Robbie devouring a frog and puking his guts out, Ascarion decided to visit a certain clearing. Knowing that the man who lived nearby had dogs he sent the pack home to their hidden cabin. The fox was fine again, there was no need to worry, yet an undefined misgiving darkened his mood. Maybe it was good to be alone...
Walking the tree line he sniffed the air, his glance focused on the white house in the distance, one window blinking in the sun. This place was a no-man's-land: close enough to civilization, but connected to nature as well. A romantic spot between two worlds: sometimes these worlds were able to melt into one other, most of the time they didn't.
The Irish man sighed. Whatever was going on here, it shouldn't be of his concern. He knew what happened to trapped animals. When the Fox hears the rabbit scream he comes a-runnin', but not to help. Not even Robbie would do that... It's simply not in the nature of a fox helping a rabbit out of a trap.
Ascarion sighed again. He relied on his senses. He relied on his instincts as well. Something danced in the breeze, more fragile and jittery than the smoke of his cigarette. Something hot and feverish. Something electric, like dark clouds towering at the horizon to breed a disastrous thunderstorm. Something that shouldn't be here. (Something that shouldn't be nowhere in this world.)
„Bad times are coming“, he whispered. His hackles rose.

Rubbing his nape Ascarion dropped the cigarette. He tried to calm down, feasting his eyes on the peaceful landscape painting in front of him. Just trees and high grass, speckled with wildflowers and dandelion, the white house a ship on a furtile green ocean, the man standing on top of the porch roof a silhouette in the mist of this lovely April morning.
Ascarion shivered. Excited barking and yelping was heard. Without hesitation he started to run. „Careful laddie!“ he yelled, „Ye might slip and...“
With a gasp he fell silent, his widened blue eyes staring at the man above him. He stood there motionless, wearing just a t-shirt and boxers, peering at something in the distance.
Ascarion turned round, his glance focused on the tree line. There was nothing to see. (Or nothing visible enough...) The sharp scent of sweat tickled his nostrils. He turned around again. For a split-second he touched the other man's mind. Black clouds towering the horizon... A disastrous thunderstorm... Bad times... coming...
„Blimey, laddie...“, Ascarion's husky voice nearly faded, „By the love of all saints... wot the fvck do ye see?“