The Mark of Tindalos is upon them. When The Nauzq touches them, enemies arise from twisted green fields, in the grooves of skin and the ragged glyphs of the soul, in the deep places where the flesh is carved, in the deep chasms of lonesome dreams – perhaps the hurricane consumed that which disappeared, or it will take the Lost to The Nauzq, which resembles a great animal, recumbent, motionless, containing in its enormous body all the worlds of our universe, the past, the present and the future in a ghastly gaze. We see portions of this great monster through a slit, which we call time – a moment on the other side beyond pale grey shores about to make a great leap—a leap through space and mind. All that comes from the breath will be destructive, like sleeping creatures that torment all souls and shadows, they will not reach the world of light, and will cause a painful death as it goes into darkness. Perhaps The Red has fallen, disappearing in this strange history. Two gather at the edge of dusk. In the cities they pass through, there’s no emotion, no understanding, no good or evil, just dry bleached bones. They are the first to witness a sickly progression of weird angles of time and space – cracked butterfly wings clattering on hot pavement. The earth silent, with the tiny noise of emptiness, real angels cry, shout strange noises, no light seen. Darkness, ear to ear, cold darkness, and beyond the world, shut dour mouths, speaking from empty dour faces – The Mark of Tindalos.