The incandescent edge of a stormfront rumbles slowly over the glowing alien fronds of floodlights which barely illuminate one of Horsingdon's car parks, deserted now as the locals rush to get home. For the guardians of the Black Bowers, these shining, nocturnal thunderheads are potent omens - on a night like this they will sniff they air and tell you that something terrible is coming: something apocalyptic and earthshaking; something which even they are fearful of.
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