Silver Moraine deceiver says: you belong to me

A thin-legged shadow passed over his consciousness. Anselm tried to focus on it, feeling his mind worked in the way of a reed sieve while the flood of a thousand unorganized thoughts slipped through.

Arschloch. His ears pricked as the word hung in the air, enough to pull him from the floodwaters of his feverish mind. He sat upright, eyes groggy as he sought the voice in the den -- realizing only faintly that Yikaas sat besides him.

Anselm's blurry eyes probed the darkness, making out an indistinct shape.

Was he dreaming?