“It's a quest?”

Pry-Boak [cL^YoP] was clad in the traditional garb of the Cyclops, which was a plain brown tunic; same plain brown-coloured trousers, and a kind of sandal, however exposing no flesh – had anyone seen the feet of a Cyclops? That was a quest upon which Art[ion] would not mind embarking. - What weird encounters were at the end of that tunnel? Probably strange elongated organs on them; there was no universe in which the feet, the under-limb bottom of leg things that held up the whole body over there of the Cyclops – no universe in which they weren't scaly, covered in weird organs – maybe transparent like Art's right ear was – or things more weird. Tentacles were always a good guess. But no, unlikely, they stood up normal. His feet. Man. Would he let him see his feet? Not for sexual gratification. It was really for the weirded-out curiosity of it.

Pry-Boak [cL^YoP] was wearing these clothes. He had the strange almost religious looking flop of hair they all had. Fringe cut just above the eye; you'd think they'd want more room. Nah, he thought, Art thought, they probably grew it so low on the forehead because of the obvious biological lack of an eyebrow. An appendage that ironically would probably be of more use to a Sly. Because they only had one eye there, over there, this one anyway, on his head. All.

Art sighed - his thoughts, were they always so frivolous between quests? He thought it highly probable. But really having no memories except extremely vague ones, of a time before his last great effort that had saved – but before he could precisely specify quite what, Pry-Boak [cL^YoP] interrupted his inconsequential mental-train, with -

“You realise I'm not saying this for reasons of creepy psychological pressure; for control -”

“What a premise. I don't know what you've just said. You're a giant one eyed entity -”

- “ We're the same size -” He looked at him. With that eye.

“Fine, a giant one-eyed same-size-as-me entity whom I have woken up to discover – didn't you just display a supernatural power connected to the true state of reality, hidden so long beneath -”

“That's to do solely, I can say, with consciousness itself – please don't worry -”

“- All that etc. And all, and what have you, but -” Art stopped, flat, he was indignant, but simultaneously weirdly vulnerable in his hungover state. He didn't feel quite so much like he could pull the heads off stonks, at will, which were little men like monsters he'd killed, he believed, in a cave near Wennsurf, if he recalled correctly – he had the distinct impression he was not recalling things correctly; hadn't he dreamt something, some kind of thing of hell-opening centrality? He -

“I'm spending too much time in my head for a person the bards describe as a flatterer of sundry unlikeable demon skeletons, you know that? And I have this organ here,” Art[ion] pointed at the pink gland, which – he was a handsome man he had always maintained, and many in fact women that he had not paid to fraternise with his good-self, according to him, eventually had concluded the same - you had to get used to the organ was the problem. He had a pink gland on his throat.

It resembled a bull's testicle, hugging his under-throat, all the way to his Adam's apple; he'd thought it was actually connected to that. He was a biologically weird guy with two supernatural – they had been described by monks of various sects certainly as such: his transparent right ear connected to/ – organs. - But the thing that mattered now in fact was the pulsating gland; it was pulsating, which meant this really was a quest. He could say that. He felt slightly maniacal at this moment; this was a tendency fed by his hangover which really he – he had to get a quest or everything was going to get very bad, very soon. In terms, but not solely, of his mental – and even those unfortunately concurrently adjacent – well-being.

“I do have a quest for you; my name is Pry-Boak [cL^YoP], by the way. I'm a Cyclops.”

“Let's try to make some progress.”