Waat.

In fact the capital had three middle letters; the nation two; or the opposite, and he couldn't even focus or care enough to care to/or remember.

What he could focus on and care about and remember, was the hysteria pouring out of that place, and the, in fact, visible to him, by means of his supernatural organ, the Orach of Mending, lies, pouring out of it. And into everything and their sinking, and the colour of the lies.

The hysteria, which was the flavour of these lies, made the trees orange and purple: every colour crazy.

The whole world was now a slide toward hysterical illusion; every colour imaginable on the edges, but overall purple and orange - these colours, predominantly. They swirled and interacted together, at pace, at a pace that across his senses indicated the hysteria that he felt infecting him and that he was, on his horse, on this dirt track, trees swirling madly in colour either side of him, moving toward.

Whatever the fun flavour of illusion and misrepresentation he had been expecting to encounter in Waat was already palpable. Its flavours played across him, through his glands; through the glands and organs outside-reality was filtered across - in order to decipher what final reality – final reality? This madness made him laugh – awaited, beyond them.

He'd have liked a pleasant, maybe slightly misleading world he could use his talents to navigate along, finding out what was really going on, ridding a kingdom of a malefic overlord, probably, and restoring justice ultimately by way of discovering the one fundamental lie at the heart of a society that was the basis and the reason for everything else fundamentally that wasn't functioning and that had rendered an otherwise healthy and functioning polity temporarily misdirected. You know. That. Something like that.

The beginnings of human habitations formed one flat image at a time on the horizon. Even riding a horse at this point on the outskirts of Waat, he could see he understood that this hope, of having enough fun, exposing himself to enough truth to assuage temporarily the Bollock of Wanting, in something inconsequential enough not to be too demanding, was already a forlorn one. All he wanted was not to have to hurt himself quite so debilitating-ly, in the alternate ways manifested/required by/of that organ... when he wasn't in-story, in a story – but: even here, where he was, approaching this place, he recognised the naivety of that.

He was entering a land of lies, fine – most places were, to some extent, to some limited if not even almost kind of total extent; he wasn't overly perturbed by this reality, but here - and this was a flavour that played across the supernatural organs whose entire purpose was discerning this:

- the whole place was a lie. A lie in a flavour of hysteria that shunted a person, shunted one, forced one, into a – his face rammed in shit, a big hand[?] ramming his face in shit – this was his occupation in fact now; this was the one thing he did in order for his family to have food, and him too, to eat, on a table every day: he got up every morning and went to the room were the man rammed his face in shit for ten hours one juicy smack after another and - after?

He'd thank the man and shake his hand.

At the end of the week he got money for this, so he could have food. But his role really, his job was to have his face in shit - rammed in it. There was a large, maybe infinite supply. This wasn't part of it - it was the work of others to cart the shit for his face to be rammed in. They brought it in the room; there was an efficient organisation involved in procuring the shit that he was paid daily to have his face shunted in – shunted, shunted, shunted -

And this was the species of hysteria he felt himself travelling toward – the man/the shit-face/the organisation? The institution for which the task was a ward against evil for. He didn't know, but this was the image provided by that. And his horse was taking him there – he wasn't really in control, he felt, she was taking him toward the place he had – he believed he had – set her out toward. Even this was uncertain. But the species of hysteria he felt himself travelling toward; it hatched these scenarios fervidly. He felt himself persecuted, he felt a hysteria pointed directly at him, and hatching inside him in fact. The colours of the half forest around him were only the outside confirmation of what he felt already inside.