Abstract beauty, absolutely pitiless and inhuman, perfectly visible, despite the barrage of colours in waves... coming out of that face.

“You took my exit. That's there so I can flash him. I go down at night and flash him. I like to torment him, in that fashion, in that specific fashion, down there in his cell, and he's watched constantly, obviously everyone is watched constantly, as they should be, otherwise they might think things, that's - let's communicate honestly – it wouldn't be to anyone's benefit to think at all. I intentionally sexually torment him, by flashing him, I flash him, that's what that secret exit is for. But there are ways to look at it that make it fine, and anyway. You'd agree and support if you had it explained to you properly. Take a seat. There's a hillock there where you can perch at. He's in the dungeon, the King, I flash him.”

Something was happening to his consciousness.

Thoughts, recollections, only brought back and presented to him when necessary. His memory was a wilderness; his consciousness itself as much a weird landscape he'd have to operate under the sway of; fight to decipher the weird angles of, strike out across in order to discover... what was real.

Because now what Pry had told him, about this person, it was the same thing, it was coming back. New species of lies birthed out of unconventional sexual organs. Something like that. He could think that too. But - could he just go back to smashing? Various people, creatures, demons, and objects. But had he ever really been that kind of hero? Constantly having to layer in separate admixtures of interpretation and countervailing facts and – he didn't know. Maybe it was the sheer undiluted insanity; the quantity of lies searing out her flesh direct into his, that the Orach allowed him – it did nothing other than allow him to continue to perceive how he did anyway without necessarily having to think he was insane.

He had a sensory organ that justified how he saw the world anyway. This was the proof; this was how he knew. He wasn't insane.

Pry had given him a quest – that had escaped now too. His consciousness was a musical instrument, played by someone else – fine; it would, or it would not, or it might not, return if and when he needed it.

He stood on feet in front of the Throne. Slua-Sryh, the Queen of Waat, towered above him. It was easy not to care about the topless women or indeed the Queen of Waat, and the hard beauty she fired into his eyes with an intentionality that was all too evident - it was easy, but it was all too easier, it was easy because of the Bollock of Wanting. Currently, in this instance, due to whatever was ultimately its supernatural purpose in this life/any other – because it had no want.

“You should free the King. He survived, whatever it is, your weird rituals; your coupling – he saw final reality, transfigured through whatever your weird relationship is with truth, and not many survive that. Let him out. Or I'll have to.” he had a sword on his back.

Fifty guards eyed him with feigned menace; they really didn't seem to care either way. They assumed they could easily despatch him, as impressive looking as he was. They were fifty. And presumably they were used to sand. Fighting on sand. They'd trained on sand. Art[ion] Mlckk'n Inchance-rify did not fear sand. Nor fifty guards. He would murder them all; with dispatch.

He knew things for reasons he didn't.

He did not fear men. - Misinterpreting reality was what he feared; even if, and he sensed this now, this was a fear implanted. - No, the real mystery, was who he was. He thought.

His organs, due to the specific nature of what they were, couldn't avoid telling him this. Someone had made a mistake making him this. He'd just keep going. Until there was no going left. - But he feared that. A new thought. Being detached from final reality, perhaps the same thing, despite those organs that he had, specifically for preventing that.

“I think you could. But that's not the quest he gave you. And it's not the quest I have for you either. I know rather more about you than you suspect, and therefore I won't offer inducements. I understand you,” she said this, with a serenity, and a calmness submerged beneath not just a torrent of colours, of the colours that swirled around her, but an ocean; an ocean of aesthetic perfection; physical and aesthetic grace, made so hard it could, by regarding him in a certain, or interpreting his existence in a mode other than that currently, could erase him; simply erase him. Simply terminate, what was his contemporary existence.

Beauty, that, looking at you. Robbed you of even the idea of defence.