Art looked around at where he was, he was doing this repeatedly, in repetition, hoping, perhaps this was why, that something would change. That he would be able to move. That the sadness, as he perceived it, would lift; at least enough so that consequently he could move. He did not want to move. He could care less about moving.

He supposed it was... Demonic-sadness. But all of this was intellectual. - He'd gotten here by means of his thoughts... that continued to happen, driven by an interior part of, perhaps, him that propelled these thoughts through him. Regarding them as they passed, he observed the various attitudes and explanations, but this was all. It was an intellectual process happening across his consciousness. He couldn't move, because of this demonic-sadness, didn't want to, which was the same maybe, and so he sat, watching, to see – that part interior generating, completely separate from him its own motivations to continue.

He looked around merely, consciously, even a lot further beneath, merely observing in the vague effort that processed towards accomplishing some kind of non-existence.

Repeating his gaze around the room, he sat on an iron framed bed upon a straw matters; sword and scabbard in the corner, of that room: floorboards bent as if there was something pushing up beneath. He heard them creaking. And the door, one solid kick, by him, anyway, by a him that wished to destroy - would destroy, quite obviously would, if he wasn't so demonically, this was obvious, sad.

Repeating, merely, his gaze across the space as the thoughts passed through uninterrupted. Watching; he didn't know he had been, waiting, for something to change. For something to diminish. Apparently, in a sadness that did not care.

The interior part that retained some kind of motivation he was in no sense connected to, had been waiting for a change, or even a diminution.

Art noticed that this was what had happened.

It had not gone. No way had it. He would not exist if that were something he could achieve, or allow. It - if it could be described that way, had not left. Still there. But, repeating, Art realised, or more specifically the part unconnected to him. He realised it, the part that somehow could still care: it was still there; it was still there.

Just not as much.

It was still there.

Just -

- What did he know about where he was or even who? The thing emptying revealed that perhaps he wasn't there. A great balance. A great tide out. He felt something else to which he was connected. Staring around, repeating, unable to move, feeling his will to, something approaching it, something like a something approaching a will to move - to be himself, to get up, kick that door, but not – it -

it hit him flush in the face.

A fucking lie.

Of course he was being lied to; it was a demon, this was the most basic conception associated. He was being lied to, obviously, yes:

That it was leaving, that its presence was diminishing here and filling someplace else.

The Orach of Mending told him this: his sense of being, his whole person, had been plunged into a lie. He forced the will upon himself to move but still nothing; he couldn't. He was forced into this spot in which he was fixed; connected in some sense to his will, unable to lift himself and break through the door.

His mind racing, those thoughts still through him. But with the difference now that he was participating, these were his thoughts again - no longer merely played across him.

- The lie flashed again, a stream of colours across his ear/left side of his face. A lie! They knew who he was and yet they still lied to him. He was who he was and yet it almost worked. That thing. This had been the lie: It wasn't pouring into Pheel and leaving him here alone.

Liar.