Slyly and carefully, matching the ease of the armrest Ser Ofsted wrapped his fingers over the air surrounding the oily black handle. The curvature of the peg, its draconian gushing of a venom so dense and sour it simply gazes at the world around itself.
"Flutes speak with their head in the ground, that's what i always heard."
It was the muttering of the Old Fool in the cape, his pointed hat drooling out dust and God knows which illnesses. Ser Ofsted had no need or time for such nonsense, yet tolerance was his lot.

Humility does not store, it does not keep well. It must be given without end and without return.
The only burden worse than the Old Fool's rotten husk was rotten humility. Embittered, embalmed and lost forever. Ser Ofsted was a servant of energy, of time as it is illustrated. He felt his eyes shimmer, and the brief desire to step out of this life into the ether. A trip into the world of jagged space and objecthood, where sounds scour every rock and scaley plants poison the air with their colours and antenna.

How could his eyes mask such evil? Equipped with our safety blankets, does it enter our skulls as this or do we simply blur it all in our cerebral plumbing system.
Ser Ofsted realised he was gazing directly into the leer of the Old Fool, emerging from one dream into another, some despicable game or struggle. The Old Fool would regularly play these tricks on him, twist the fabric of his brain and leave him a gibbering wreck lost to time and humanity.

'Emancipation' would be the Old Fool's preferred term, but he had no choice in the matter. He simply produced this shedding of perception to all who entered his gravity well. He, the eye of this storm, would wander for eternity amongst these vegetated former Gods, archiving their ends and choking deeper and deeper into the future.