I really am the Dream Slave, Art thought... and what it meant, otherwise; a slave to his organs; a slave to his attributes - which was what it meant and the same thing; a Dream Slave, otherwise/otherwise, looking around at where he was and with whom, he wouldn't be. Where he was and with whom, that was, the man with whom he was... with.

He wouldn't be.

Because all - it was all - clearly insane.

- But his organs.

They'd found Pheel some clothes less conspicuously from an advanced technological civilisation planet with its own strange fashions that had left decadent behind a couple ten thousand years ago. He was in your regular fighting demon gear. Leather cuirass, breaches, the largest sword he could carry. They'd spent some time in a field fighting with sticks - it hadn't gone terribly well for Pheel but he wasn't entirely - he was incompetent, but he wasn't - if he didn't get in the way, he might survive an... hour... hour and a half.

After tying their horses to a beech tree that looked like somebody's representation of the fear essential to existence - they confronted it; the place, the place they'd been heading to.

Its mouth, of course, was inviting, in a fashion not terribly inviting – them - into the ground of the subterranean layer identified on the map as the place, beneath the earth, infested with demons, in which the Lucine Cast of Thrice, a fake dissident organisation, had buried, in order to reinforce the Queen of Waat's power over her subjects the Black Chest of the Scrolls of the Prophecies of the Queen of Waat. A narrative Art wasn't really following at this point. Underground.

It was a chest of prophecies; scrolls, all of the supernatural prophecies of the Supernatural Combination Cyclops Lady Woman, Queen person, abstractly beautiful, - who was the queen of Waat.

This was next in the quest, Pheel seemed to agree - but he didn't listen to Pheel, despite the new narrative, as he described it, the fact – it was given to him, by the Pheel Cazzo. This guy, beside him, staring at the weirdly biological mouth of a cave: confirming his worst subconscious, another Pheel word, fears. The fears he'd always had, he felt, even before he was Art, Art[ion] Mlckk'n Inchance-rify, the Dream Slave - obviously, but that was it. And here. He was here. And he supposed he'd have to keep this guy alive. He'd try and keep him alive. It would be hard.

“So you're a...”

“A writer.”

“So, yeah, a writer, you're not...? I don't wish to offend you, you're not a fighter - this isn't your occupation, is what I'm saying,”

They were talking before entering a subterranean infested realm of demons. In which, there was the chest of prophecies that in some sense confirmed, or denied, it was difficult to retain this information, reality - beside the other things it did which was certainly reinforce - it's point was to reinforce the Queen of Waat.

“But as you seem to have explained it. And this would actually be a proof, that would be nice for me to possess, in terms of not constantly feeling that I'm merely a slave of my organs - you're a writer, the main one actually, the last in a series anyway - a long series of writers with a very specific propensity to fantasy, in a certain oneiric sense, of or relating to dreams.

“This is your skill, really, as far as I understand it - it's a long premise, shut up - in the exact same fashion that mine is, in terms of fighting demons who have no choice but to use deception in their efforts at combat, as in fact in everything else. And beside being a massive man, skilled in all forms of hand to hand warfare, combat, etc. I have a literal sense organ, a symbol of some latent weird propensity in your mind apparently, but none the less extremely useful when fighting demons because I can: sense - it's instinct - lies.

“I can sense almost exactly in what fashion and when they'll – try anyway to - deceive me. - We're talking about skills, this is an idea I've just had,” he could see Pheel was fascinated by this discourse, as was Pry; where he was, feeling the weird interactions, this was how it felt, between separate parts of himself, “What I'm saying is that somewhere in your brain, you're writing this, aren't you? Your subconscious, as you've described the concept to me.

“This world is literally real and exists, as you've also explained and as I've – let's sit on this rock here, under this tree, in the shade, so we can talk about this,” they did that; the weird swollen lips of the cave's entrance still the focal point of the valley; a chuntering-chittering burn [dialect: stream] nearby. They were surrounded by the beauty of nature, except for the mad representation of existential fear beech, they were now under. Their horses found grass enough to munch on nearby. The dappled shade oscillated across both their faces, same time Art sought to explain a concept, to – this person who was like talking to another part of himself, in terms of how natural and – it was like daydreaming actually: he just ran the thoughts through.

Pheel told him he was fascinated by the discourse and to go on, sitting under the rock... and so Art did. Cazzo had found a sideways military hat, of some erased kingdom, that he'd purchased, with Art's money. Art thought it was the hat he was really enjoying. Because - Pheel was really enjoying himself, and this was obvious. “Your making this place so -”

“- It doesn't really function like that -”

“Then how?”