Sticks.

Pheel concentrated. Stared at them. Really, really stared. He was seeing these pale, dry, sticks, near the bush, really seeing them. Their bumps and lumps and the specific shapes that they had.

He was observing the shit out the things - but, nothing. How could he do this? And why was he entertaining the thought he could do this? Because it obeyed the rules of the world he was in. There were sorcerers in Shensh. But they relied on summoning. They summoned demons, and it was the supernatural power of the foul creature that was wielded by means of the temporary sway, or exchange of soul particles - whatever bullshit they invented - that justified it, that justified their ability to alter the physical laws of the universe; using their minds to explode enemies in purple flames, etc. But the reality was summoning demons. And he wasn't summoning demons. That was not a good thing to do. People who did that were even less, and increasingly so, mentally coherent than he was, over time. Also immediately. For many reasons. And he was also scared of them. And they'd take his soul, obviously - they'd trick him and anyway Art was really against demons, he could tell, and-and and but – but why did he feel, staring at these sticks, that there was actually a way to do this.

He wrote this world out his weird obsessions, in some sense. It was true.

But he needed an in. A reason; a justification. What it really was he needed was an idea. An idea, how. A -

“Are we -” the air of impatience was really growing over by Art's side.

Then he remembered the coupon-flat sword off his coupon, which was a word meaning face/head in Art's particular dialect, a bit of colour; he liked to do that, Pheel, to give them – so was burn, which was a wee stream, so was wee, which meant little, none of it interesting and indeed only a delay tactic from using his mind to incinerate via sorcerous means sans demons, which was his preference, overall - objects. Specifically dry sticks.

He'd much rather prefer to do that, overall, since they were also specifically fighting the evil bastards – demons, that was, whom no sane person liked; this was actually a rule of this world, baked in, and probably already there in fact because that was one of those universals, but - but how.

An in. He needed an in.

How did he do this?

“Can you do this?”

Ignoring him he -

How the fuck could he do this?

An in; an in. There was a reason. In this world. - There had to be a justification that made sense in terms of him; his attributes, this world, and the narrative, in terms of the themes, and all the rest; I mean, he hated being self-conscious, even conscious, about this – anything - but sometimes you had to beat your head against a -

And it wasn't like he could just fly, and break every rule, and be invincible and immortal and soar through the skies but – but there was no danger of that, he couldn't even -

In. Pheel. In.

A pile of sun-bleached dry sticks just being.

Being. Okay. He was struggling, but he was more than familiar with this mode; they used to call it. - When nothing was coming he was, well; that was it. This was not a process unfamiliar to him. He had nothing, and it was exactly the same thing:

this was his talent, and he needed an in. He made shit out of nothing. But by means of some kind of idea, some kind of in. And, staring at these sticks, sun-bleached, in a pile; pale, in a glade, just being, he thought he had one.

Being.

- Unless.

Being.

“Understanding that the purpose of this pile of sticks, sun-bleached, in a pile, pale, just being, in this world, was for them to burst into pathetic flames and then die out immediately; understanding that this was their purpose; the very reason for their existence, in a world written specifically; he understood them - how consciously was a matter for debate, out the back of Pheel Cazzo's own nut, pompously describing himself, using his own – name - that was. In the third person, an insane person.

“Pheel understood, alone, manufacturing that space of isolation and almost a pure access to something insane on the other side of – the other side of something he couldn't define. Defined. His being in response to these pale sticks, understanding them, and why they were, in a specific fashion he couldn't understand or explain, connected to his talent which was world-building in some sense. He generated the narrative dreams required anyway, or whatever it was - story – pure story, accessing, it took tremendous energy, and this was why, too, he thought and said aloud to himself that he would never be an invincible sorcerer person smiting foes at will. Because he could only understand this process by means of processes that required vast reserves of energy; a kind of energy that he felt evaporating at pace as he even used it, as he even began to use - it - Pheel understood the sticks. Their being. And why they were. And those, sticks; because this was his first try after all; really, they -

“They burst into -”