Pulled out his torpor, dropped into this scene that was obviously the end of something that had been – his entire existence even before his current identity, before all of them - all of it was ending. This was obvious, merely him being who he was - Art, no need for thought. Sword screaming off his back, he yelled the only battle cry that made sense to him; yelling it as his sword screamed from its scabbard, he didn't know why - thought had deserted him. All it meant, all it was, was perhaps, the thing for which he was fighting.

“Beauty!”

“Truth!” It was Pheel, he had his battle cry too, understanding the nature of being as he worked it out his consciousness; he had no sword, but he was not weaponless, he was neither defenceless - he could work reality into a weapon too – he was a sorcerer.

This was what a scribbler was – Pheel Cazzo: sorcerer. He yelled it again, hand before him positioned for throwing a pub-dart. - He'd fire something as soon as he managed to understand its existence in that place in the final nature of its very being, in terms of his having an idea, an in, that might induce it in this narrative. Theoretically this was how - he felt the dream everywhere, he felt it, still, the dream existed; corrupted, defiled. - But this was still Shensh, and the dream was there.

He yelled his battle cry, he screamed it - he screamed, “Truth!” - they had that which they were fighting for, each of them.

Each his battle cry, they screamed with all that was in them, one man now, in some fashion, one entity, no interruption between the thoughts that played across each other's consciousnesses. Aspects of the same man, Pry thought, in some sense, but why, what was - who -

“Love!” Massimo had the thing for which he was fighting; faithful Phinz-Twoan seeing the massive two-handed axe on his back he'd use to – he didn't know, but they would not watch idly as this entity, pulled out his mother's wounded-vagina Old Works, and by means of this connection, murder everyone alive.