Zazzerpan was pondering, as one of his sagacity does. Even as he awaited Calmasis's dapper form to dim his doorway, the wise rarely act. Instead, the wise ponder. His capacity to apprehend multiplicities was limited, but he could not help himself. He was reminiscing on his increasingly defunct Complacency. His disciples were not as he had expected. The stewardship that he had offered was spurned, and met with disdain. They took to obscenity with ease, and then, as perhaps expected, took to an Obscenity with ease.
"If only they had known how I had suffered such tribulations as theirs in my youth," he thought, "They would not feel such resentment, surely."
The words were spoken, and the crystal globe he was pondering spoke back, in its typically adumbrative way. Memories of his youth as a fledgling wizard, one whose robes bore the stars like poorly placed stickers upon a page, played out within the crystal ball. They were portrayed exactly how they had been experienced, coated by a glimmering nostalgia for youth only by the lurid feelings of the observer. Overcome by further pensive feelings, his beard, laden with gilded constellations, twinged, and the starry sky itself moved with it.
He had earned his place amongst his peers. Why could they not feel the same? What had broken, to cause such strife?
"Pah, teenagers, one must be understanding with them, but one cannot help but wonder," The silence was broken not by Calmasis, but the lavish, pompous image of Ockite the Bonafide. "Could they be saved? Certainly at some point. But now, there are only two that remain complacent, dear Predicant Scholar. You and I. Frigglish the Jocund and Gastrell the Munificent renounced our Complacency after the passing of Smarny and fled to the quagga bogs of N'varra, to do their diligence and live out their remaining days. I know you fear his return, but the scryers are certain. Bund the Laconic disappeared beneath the salty waves."
Zazzerpan was caught unawares. He had known of the abandonments, of course. They rot in his aging chest, each name spoken an inhumanity, but he had known. What had bothered him was that one name was absent. There had been three before. From the atrocious lilt in his voice and obscene scent of lustrous alchemy on his wand, Zazzerpan had perceived the betrayal, and the night sky heaved as he drew his own wand.
"I can always count on you for an ironic repartee, Zazzerpan," Ockite continued, "Nobody else really gets our sense of humor."