BATHKOL: Well, now, is there really any need for—
WORMWOOD: YES, THERE IS. SHUT UP.
BATHKOL: Hmpf!
WORMWOOD: AS I WAS SAYING.
WORMWOOD: AT FIRST, I ASSUMED YOUR RETICENCE IN COMMUNICATING WITH US WAS SIMPLY THAT OLD PENCHANT FOR DRAMATICS, CEREMONY AND WHATNOT.
WORMWOOD: ALSO YOUR INCLINATION TO BE A CONTROL FREAK.
WORMWOOD: BUT LOOK AT YOURSELF. YOU ARE FALLING APART, IN EVERY POSSIBLE SENSE.
WORMWOOD: ARE YOU AT ALL AWARE OF WHAT IS TRANSPIRING WITH SEVERAL OF OUR ASPECT HOLDERS?
WORMWOOD: HAVE YOUR POWERS TRULY SLIPPED SO THAT YOU CANNOT EVEN MAINTAIN THAT SENTIMENTAL DISGUISE?
...
WORMWOOD: WELL? DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?
Why, I...
...Yes. You are correct, Wormwood. I have noticed myself slipping more and more, of late.
My gaze does not extend as far as it once did, and it has grown blurrier. Weaker. Distorted.
I am afraid that this is symptomatic of what we dreaded most, as we drew closer to the end.
The Naught Father's influence has grown stronger, and it has seeped into The Game.