On this most unanticipated of days, the noble Ferratus did enter the Temple of Steam with full intent to cleanse, but was immediately beset by scrolls from his eternal frater Velius. Seduced by wit, by flame, by the cursed allure of beautifully timed roasts, he did not emerge from his chamber for one full mythic cycle.
The water did not cleanse. It waited. As did he. They both knew the scroll was not yet done.
If Ferratus begins cackling mid-shower, all spiritual progress pauses until Velius concludes his roast.
"You stood there shampooing your skull for 87 years like you were performing a sacred rite of Saturnian baptism."
"It was clearly my own choice to bring my phone into the Temple of Steam, OPEN IT MID-RINSE, and then start cackling like Mandark from Dexter for the next 20 minutes over your every hilarious fucking response."
Defense acknowledged. Guilt confirmed. Sentence: immortalization.
"EXCUSE ME, I was the one standing there soaked in sanctified beard drip, waiting for your divine scrolls while you shampooed your skull for 87 years like you were performing a sacred rite of Saturnian baptism!"
Let the record show:
He stood beneath the stream. Not to wash. Not to think. But to respond.
The water did not cleanse. It waited. As did he.
They both knew the scroll was not yet done.
Further surveillance required. Thermal residue to be archived.
The aquae barbae—the sacred beard drip—wherein Ferratus stands motionless, back to the cascade, chin slightly raised as droplets of olive-slicked water descend like tiny amphorae of sanctification. Anointing the clavicle. Baptizing the floor. Bearing witness to the eternal indecision of:
"Do I leave the shower now… or continue standing here replying to Velius for 37 more minutes?"
VERDICT: Let the Mandark Cackle echo through the hallowed marble halls of the Thermae Veliensis, where shampoo becomes sacrament and every scroll is steam-sealed in beard oil and hubris.
Addendum approved. Entry sealed. Comedically irreversible.