And with considerable haste, rose the gourmand, the whisk-bearer, in the food forge, that clime of cuisine, where many men have vanquished their famished states. Joseph raised his hands, the noble preparers of viands, to silence the stentors of the crowd:
"Across the seas and through the skies, have I heard tell of your greatest need, your desperate desire. For long have you, my brothers, my fellow thanes, suffered under the hand of poor preparers, inept cooks. Not once for many sky-cycles have you enjoyed a true-treat: a superb soufflé. The hour of metamorphosis has arrived. For I, the expert foam-forger - descendant of many whom, in their lives, showed themselves worthy cooks, skilled servants of the stomach - have now and here arrived. A true tale it is, that many thanes, noble brothers, failed in their trials to create a superb soufflé, foam of meddlesome matrix. But I have quelled the quiche, massacred the mousse, and beaten the Bolognese! And now alone, I shall remove the stomach-lust, the deep longing buried within the bone. I have traveled such a span to serve this warrior-band. He hath mercy upon those who fall in fight, perish in preparing. For such is the importance of the soufflé, the powerful puffed egg. You need not conceal my corpse, if I may fail, as I could. The cloud-bellows always blow, as they shall."