After a pretty exhaustive search of any history or medical text with that glyph on it, the one that drove Erak'el crazy to try and figure out, he fell asleep on the library floor. Poko'tusz, curious as ever, went through what written books were strewn about amongst Erak'el's things, only to discover a small, pink, hand-written tome of poetry. A grimace formed on his beak as he read through the written works, then down at Erak'el. "You don't even know me," he would whisper, pushing Erak'el's hair from his face. It was beautiful poetry, but if he really knew what Poko'tusz was or even what he was capable of, those poetries would turn into nightmares.

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