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Toadliquor just doesn't understand. Like a Roman slave, chained for life with oar in hand to an ancient galley, just a floating hunk of wood that he has barely a modicum of control over, Toadliquor are forever strapped to their own sound: A vessel of enormous weight floating over perilous unplumbed depths, always a moment away from the potential disaster; but never in possession of the knowledge of why.
And like the great blind god of the forge, Hepheastus, always straining to bring elegance out of hunks of raw molten earth, Toadliquor are eternally yearning to find beauty and spiritual tranquillity in the roar that surrounds them. They can't see why, and could never explain how; it's just an essence that Toadliqour doesn't understand.