If one were to try and describe the feeling of one's inner organs being pulled out through one's pores, maybe it would feel like this. Every bit and essence of Sylas' being was being ripped and torn, divided into little bite-sized pieces as though someone was taking a fork and knife to his life itself.
The pain was excruciating, but oddly enough, it was little more than a faint murmur in the background, something like the probing annoyance of a fly compared to the existential dread that overlaid atop it.
His mind was far more consumed with the finality of it all than it was the pain.
Sylas could feel that that was part of the point. To be so focused on how over it all was instead of trying to find a way out of it all.
