The room was an agitated beat of chaos as healers jostled, colliding with each other as they scrambled about to do something, anything.
Each one of them had their hands on one thing or another either over the medical instruments, knocking vials and scrolls to the floor or the sound of shattered glass mingled with their heavy breaths filling the room.
Zeenare who once led in silent in the capsule, was now the epicenter of a storm. Inside, his body twiched uncontrollably, convulsing in violent, shuddering spasms, rattling the thick glass.
The wounds on his chest, which had been oozing a sickly slime, was now looked raw and worse, bleeding freely without a single stitch of regeneration. His eyeslid were halfway open and unfocused, and a low, guttural shriek tore from his throat. Each sound he made was not what one could describe as a painful scream, but of pure, mindless agonizing torment.
