The final doom and futility not just of his existence, but existence himself. The Wound's glance. The way he saw him. It sat on Art like a chamber of doom.

There was -

no escaping the way he saw him.

There was no escaping the physical, moral, and psychological consequences. His sword met the glance - wrenched clean off his hand and whipped back - flying back across the room behind.

A geometric chamber, the prison out his three eyes, was incorporated, slowly, out of his very face. He saw it incorporate itself through shifting layers of incomprehensible geometric planes, of entire geometries, in fact - that couldn't be incorporated into the human mind/any terrestrial mode of understanding.

This cage was the imposition of his vision upon Art; combined out those three eyes in – in some fashion that he could not interpret; this cage was combined out a three tiered vision of reality whose source - whose source was the other side of any final understanding of anything good that could be apprehended by Art or any other mind congruous.

It made the cage. It made the cage out of the worst of him: in an imposition of literal shapes. Out his face, out his glance, solely out of the way he saw the world.

The connection had been severed, his consciousness, in terms of a relation to the others – he couldn't even see them there – it had all been severed, and he was alone.

Utterly, utterly, separated and alone. His own consciousness, solely, denuded of anything that remained to him that could be good, that could have any value or worth whatever in any universe anyone could apprehend. Stripped. Denuded. And removed from a mind forced into the doom-chamber of final, unreconcilable, solitude.

His consciousness, his mind, his soul – he was trapped in that doom chamber. The weird angles of the planes, and the literal shapes whose realities he could not interpret, they swung around his body: they swung him in planes of madness, and decrease -

psychological pressure that would rip his brain out his skull, and he couldn't move. He couldn't move. Trapped in depression; in nothing land, in the emptying your own bucket land of - he was forced into that inferno and

He was there.

Just him.

And his pointless existence.

“Truth!” Pheel understood that a bright blue flame existed in terms of the nature of reality itself, in that room in Shensh, which formed the dart in his hand that -