Inside the dim cave, the foul odor was so thick it was almost tangible.
Feces and sewage pooled in the low-lying areas, forming a viscous mire that exuded a nauseating stench of rot.
Sylvan curled up in the corner of a hard wooden bed. His ragged linen clothes, unwashed for so long, had stiffened and caked, sticking to his festering skin and flesh.
From prolonged lying and filth, his back and buttocks were covered in bedsores. Pus and blood constantly seeped from the ruptured sores, forming dark brown, hardened patches on his clothes and emitting a rank, metallic odor even more pungent than the surrounding filth.
Prolonged starvation left his consciousness in a constant state of daze; even lifting a finger was an effort.
He could only vaguely sense the changing of the seasons from the shifts in the cave's temperature.
When he first arrived, he needed a charcoal fire to ward off the cold. Now, the cave was so stiflingly hot he could barely breathe. It must be summer outside.
