The target seemed to be drifting through Tartarus. He bathed in the sounds of the suffering that echoed and bled around him. The smell of blood and sweat is in the air. Of pain and fear. Here, there would be no rest. There would be no reprieve.
Thanatos moved from victim to victim, because make no mistake, that is what they were. His victims. His sacrifices to his need for suffering. Every soul that came here should suffer. The mortal thread only learned in their pain and agony. Lessons should be taught in flesh and blood, terror and dismay.
He stood beside a man, nameless to him. and watched a sort of death crawl over his face. It was the death of hope, of peace, of any and all stillness. The man laid, eviscerated and bleeding out slowly, eyes dull. They rolled to meet those of Death himself, and even this close to the end, the man knew to be afraid. He had no air left to scream his fear. But the expression brought ecstacy to the Underworld's executioner.