When he is seen in visions, Nexorpan, the god of small agonies, has no face: what appears to be a sea urchin sits atop his neck as a surrogate head. Its numerous spines have shredded the torso of his three-piece suit, exposing the raw patches of violet skin beneath. Every morning, his handmaidens bathe him, dress him, and tend to his wounds, yet all of their work is swiftly undone.
He has no external senses of his own, as he exists with neither eyes nor ears nor tongue. Every point on his flesh from the fingertips on inward remains eternally numb. Even so, at any given moment, he is experiencing more at once than any mortal ever has within a single lifetime, for his mind consists of the domain of all suffering which does not last. He personally feels every papercut, every chipped tooth, and every bare foot upon broken glass, and he feels them at the exact point in space-time where they’ve taken place.
Experiencing all of this does not harm him, for through it, he is exalted. For a being who dwells entirely within it, pain is not a cocktail of negative hormones: it is simply information. Through this, he knows the slopes of mountains as waves of frostbite, the perimeter of islands as sun-reddened skin, and the flow of traffic as columns of parallel headaches. Even though most eventually forget them, he remembers all of these small sufferings, and through them, he has come to know the world more intimately than almost any other god.