She unwrapped the swaddling that bound his left hand, and the hoary scourge it kept. The agent of Iylum's assassination. Wary at the ferly scar she scrutinized, then recoiled.
"Cluthe!" she exclaimed, to his dismay: This a thing she should not scry. "Here is the doer that massacred a hundred worlds!"
"Natheless, here we are," he assuaged, while the curatrix rummaged in the sordor of her fane. "Pigfeathers," she croaked something like. "Trimodal pathogen," and approached him with a knife.
She ticked one finger of hers, that bled a drip into a mortar of water. "Apoptosis, first."
She ticked one finger of his, from the blighted hand. "Conditionally: Apothanasia."
The two component drops sank like pendants, then diffused as a sanguinary brume.
"And?" he prompted. She proffered him the bowl. As he drank, she reciprocated: "Apotheosis."
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