Instead of fading away, the phenomenon expanded its influence, until a portion of the Drounge the size of a pillow was fully involved. Within this segregated section of self, unprecedented processes were at work. Never having in its entire existence encountered or experienced anything like it before, the Drounge was at a loss to give a name to what was happening. It was not frightened. That which bears the burden of annihilation does not fear. But it was puzzled, if not a little confused.
Part of it, albeit a very small part, was changing. Metamorphosing in a most matchless and extreme fashion. It took place so rapidly that the Drounge was unable to react, nor did it quite know how to do so. Some sort of response seemed called for, but it could not begin to know exactly what.
The portion of itself that had engaged the creature foolish enough to initiate physical contact withdrew. Freed, the unfortunate dropped away from the Drounge’s flank, falling to the ground while clutching its formerly impacted upper member. By now that limb should have been diseased beyond recognition, should be little more than a stick upon which a multitude of afflictions had worked their foul dissipation. Moreover, the general infection that was the Drounge ought to have spread to and throughout the creature’s entire slight, vulnerable body, reducing it to a corrupted mass of dead and decaying tissue.
Nothing of the sort had happened. With the application of the soft paste, all that the Drounge had inflicted had been countered. The individual limb as well as the rest of its owner had been miraculously restored to health. Climbing to its feet, the smaller biped held its formerly impacted appendage and stared down its length as if examining an unexpected apparition. It manifested no evidence of damage and its expression was absent of anguish.