"They're not beasts," she corrects, quick as a whip. She's standing again, hand unmarred from the flames which seemed to burst from beneath her palm. Her tone is patient--for now. "They're intelligent. He was intelligent, for all that he allowed strength and pride to cloud his vision."

Her fingers trail along Epithymetikon's rib again, touch gentle like a mother's would be. There's much to relate with: the loss of a parental figure, the way power and authority spiralizes out of control when left unchecked. She shakes her head, looking away from the runes and to Strange.

"I wonder if we could borrow the soil? Or would it lose its potency when far enough away from his remains?" Not that she's necessarily thinking about resurrecting anything, but if the potency leeches from his bones and saturates the land, then it would be safe to assume that everything around Epithymetikon's remains could be utilized to amplify one's magic. "You're proficient in necromancy?"

That look of his... it was fevered in a way that reminds her of an academic, or someone teetering on the edge of a growing obsession.