Sobe
You know very little. Beauty is the devourer of death.
Maldor (speaks slowly)
What poison is this?
Sobe (speaks gently)
A drop taken into the blood, no more. The skin becomes a milk-tinted pond in which wine-ghosts timidly bathe. The eyes, like purple breasted birds, beat against the day. The mouth blooms into splendours. Ah, Maldor, the drop releases beauty from her thousand prisons. The victim stands washed in a flood of light before which imagination dies.
Maldor (speaks maliciously)
What unique philanthropy is this? Has Sobe the Poisoner dreamed of immortality?
Sobe (gently)