The actions of the plague demon, however mocking, failed to provoke the Progenitor.  It retracted its tentacles, their deed accomplished, and watched as Bal-Tazor converted some waste tissue left behind by the Flesh into a meal for itself.  This fascinated the Progenitor, who learned far less with its eyes then it did by the chemicals seeping from Bal-Tazor into the ground, for the ground was now the domain of the Flesh That Hates.  The instant that the demon had allowed itself to be coaxed into entering the pit was the instant that the Progenitor's lesson would proceed satisfactorily.

For a few moments the Progenitor dumbly watched the plague spawn race in impish merriment about its pit.  After a few moments, the cackling creatures ceased to interest the Progenitor.  They were like the scabs, with no true intellect of their own, only a directory fixation.  Nothing could be learned from them.  From the abomination that birthed them, however, much could seemingly be gleaned.  It was powerful, certainly, and even if its words meant nothing the tone could not be mistaken.  Its taunts simply did not register with the Progenitor; the only language it understood was its own.  Yet again, though, it was the chemicals that told it everything.  Inside the pit, the stones and dirt were infested with the Flesh, and through skin contact with the membrane the Progenitor expanded its awareness to each tiny facet of life within the area.  It wasn't the only one affected by contact with the Flesh, however.  Even now, tiny filaments of the Flesh were working their way into Bal'Tazor from where he stood upon it.  Their progress was slow due to the nature of the poisons in the demon's body, but by the Progenitor's will they were adapting and advancing.  Before the embodiment of disease could be further reached into, however, he had to be further studied.

The Progenitor brushed its right tendril across the fleshy ground, transmitting impulses.  As one, every Snatcher in the pit rose to their feet from their comatose sleep, a few surprising the very plague spawn that had been trying to gnaw on them.  The Snatchers that were close enough grabbed the smaller minions, held them close, and launched their fleshhooks into the little demons' faces.  Those that were farther away simply snagged their prey with the fleshhooks, reeled them in, and began to carry them toward the huge, grotesque, elevated structure that was the Heart.

While this happened, the Progenitor quickly adapted itself once more, paying careful attention to Bal'Tazor's reaction in the meantime.  [i][b]Instant mutation: fray.[/b][/i]  The arms of the avatar of the Flesh metamorphosed again, taking only seconds to become thick, columnlike limbs frayed at the end into thousands of nerve endings.  The Progenitor then plodded toward Bal'Tazor, desirous to feel its skin and commune with the inner workings of its monstrous body directly.  It had, it seemed, little concern for itself.  If the plague demon thought that the Progenitor was a mindless child rather than an indomitable organism, it was no concern as long as it allowed itself to be examined.