The Angel of the Harvest drank in the knowledge. In ancient days, human explorers starved to death amidst the most fertile hunting grounds of native societies. The difference between nature's abundance and its indifference was knowledge, and the Angel took all it could from the flesh and bone it had been gifted with. 

It did not find the creature any less majestic because it had been designed. Excavators were not any less mystical for that they were made in factories. The personalities of the engineers and programmers and sorcerers atop their ivory towers was not relevant; one did not have to be agreeable to cast a spell, and one did not need to like the wizard to live within a world of magic. To cast a spell like this creature was to make reality bear the consequences, and in this moment she was no more than the world shifting under a new weight.

So she sorts and inventories the scales. Many of her tools have rusted and decayed over a thousand years; she will improvise replacements. She milks and bottles the poison in jars meant for honey. She will need to perform some tests before she can properly calculate the dose for an adult human, but having a mechanism for switching off troublesome people will certainly be an asset. She cleans and carves the bones; they will become handles and levers. And besides all of this, she needs more than anything the practice. To know what the creature has within it is to know where to find more of that material when it is needed. She has no illusions she is doing anything other than reinventing the wheel; surely the people here know their way around this death more precisely than she does. 

But it is the first part of a larger puzzle. Perhaps, amidst more death, she will be able to see the whole of this world.