The words emerge from your lips like a lurking spider, rasping and otherworldly. The voice is not your own, though you now command its power. An inky blackness, somehow both liquid and vapor at once, coalesces in your palms and writhes to the tips of your fingers. A chill comes over you, and your hands become frigid—blue, numb, and corpse-like. You gesture, holding your hands over the injury, and the inky tendrils set to work, worming their way into the wound and stitching it closed.