Izathel’s servants laid the obliterator on the dissecting table, almost cracking the porcelain with the sheer force.

He quickly got to work, using his talons to flay the impure beast.

“May the forsaken elevate the chosen” he mumbled metallically.

He reached at the arms, and saw a defining feature of obliterators: pores, emiting a milk-like ooze. Izathel’s jaws made a click expressing displeasure. So long was Phyrexia mired in black mana, that it invented weapons designed to deal with white mana creatures.

No more. This design would kill that line.

He made sure to suture porcelain plates, only now collected by ureters to the pores, making it seem like the honeycomb structure found inside birds’ skeletons.

The white mana was not merely absorbed, it was projected.

Soon, the abomination rose from the table. It did so awkwardly; a pair of wings had been sutured to its back.

“Fly my pretty, fly and remember the Mother of Machines of my faultless loyalty!”

It flew, alright.

And collapsed the roof.