Foster is starting to feel his intoxication. In more ways than one, actually. What Herbert means, he realises with the kind of hazy, thick-fought feeling of brilliance that comes from alcohol, is that he wants to craft Foster into a tool, an opportunity, a resource. This is all he's waited for--no, all he is. A lower being whose feelings, wants, needs, and thoughts do not matter. His sole purpose is to suffer and die, and to be of use. Is it any surprise that when it finally appeared, it took the form of that which he most abhors--?

He regards Herbert in a way that's almost animal, his eyes glistening, his head tilted just so.