She's dealt with far more bodily fluids and waste than she particularly cares to think about -- even more since poor Midwife Mimsy died and left her as the only available hag -- but this, Hagitha thinks, staring at the bedpan laid on her examination table, is not something she has any experience with. The furred stranger who the Veiled consigned to her care (her keeping, more like; you don't keep a patient unconscious with poppy milk, but some folk might treat a prisoner with that kind of disregard) breathes and bleeds and pisses like any other person, but her poop is shaped into neat, dry cubes.

Still, whether the square poop is a curse or something natural to the stranger's people makes no real difference -- she's never heard of a demon that needs a bedpan at all, and maybe the next time she explains that to the Veiled, she'll pull together a good enough imitation of Midwife Mimsy's authority that one of them will finally listen.