A candle stub from the Flesh of His lit by the Great Nothing was burning out in the middle of it. The flickering flame at the tip of His Soul’s Reflection cast thousands of silent Shadows.
And one of the Faceless tilted its head toward a shoulder, thoughtfully snorted, and wrinkled its brow. A local second of eternity for thinking—and the Shadow reached for an artifact hand, work of the Hands of the Very One. The handle was made from a young sprout of the World Tree. The little brush was made from the fur of the Heavenly Beast—the only one in this layer of reality. Star dust for his paws…