The stub of a candle from His Flesh was burning out in the middle of the Great Nothing. The flame of the Reflection of His Soul fluttering at the tip of the wick cast thousands of silent Shadows. One of the Faceless Ones tilted her head to her shoulder, chuckled thoughtfully and wrinkled her forehead. A local second of eternity for reflection and the Shadow took up an artifact brush, the work of the Hands of Himself. The shaft is from a young shoot of the Tree of Worlds. The brush is made from the wool of the Heavenly Beast. The only one in this layer of reality. Stardust under the paws of his roads...