Of the nether, the unthings, it was made. An abstract, a formless thought that swivelled and spun to desire and intention. It had no name. It had no mind. But thoughtlessness it was not. In the dead night where silence is heard and when wide-eyed unwavering spells visions in the blackness, it takes hold of mere mortals What comes is but a reflection of their tend to life or destruction for this, of the unthings, is its power.