The funnel expanded, the sludge of the Master’s former substance pouring into an unseen mold, filling it. A human shape, and the flutes trilled loudly in Hoven’s ears, piercing his eardrums and making his nose and eyes bleed. He fell to his knees in the presence of the god—

Not a god, he was corrected. Merely The Messenger.

Hoven looked into the beatific face of the angelic man. His skin was an unnatural black, black like light fell into him and was lost, but Hoven could see the man (or what appeared to be a man) in his soul. The Messenger had high cheekbones and a delicate nose, almond-shaped eyes; Egyptian features, the face of a pharoah rendered in anti-light. The figure produced a book in one great hand, and pushed it at Hoven.

Yes, yes Hoven would sign his name in the man’s book; and lo, it was written there though Hoven never moved.