It exists. The only thing it knows is hate.
It is the Formless. It can move faster than thought, faster than anything on Geos.
It cannot die, for it is the Drop of Creation. It can only be contained.
Run, slither, speed. Over, across, traversing landscape. Hunting, finding, ending.
It has no thoughts. It has no goals save destruction.
Thing. Living. Tentacles, spikes, claws. Thing dead. Find new life. Find, change, kill.
It has no form. It has, in a moment, any weapon a thousand geniuses can imagine.
Resistance. Fire, blade, fear, desperation, pain, death. Resistance ceased.
It is not alive.
It cannot be stopped. It is the Godless Omnipotent. It knows no pain, no fear, no mercy.
Stop. Look. Movement. Sound. Voices. Kill. End. Cease.
It tears across all, tearing its way through armies sent to stop it. It escapes prisons, tears through iron and steel, through bedrock. It will reach its quarry. Nothing alive or dead can stop it and nothing will in all time.
It is the Formless.
Already here.