The Legend of the Dream Weaver
In the deepest corners of forbidden lore, whisperings tell of a creature so horrific, so fundamentally corrupt, that merely mentioning it sends shivers down the spines of sages and warriors alike. This is the tale of the Dream Weaver — an ancient entity of pure malevolence, an embodiment of nightmare incarnate.
It dwells beyond the veil of waking consciousness, lurking in the shadowy labyrinth between dreams and reality. Neither alive nor dead, the Dream Weaver exists in a realm woven from the fabric of subconscious fears and twisted illusions. Over ten feet tall, its monstrous frame is a grotesque nest of human arms, dozens upon dozens, writhing like tangled serpents, reaching out in all directions, grasping at trembling minds. Each arm seems to have a life of its own, pulsing with unseen energy, ending in gnarled, clawed fingers or delicate, tapering digits—both instruments of its endless manipulation.
