*Based on a true story*

The Weaver closed her eyes, expanding her awareness to cover the entire plane; dipping below the level of consciousness and in between the layers of the dreamscape, looking for the familiar twitch of imagination, the subtle painting of awareness on a canvas of dreams.

After only a few seconds she found what she was looking for: a Magnagoran, embraced by slumber on one of the Engine’s gritty streets. With a sibilant sigh the Weaver crossed her legs and sat down in the dirt, relaxing her mind and dropping the walls which she had crafted to ward off the relentless march of sleep. Like an army invading a village, weariness flowed into her mind, stealing the strength from her body and tearing her consciousness from its vigilant perch.

Sleep for this Weaver had always been painful. From as early as she could remember her dreams had been nightmares, with night terrors so twisted that they affected even her waking moments. Visions of a misty forest littered with the corpses of friends and family, bloated and rotting, maggots crawling from every orifice; demonic hordes streaming across the continent, spewing taint from their mouth in the same manner that locusts came from hers; and always that one, malevolent red eye watching her every move. She learned many years ago how to stave off sleep – which foods to eat to increase alertness, which concoctions and herbs to ingest that would take a hold of her mind in such a way that sleep was no longer needed, and, when these methods failed, she learned how to disconnect her soul from its body completely; learned how to escape her nightmares and freely wander the dreamscape.

As she relaxed her mind, facing the suffocation of consciousness with the calm only constant practice can bring about, she cast off the weight of her body and let her spirit float free. She focused her intention towards Magnagora, towards the presence she sensed earlier, and by dwelling on the presence and allowing it to consume all her thoughts, the Weaver pushed her dream body towards her prey, riding swiftly along the streams of consciousness which run like rivers throughout the dreamscape. In just a few quick moments the Weaver stood before her prey: an older loboshigaru, twisted by a foul association with the Taint, sleeping crudely on the side of the city street.

She paused for a moment to look at the taintling’s face; though twisted by demonic influence it seemed to be serene, gently surrendering to the loss of control, peacefully accepting its state of weakness and content with being at the mercy of its own subconscious. The Weaver sneered to herself, chasing away envy with revulsion at how easily this creature made vulnerable its own spirit.

Gathering herself, the Weaver took off, running straight at the loboshigaru. Her dream body hit her prey with such force that its spirit was ejected from its body, shaken and paralyzed with confusion. The Weaver quickly took its place and marveled for a moment at the senses of this new body; she swore that she could hear the sighs of the pariah in the Undercity, as well as smell the stench of the Necromentate. She turned to look at the spirit she had forced out, slowly regaining its composure and awareness of the situation, and she knew that this one would not be shaken for long.

Closing her eyes, the Weaver attuned her mind to the aetherwaves this taintling knew innately and, opening the mouth of the dog, the Weaver roared aloud with a stolen voice:

"Brothers and sisters! It is all clear to me now! We have been slaves to these wretched Demon Lords, pawns of their pleasure! Let us cast them off, let us no longer rely on strength other than our own, let us liberate ourselves from servitude. There is a new Teacher, one who teaches the way to glory. Do not let the fear of the "Lords" control you any longer, they do not matter. After all, nothing matters but Glomdoring."

As soon she was finished she felt a strong pressure on her dream body as her prey’s soul fought to regain control. With what would surely have sounded a loud “POP!” had the process been physical, her prey’s spirit wrested control of its body once more, pushing her out.

It was not long before the city responded to the yell. With pure hatred in his eyes, a demigod stormed into the area, tendrils of dark miasma dancing around him. With a forceful chant to Nifilhema, the ground just behind the loboshigaru rumbled and then split open, an iron cross draped in chains rising ominously. A look of dread crossed the loboshigaru’s face as he snapped his head from the spectacle behind him back to the Nihilist. Before he could shout in protest the chains shot forward, wrapping themselves around his arms, legs and throat, strapping him fast to the cruel tool of the Demon Lords. The cross began to expand, stretching out his limbs and cracking the bones.

“You are a traitor to the Lords, dog. Never return to this city,” said the Nihilist, watching with a cruel sense of enjoyment as the loboshigaru’s limbs began to pop from their sockets. As his skin finally reached its limit, the sound of tearing flesh mingled with the booming laughter of the Nihilist – and the quiet chuckle of the Weaver.

Closing her eyes once more the Weaver let out a soft sigh, mentally reaching out for her body. With the same plummeting sensation of streaking from the sky to hoist someone, the Weaver’s dream body streaked back to her physical one. As the immaterial slammed into the material the Weaver was jerked awake. She stood, brushing the dirt off of her indigo robes and flashed a wicked smile.

“Well, that was even better than I had hoped. Like feeding two crows with one corpse.”