Chaotic Creativity Married with Erratic Impulse
An enigmatic being, the Weaver pursues little more than fulfilling its boundless curiosity and untamable creativity. Unpredictable and self-absorbed it cares only for that which truly catches its attention, ignoring anything and everything else that would distract it from its next masterpiece. Due to this, negotiating with the Weaver is an exercise in futility for all but the savviest of minds. But those who can manage to wrestle the Weaver’s focus for more than a few minutes often get more than they bargained for as it becomes relentless in digging deeper and deeper into its new source of inspiration, even if they break in the process.
The Weaver’s brushstroke can be found both literally and figuratively across historical texts as a driving force behind many artistic geniuses. As such, many brave the harshness of the material realm to gain audience with it, hoping to be bestowed a flash of inspiration from such an ancient force. Unfortunately, many instead leave having lost their creative desire forever, those synapses permanently severed. And the Weaver continues onward, sewing and painting for all time.
Manic Creativity. Those who lay eyes upon a Weaver’s collections are rarely prepared for the sight; a hoarder beyond hoarders, the Weaver rarely lets anything go. Endless tapestries, paintings, crafts, and of course dolls litter the walls and floor as the Weaver skitters along the ceiling, plucking at whatever happens to catch its eye that day. Its craft is never finished, as it rarely brings a piece to completion before something new seizes its attention for the foreseeable future.
Artistry Plunderer. After such a long stretch of existence, the Weaver still seeks new and inventive thoughts and emotions to inspire its creativity. Though flashes of brilliance still emerge from its mind, it has turned to the nasty habit of plucking such visions from those seeking to make a deal. Over time, the line between its own creativity and that which it has stolen from others has blurred, only making the Weaver more inscrutable than ever before.
Twisted Audience. Of all the creative pursuits the Weaver has thrown itself into, none stir as much emotion within its chest as that of a terrible tragedy. Therein lies the true purpose behind the Weaver’s infinite collection of effigies and dolls, each representing a bargain once struck which the Weaver can twist to a cruel end if so desired. With each broken heart and widowed love, the Weaver feels ever closer to some intangible understanding of the mortal condition, but until then many may fall victim to its machinations.
You trudge onward beneath a kaleidoscope of innumerable strings and threads. As you push past another multicolored curtain, the sensation tinging the back of your neck grows ever more noticeable, like an itch you can’t quite scratch. The itch starts to become unbearable when you feel an arm jerk upwards, a loose thread suddenly going taut around your wrist. You peer upwards as a pair of gnarled hands part the canopy, only to be followed by more and more hands creeping from the darkness. A flat face emerging from behind them, a rattling voice booming from behind that, somehow ancient and spirited, reedy and mighty all at once.
“Why hello there dearies. Come in, come in. I have so much to show you. Just as I thought I was in another slump, I was struck with inspiration as I watched you approaching my humble abode. Look! Dollies for each and every one of you. Made them myself, every thread woven with loving care. Can you see the resemblance? They just need a few finishing touches, a little something to make a real connection. Now… hold still…”