Chapter Text
The Weaver was ancient. He was almost old enough to remember the day that Hell clash with the Outlands – a time where the number of demons who inhabited the infernal coil barely numbered one hundred. The Outlands was a place he had never walked physically, but he had traversed every inch of its soil on the astral mirror, moving across the land like a breeze, unseen and barely felt.
If you have ever felt with certainty that someone was watching you, despite there being no one around, then you have felt the Weaver’s heavy stare before he fades back into the ether. It is almost sad, walking as a projection of Hell, unable to interact with the strange, primitive race of humans that so fascinated his kind. He could never be there physically. He was bound to Hell, an organ of the massive, corrupt body, tied to its very essence. Few demons even knew of his existence, deep in the bowels of the Denigratum Bibliothece – the endless Library of Hell.
He would remain there until the end of time itself, a faceless statue with a hundred arms, each brandishing a pen, drawing in the stories of the Outlands and inscribing them to his very essence so that every event – no matter how obscure or insignificant – was recorded. He doesn’t know why he does this. It is his purpose, it has been his purpose since the dawn of the time of demons. Though he was trapped, he was witness to all.
He has witnessed every massacre every battle. He has watched from the walls of a great keep as soldiers, enraged with a brutal lust from a concoction created by a despotic king’s court mage, rape an entire crowd of riotous peasants. Then he stops, rewinds the event, and looks again from the perspective of a peasant’s barn. Sometimes, he would sit in on a family’s dinner, listening to the polite conversations and gossip. Then, he would follow the father up to his bedroom and watch the man sodomise himself with a special, hand-carved phallus to sate his urge to be dominated. He could never touch, he would only watch and recorded. Everything was recorded.
Sometimes, the sleepless Weaver will dream. He will look to other dimensions, looking through their timelines with as much clarity as one can see the bottom of a murky pond from the surface. But he has learned – to his amazement – that in every timeline the same broad events will occur. Some were unique, certainly, but war, conquest, plague, disaster, religion, renaissance, revolution… it was cyclical and universal. He enjoys the symmetry of the multiverse, even if his vision to the other timelines are clouded at best.
It takes a phenomenally skilled human to find the Weaver. A handful of times the soul of a human has stood before the massive statue, driven mad by its infinite wisdom. Cock in hand, ropes of sperm in front of them, they beg for more knowledge – they want to know the secrets of the Outlands. The statue shows them, unlocking the vision of thousands of years of history, watching them turn to stone as they become like him, endless ghosts wandering the timelines of the Outlands…