The Dreaming Nightmare Sevenfold Waking
A Five-Dot Rated Artifact Hooksword.

"What is reality?"

In shadows tumbled for eternity a thing that could not be, that could not wake, that could not dream. With the toiling of the ageless, the endless, the infinite power of creation and the Exalted things were stirred that should not be stirred, and undefeated the host marched ever onward. New worlds were made, new things created and at long last that which could not be, could not wake, could not dream became a thing.

Found in the outer regions of darkness unmade a great hero of the night stumbled upon the thing that could not be, and when he gazed upon it, made it reality. It was a dark thing, a metaphor mostly, with barely a physical presence. It intrigued him, stirred within him his own darkness, and he took it with him, brought it to Creation proper. The thing that cold not be grew over the endless walk of years until the hero of the night did dream of darkness dreaming. Terror and fear wound into his soul and threatened to consume him.

Aided by a hero of the twilight hours he began a labor that would last five hundred years, a binding of terrors outside and in. The thing that could not be was taken and made anew, cast into sevenfold iron bindings through with ever-liquid and ever-molten Orichalcum would flow. The fate of seventeen stars was woven into the sevenfold binding of fate, strings gathered carefully from the Loom of Fate. The ever-changing mastery of the moon's silver was cast into rigidity so it could never again change and layered into the sevenfold binding of crystal.

Thrice Seven-Bound the thing that could not be yet stirred evermore. The last century of the labor became one of waking nightmare and daylight terrors. It was a darkness unnatural and unreasonable, so deep and malicious that it could not belong into Creation, nor to the works of the enemies of the gods.

Upon the final binding, the Single-Binding of the Soul, did the darkness' stirring stop. And instead, it woke. And that which wakes must sleep again. And when it slept, the nightmare made real dreamt a nightmare of it's own. Finally bound, finally sealed, finally dreaming of it's own, the darkness found it's master, found purpose for creation, and no longer against it. A terrible power wrought to be controlled at last.

Within the darknest nights walked the Dreaming Nightmare Sevenfold Waking, now shaped into a fanged blade. It struck down the enemies' of the gods and yet more dangerous things. It struck where nothing could strike, it confounded and made fearful even the Viziers of Heaven that claimed to know fate, and they proclaimed that the darkness within was not of fate and never could be.

It is said that the nightmare sleeps everlasting until woken once more at the end of an age, where the power of it can be set free at last, unleashed and unchained.

"Reality is but dreams made manifest."