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To see the god with his own eyes already put an immeasurable strain on his cognition, but the thing in the corner of the room splintered his every thought and made his mind blink and stutter like the images of a spinning lantern.
And yet the Hunter could not look away. In the corner of the room, the god had its forelimbs entangled in something strange, and it was moving its hands in a pattern that was repetitive, yet difficult to follow. He felt hot. And he felt this dream morph and twist in response to his fever.
The shape of the room seemed to shift, where straight lines turned watery and trickled into six fingered hands. The threads of the carpet were pulled apart and shattered into tiny glowing specks on the dark wooden floor. They extended into the space around them until the edges of the room no longer had walls but were filled with stars and the vast, terrifyingly unfathomable black of the universe above.
There were colours in the corners of his vision. Dark purples, blues, and iridescent hues plucked from far away cosmoses, muted by the limitations of the human eye.
The god reached out a spindly hand and covered the Hunter's eyes, then gently turned his head away. The heat of the fever were flushed instantly and it snapped him out of his reverie. He tasted copper on his teeth and found himself to be bleeding from his nose.
"What was that." He asked, wiping away the dark blood with his glove.
I am weaving a dream, said the god.