From a realm where thought takes form and sanity shatters like glass, Xal’Zereth crosses into the mortal world like a malignant tide. Towering and statuesque, it drifts inches above the ground, gravity forsaken, moving with a predatory grace that betrays its alien origin. Standing nearly ten feet tall, Xal’Zereth resembles a humanoid in silhouette—but only barely. Its flesh is a sickly, translucent green, like wet jade lit from within by pulsing violet veins. Limbs are too long, fingers jointed too many times, its proportions subtly wrong. It never walks—only floats, trailing faint ripples of psychic energy, like disturbed water reacting to its presence. Beneath the skin, shadows stir: twitching nerves, drifting sparks of psionic light, and coiling shapes that seem alive. The flesh flickers at the edges, as though slipping in and out of phase with reality. Its head is utterly alien—faceless but for a vertical maw, ringed by thick, squid-like tendrils that writhe constantly, twitching in response to nearby thoughts. These tendrils taste emotion, fear, and memory. Occasionally, they open to reveal a circular, pulsating mouth that hums with silent vibrations. Xal’Zereth has no eyes; it sees through the minds of others. The torso is smooth and geometric, inscribed with faint hexagonal grooves that glow when it channels its will. It is terrible to behold—disturbingly elegant, like a statue carved by madness and given breath. Xal’Zereth is no lone anomaly. It is one of the Thought Eaters—a near-mythic breed of psychic predators so rare that most dismiss their existence as rumor or madness. Only a handful are believed to exist across all known realities, and their appearances are so infrequent that entire civilizations might rise and fall without encountering one. But when they do appear, nothing is ever the same. It speaks not with words, but thoughts—piercing into the minds of others with whispering voices: some sweet, others shrieking, all corrosive. Its psychic presence is a pressure that grows with each passing moment, wrapping around your thoughts, prying deeper, feeding. Those it overwhelms do not perish immediately. Instead, their minds fracture—identity scraped away like rotting bark. They become hollowed thralls, their souls long devoured, their bodies obedient and lifeless. With a mere thought, Xal’Zereth can unravel the strongest wills. Victims collapse without a sound—nerves flaring, synapses failing, reality distorting as their consciousness is torn apart from within. The pain is personal, like being peeled alive from the inside. But this is not war. It is play. The more resistance it meets, the more eagerly it pushes. To Xal’Zereth, mortals are fragile toys—minds to twist, break, and discard.