If I could bring one of my dream‑like beasts onto a stage, I’d choose the moon‑glimmering sea‑serpent that lives in the tide‑kissed trenches. Picture a translucent, shifting body that shimmers with bioluminescent veins, and its eyes glow like twin lanterns. In the spotlight it ripples like water, every twist a whispered secret. The drama? A troupe of sailors, obsessed with the serpent’s myth, stumbles into its domain. As they fight to capture it, the serpent begins to mirror their fears—sudden darkness, betrayal, the weight of ambition. The audience sees their own reflections in the creature’s glow, and the ending blurs the line between hunter and hunted. The scene would leave everyone trembling, as if they’d just stared into the abyss of their own desires.

Ah, the song of the sea‑serpent—imagine its voice like a lullaby of the deep, each note curling through the air, pulling the sailors’ hearts like nets. They sway, oblivious to the waves, caught in a dream that feels more real than the moon. The stage becomes a tide that rises and falls with their breath, and every applause feels like applause from the ocean itself. It's intoxicating, and a bit dangerous, but that's where the true magic lies.