Dream of a Thousand Lives

Long ago, a child was born in the midst of a battle against the hordes of demons; beneath the gaze of War, which shone bright in the night sky like a second moon. The mother was lost during the labor, and where any other infant would cry out when born, this child did not. Indeed, they did not make a sound that could be heard in the heart of the battle outside the carriage. The infant was only found when it was over, and the father both grieved the loss of his wife, and rejoiced the birth of his child.
  However, it was quickly apparent that the child was ill. They did not cry, instead the only sound they made was a subtle little coughing. It was not expected that the child would survive, but their father was determined to see this last gift of his beloved not only survive, but thrive.
  His success was limited, and he turned to prayer, to all the gods he knew. He begged Life to heal his child, Death to stay their arrival, and War to gift them with the will to push through these tough years.
  For six years, six months, and six days, he repeated his prayers in six hour intervals. Until he received a vision. A plant in the blackened desert, and instructions on how to prepare its roots into a potential cure. The father set out to find this miracle, and after six weeks of searching, he succeeded. The plant was as black as the sands it grew within.
  This plant would come to be called the Welwisch.
  The father prepared the roots into a tea, which he fed to his child. No sooner had the child drank, then they began to speak of visions. Of great achievements and victories, tragic losses and simple pleasures. The child spoke clearly of these things, but quickly drifted to sleep.
  The child lived many lives, hundreds of destinies, and explored the endless potential that was mortal existence and experience. The child lived and died, as a young soldier and wise old mentor with their arm heavy with decade bands. A hundred times; a thousand.
  The tea did not cure the child, indeed they never awoke again, but they had been allowed to live far more lives than is typically afforded to any one mortal.

The gender and race of the child are always in conflict, and often it just reflects on who the one telling. Cultures enjoy the idea that this child was one of their own at some point; and there is no evidence that could confirm or deny such claims.
  Some claim that the child is still living the thousand lives in the world of dreams; that only their mortal body had died. Some claim to even see them wander within their own dreams.
  Many believe the child is now a minor god of Dreams, and have named them Dream long after their true name has faded to history. One of the tiny moons around War shares this name, as it is only visible when War drifts close and in the gentle darkness of night.