Fate sat motionless at her loom as she weaved the story of Olith and its people. Her fingers glided over the threads as the shuttle danced through. In her realm, nothing moved while everything moved. Fate had no form, and yet, she appeared in an infinite variety of shapes.
Suddenly, she paused as her trunk hovered over her work and sniffed. Then, she ran a tentacle over her work and the thread she had been working with, while an eye stalk inspected everything.
“Is everything alright?” Fate said to himself as he rested a paw on the top of the frame of the loom.
“A card has a bent corner,” she said in reply as she leaned back from the table. Slowly, four of her six multi-faceted eyes blinked slowly at herself.
Fate picked the card up in one of her claws while the other claw touched the corner. If the mass of ooze that was Fate had a face, it would have had a frown as the dice floated through its body. Its quivering mass rolled up from the floor causing the dice to roll over and over.
Fate stood up from leaning over the book. “Yes, there is a stain in the book. The end of an age. That happens. It has happened countless times before on countless other worlds, and it will happen again, countless times more.”
It used a copper rod to point to the last line it had written. “It is not just that the page is flawed, but now the ink will not set. The world is in chaos, dying.”
“All worlds die, but this is premature. We must correct this, but what we have done, we cannot undo.”
For several minutes, Fate looked at the problem. Her forked tongue darted out periodically. Several times, it touched its work, then looked at the remainder. “This will fix it,” she finally said.
She pulled some of the thread from the bobbin, licked her fingers and ran them across the thread. The frayed strands adhered to the thread, making it smooth once again. She then used a needle to prick her finger and placed a drop of her yellow blood on the thread before rolling it back on the bobbin. Satisfied, she began weaving again.
Fate resumed her work. To herself she thought, “I have given the world a chance to abate the chaos so it may live its full measure. The Spring of the World is all but gone, but my instrument has the ability to rebalance the world. This may save the others for a while longer. But at what cost? Even we do not yet know.”
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The Writings of Patrick S. Smith 