Prologue: A Final Ending / An Ever-Present / A New Beginning

By the shores of a distant sea, under a sun in its setting phase, a gentle breeze caresses a lone figure pondering.

He will look out over the gently ebbing waters.

He had gazed at the sand beneath his feet.

He shields his eyes and stares into the sky. A star shone here that had not been seen for countless millennia and yet would not be seen for millennia to come.

It was on this paradox he paused, that which had brought him here in the now, as well as in the past, and would bring him here again in the future. Rising slowly to his feet from the weathered rock on which he sat, he spread his arms and surveyed all around; one world, one resource, one in a million. That which was and will be home to one, is and was a world beyond distant reach to another and was, is and still will be an unsuspecting jewel to a third.

Like the two-headed doorman at the Gates of Time, he stared blankly, not focused on any one thing or any one time. Abruptly, he breaks from his reverie and stoops down. Slowly extending a digit both weathered and youthful, he will inscribe a single rune in the damp sand.

Resuming his stance, he lets out a short sigh before turning and slowly walking off towards the horizon, his steps will be leaving not a trace in the sand. Behind him, the air shimmers hazily before it resolved into the lithe figures of three women. They will tread lightly on the air so as to not yet disturb the crystalline motes below. They hovered above the sandy sigil and nod in mute agreement.

As one entity they are going to hum and in doing so, whipped up the sand around them into a slowly whirling column that grows ever increasingly upwards. And over this comes the words of a voice that will be at the same time one and three in disparate harmony.

"I/We spun the fabric of histories for all to see," intoned Clotho.

"I/We am/are the one/ones who sunders/sunder that fabric into three," intones Lachesis.

"I/We will be there at the end of thee," will intone Atropos.

All vocal tones die away and the nod was delivered once more. Substance will dissolve to hazy nothingness as they faded away as quickly as they arrive. The curtain of sand slowly fell apart and reveals that the rune is going to be erased. The beach is devoid of presences once again.

The dying zephyrs embrace a well-worn rock.

The lapping waves will move higher up the sand.

The sun had beamed down weakly on an empty beach.

Fade to black...

...to a blackened room where the word 'dark' would be too bright, 'pitch' a mere shadow and 'stygian' a gross understatement. Blacker even than a black hole in the depths of a dark matter nebula, for even that suggests the presence of light spiralling towards the ultimate unknown. Words cannot describe the magnitude of seeming nothingness and yet... yet something stirs, perceived somehow in the absence of anything even vaguely resembling 'light'.

Forgetting, for the moment, how any of this can be 'seen'; the room is not a void. There is a figure. A figure cloaked and hooded, shrouded in shadow save for the face. A careworn visage peers out from beneath that hood but other details are lost in the darkness of it all. The eyes gaze downwards towards a deck of what are presumably cards, being shuffled above an ebony table, which this figure appears to be seated behind. Ripples of midnight suggest the presence of equally black or gloved hands manipulating those cards.

Silence is broken as the soft susurration of card slipping over card is faintly heard. And then...

...a voice, both sharp and soft, a voice to cut the silken boundaries of night. A whisper or a promise of... of... of what? Of molten metal flowing down a slope. Of the boiling torment of a raging storm. Of the touch of a kiss on an alabaster cheek. All of these... and then realisation strikes - of a destiny yet to be fulfilled. But what of the words?

Lips curl in the trace of a sneer, the faintest suggestion carrying the power of hidden strengths held in reserve. This is no mere figure. This is a character. But not just someone in the singular for the feeling is there of many more to be encountered. This is not an end. Many characters will come and go before all of this is over, whatever 'this' is or should turn out to be. But what of the words?

The cards are still, the shuffling stopped. The uppermost one is slid forward to rest on the edge of the remainder of the pack. And it stays still yet threatens to fall at the slightest tremor. But what of the words?

"I, if one were to presume anything as vulgar as 'individuality', remember what I used to be. I was, the fallacy of time and tense in this place not withstanding, one of high repute. But now," and at this the head inclined forward just a touch, almost as if it were daring the card to fall and reveal itself, "now, I am but a shadow of my former self. But remember this, a shadow reflected increases in magnitude... and strength.

"They offered me this task and gave me a title. Never forget that a title may not make a man but often is the man. And me..." A sudden change in the apparent density of the darkness surrounding this figure sends silent shockwaves thundering towards the cards hanging there, in the blackness that was beyond black.

The precariously hanging card falls. Falls away from its compatriots, fluttering like a sycamore spinner on gusts of nothing. And then is still. It hangs there in the vertical plane, presenting its back to whomsoever cares to look. Another flutter, and a second card joins it, its motion an imitation of the first. And a third. And then a fourth.

"...I sit here dealing out the shards of fate for any who care to watch."

Another sound, this time like that of pair of clicking fingers, made all the clearer by the absence of any other sound. And the four cards rotate, revealing their secrets for all to see but bound by a cryptic lock of ages whose key is that ever-ephemeral trait - interpretation.

"Think well of these, for they are the unspoken words of destiny. Yours, mayhap." And then the always unexpected laugh - hollow and dry yet hinting that, somehow, all this could be avoided.

And again, the inevitable fading of awareness, before the cards themselves could be seen clearly, their features imprinted for later study.

And again, all is dark...

Fade to black.

Fade to night.

Fade to life.