Destiny is written by the gods. In the halls of a barque circling the celestial courts, a great loom rhythmically clicks away at each new thread fed into its great mechanism. That loom weaves together spools of potential and possibility, and resolves them into a tapestry of destined connections. This tapestry informs the duties of gods and creatures arcane, and their movements are writ across the firmament of Creation’s sky dome. A cunning or savvy mortal can look up into the night’s artistry and discern the stocks and bets the gods make with each other, and by their will, take fortune in their grasp to defy the tyrannous stars.

Not every life is destined for greatness, nor destined for anything at all. Gilded embroidery shines only upon a cloth weft of plainer colours. For every King or Queen, there needs must be ten thousand common farmers. For their court to be noble, the masses must be ignoble. So in the eyes of the gods, every life is as instrumental as any other in maintaining the delicate balance of design and purpose. But, every now and then, a thread is lost. A stitch dropped. And yet, Creation moves on, heedless of the frayed hem. And amongst those accidents, every now and then, a thread is plucked by a deliberate hand. Making mockery of the import of destiny, and drawing Creation ever closer to the brink of oblivion.

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The carnival wheels through the northern states with the freedom of an errant wind. Knowing no boundaries nor fealty, the troupe collects wayward souls like an avalanche bolsters itself with snowdrift. There is a quality of agedness to it. Like mold growing upon a weathered tapestry, there are layers of tragedy that mark the festivities, cracks in the white masks of its performers that whisper of rich history and culture invisible to the layperson. Spinning lanterns and ringing bells might be enough for the provincial sorts that you left behind, but your newfound mentor has helped you realise how small the world once seemed, and the mysterious allure of this festival pulls on something far deeper within you.

The hag chews on a bunch of stinging nettles, her lips swollen and deformed from the barbs of the plant, but the woman pays seemingly no mind to it. You are beckoned forth to have your fortune read, your limbs moving unbidden you find yourself sat before her purple wagon. Several small dogs drool at her heel and eye you hungrily. The woman continues to stroke the tomcat in her lap; a mangy streak of orange and brown that matches the deep orange eyes of the goat that pulls her wagon, the goat whose penetrating stare has never left you.

She takes your hand, pricking it with an iron needle to draw a spot of blood that blooms into a larger stain of red. She weaves it upon a loom, with severed heads for weights, arrows for shuttles, and human gut for the warp, singing an exultant song of carnage.

Your fate is not hidden by the stars, it has been stolen, she says, long ago by those she would call sister.

She lifts your hand to the level of your eye, and you watch as the crimson bead trembles and aches, raising into the air like an inverse snowflake to travel an unseen path on a trail of red like a thread unwinding.

She bids you to follow it to your destiny.

Kaine drew the hood of his outfit tight still not quite used to the cold of the north creation as the lights of the carnival drew him in after a day of being boarded up within a library researching the many stars of creation. "Finally a bit of entertainment I could use almost anything at this point." A few whisps of his purple hair still escaping from the front of his hood as he slowly meanders down the road of general attractions

there being spinning lanterns and the ribbons he remembers from the small island he called home a small twinge of remembrance crossing his face. What caught his attention was a small sign sat out front of a path off to the side labelled Madame Vivi Teller of Fortunes. He felt as his legs moved with renewed purpose maybe a different style of divination was necessary. Upon his arrival, he felt the eyes of predators and work animals set fully upon him walking as he felt like prey under this scrutiny. Glaring back at the animals he felt had no reason to be afraid of taking the seat.

Sitting in front of a woman He could only call horrifying even worse than the results of the streets watching the woman chew upon a plant. "So what sort of styling of divination does a woman of the Carnival partake?" As he spoke she poked him with the iron needle and started to pluck and work the loom. He looked pale and intrigued as he took in the design of her loom. The shock on his face was not hidden before being replaced by indignant anger. Though he was enlightened to follow the spider web made of his own blood, he quickly bowed, leaving a small pouch of jade upon the table and quickly strode after the line. Into the snowy town, Kaine gave chase.

Over the slush and half-frozen mud, you come to the house of eternity. It is a flat-roofed, rectangular structure with inward sloping sides, constructed out of ice and mud bricks. It is not just a tomb, it is a place to meet oneself. You see shadows cut deep into the frozen bedrock, chambers in darkness which doubtless contained decorations portraying the owner's likeness. The inscriptions pray for resurrection, in a new life in later times, and the House of Eternity depicted their "completed life" in anticipation of their death in the portrayal of oblivion and mortality.

Treasures would abound, with anything considered essential for the comfort of the deceased in the afterlife, such as beer, grain, clothes and precious items. High up the walls you see small openings from which fragrant incense burns, the smoke caught in the chill of the air and illuminated the mist of your blood eaking ever downward. You know the dead feast on flesh and drink deep of blood for sustenance. Ancients believed the lower soul had to return to its body or it would die, and here is where you find the manifestation of yourself. If the Hag was to be believed, your destiny and the thief lay beyond.

You are on the precipice of a tomb, and your own blood is as ice pushing you further to accept oblivion and mortality. Beyond this point lies answers, and in the halflight you swear you see movement. A vision, of yourself, weeping. Waiting.

 What do you do?

Kaine's pace quickened to keep the blood trail always in his line of sight. As he stands directly in front of the house of Eternity stopping for a moment bringing his hood down to rest against his neck as he ascends up towards the stairs.
      Pushing the door open keeping his eyes wandering as he looks upon the walls trying to understand the decorations for whom they were set up as his feet carry him down into the tomb. His curiosity is being dragged out. Until he came upon his own form facing him the sound of wailing matched by the weeping coming from. He approached himself in fear being driven in his own conviction.

"I have come with the intent to recover both of our destinies do not stand before me." Kaine comes to the realization that he is not carrying a weapon but will continue to step forward towards himself as he stands face to face.
This message was last edited by the player at 06:00, Sat 11 Sept 2021.