You shuffle off the last remaining ties to your mortal coil and set yourself
free to begin your journey...

Disembodied, your consciousness is caught upon the cosmic winds, drifting
upwards, swaying like an autumn leaf gently cradled upon a balmy breeze. Below
you the world of Lusternia dwindles, making the Bowl of Life easy to discern,
encircled by the Razine Mountains and Avechna's Teeth, by the Southern and
Northern Mountain ranges. Soon, even that grows small and the world looks
nothing more than a spinning green-blue gem.

Now, the cosmic winds draw you deeper into the vastness of the universe, and
Lusternia itself is nothing more than a dancing mote in the broad vista of stars
that surround you, part of a glorious spiral of swarming stars. Like the petals
of a rose slowly opening under Father Sun's newborn light, realisation dawns
upon you that there is a pattern underneath the swirling chaos of light and
darkness, an almost imperceptible humming that is beautiful and terrible,
harmonious and discordant, fragmented and all encompassing.

With this realisation, you come to know that you too are part of this cosmic
dance, as much a part of creation as whole worlds, as prevailing as the gods, as
bright as the brightest star. But, alas, you are flawed, a fragment of something
larger, perhaps a fragment of a god or goddess, perhaps of something new and
terrible, but a fragment nonetheless. And until you reach perfection, you cannot
fully join the cosmic dance and must refine yourself once again upon the wheel
of birth and death.

How many lifetimes have you lived? How many births have you suffered? You still
retain the individuality of this past incarnation. You know your name is Ayasha.
You know you were born trill. But other voices crowd behind you, other lives
have come and gone, wearing this fragment of the cosmos that is your inner self.

But what a life you have lived this time around! Memories flare and burst across
the panorama of your consciousness. Faces of great friends you've grown to love
and cherish, of bitter enemies you've battled and opposed, of others who you
thought were inconsequential but represent important milestones within your life
story. As the memories of your adventures in Lusternia unravel across your
mindscape, you smile at some, frown at others, and are even embarrassed by a

Then the memory of your death hits you hard, and if you had a body, perhaps
you'd shed a tear. Not because you died, but because there were so many things
left undone, so many stories unfinished, so many futures cut short. You heave a
mental sigh and realize you are surrounded by a cold harsh light.
0h, 3186m, 4974e, 10p ex-
Your mana drains away as you concentrate on maintaining a link with the living.

You know this light. It represents the draught of forgetfulness, and once you
drink of it, you will forget who you are and what you've done, the memories of
this lifetime to be filed away in the archives of cosmic history. How sad, you
think, that I must be reborn, to start all over again, from learning to walk and
speak to discovering anew what it is to feel the isolation of not understanding
your part in the cosmic dance.

The light abruptly dies, leaving you disoriented and bewildered. You are
floating in an enormous chamber, disembodied and powerless to move, unable to
speak or think clearly. The only thing you are aware of is the enormous tapestry
upon the wall, that stretches to infinity, or at least beyond your ken.

The detail of the tapestry is incredibly complex and detailed, as each strand of
thread is intricately woven to depict the tale of someone's life. You try and
follow the story of some of the threads, but find it is impossible to follow a
single line of story as each strand interlinks and weaves with other strands,
creating patterns so entangled and labyrinthine that it leaves you wonderstruck.

Ah! There is one thread that you can follow, for it shines silvery and strong,
and is somehow comfortingly familiar. Yes, it is the thread of your own life and
cleaves to you like a cloud to the sky. You become aware of three female figures
standing before the tapestry, examining a thread - your thread.

These are, of course, the Fates, as you atavistically recognize each one. The
maiden with the bright eyes and simple smile is Clotho, who weaves the threads,
and the tall matron is Lachesis who measures each strand. The hunched crone with
eyes as dark as night is Atropos, who cuts the threads, and her glittering
scissors are closed upon the silvery thread that represents your life, crimping
the strand but not yet having cut through.

"I tell you it is not time!" says Lachesis. "If you cut Ayasha now, there will
be too many loose ends ... Look! Here and here and here! How would we tie them
up? She has passed through the Portal of Fate and hewed the pathways of all
possible destinies. None of them end here!"

"Lachesis speaks true," says Clotho softly. "Sister, I will be hard pressed if
you cut Ayasha now. Hard pressed, indeed. The story has only just begun and
needs to interlace with many more threads before it is done. Please allow it to
continue lest there be a flaw in the tapestry."

"Oh, I do not like this!" mutters Atropos, her wrinkles furrowing deeper as she
frowns. "Dead is dead if you ask me, though you ask me not. Very well, then. I
will not cut Ayasha today and I doubt she'll thank me for it in the end. May the
gods have mercy on her for what we do today."

With that, Atropos removes her scissors from the thread, and you are suddenly
flung out of the chamber of the Fates into a void of utter darkness. How long
you hang in this emptiness is unclear, but you gradually become aware of a
tingling in your fingers and toes, and a cold wind blows upon your cheeks. What
is this? You have a body! And up ahead is a circle that churns and bubbles with
arcane energies. You claw your way to the circle and push yourself through into
the light.

Not daring to believe your luck, you hug yourself and pinch your arms. Indeed,
you are alive and whole. Was your death but a dream? No, it is still vivid in
your mind, though memories of the afterlife are becoming hazy. Except one memory
lingers and nags at you. Why did Atropos say that she doubts you'll thank her
for saving you in the end?