The approach of shuffling footsteps and the soft scraping of heavy fabric heralded the arrival of Miranda Shaw, a master weaver of fate. Fellow spinners left their handiwork hanging in corners and doorways, as if for her approval. She never wiped them away, instead, she acknowledged their work with a nod of her head then stepped into a dimly lit room. She had been like them, deciding life and death with her tapestries. But no more.
Once she flew in the night reveling the light of the moon and the wind in her hair. now she hid in the shadows, her wings tattered and withered from a lack of use. Despite the fact that she was no longer an active weaver of fate, she kept her dress with the crimson corset and flowing gown. It was a point of honor. She had her pride, she’d earned her robes, she’d earned her diadem.
Miranda came to an abrupt halt before the spinning wheel. The rustle of her ragged wings curling around her protectively echoed in the silent room. A spinning wheel, her destiny, and damnation awaited her talented touch, someone had strung it for her. Started weaving someone else’s fate, like they had the right to do so, who’s path she would be guiding she didn’t know, didn’t want to know. It wouldn’t do to become too involved with the unknown victim. While she could soften the tragedies that would befall this person, she wouldn’t. She couldn’t.