Red String {EDITING}

Prologue | The Stringmaker

It began as many things did there – under the light of the full moon.

The silvery light shone down upon all Children of Night, granting a scant amount of light for the Weaver to spin his threads. He went by many names, and many faces, forever changing with the world as he wove his strings. Some called him Fate, others called him Destiny, while many simply knew of him as one of the gods they worshipped in their prayers, but he cared not for his titles for they were just as numerous as the threads he wove.

He spun many threads of many different colours, and whilst he might not have known his names he certainly knew what each colour was meant for.

Crimson was the string of fate, and a single person rarely had more than one of those unless the Weaver noticed a broken, torn thread – those were mistakes which had to be corrected.

Silver was the thread that bound the heart of the wolf inside its vessel, giving the ability to transform from one shape to a select other.

Gold was the colour bound to those destined to lead, granting them the power to truly see as well as command those under their care. It was an important duty, and one had to be careful of where these threads were woven, unless they wished for them to fall into the wrong hands.

Pink was the cord of binding and order, but just as there was order, there had to be chaos. It was the principle of equality, and all beings had to obey just that.

Purple was its colour, and woe betide the beings wrapped up in that colour – for just as they could be instruments for good, in the wrong hands they could be that of great evil. Chaos was neither a benign or ill omen. It just was, and it overrode many colours aside from crimson and silver.

But the Weaver cared naught for that, and as such he continued to weave his patterns of numerous other colours, free from the shackles of restraint so many others of his kind were bound by.