Go on then, brother, tell us more about Garl Glittergold,” said Thorus, his laugh the crashing ofthunder across the Night, “I like these gnomes he has fashioned!” And Woden laughed also, and thewide, twinkling grin of the gnome god flickered in the flames of the fire around which Bahamut’s Children sat.

“I have a story,” said Syf, and leaned into the light. “The peoples of this little world have their little lives, they live and they die, they worship the gods we have fashioned for them. But why dothese things? What reason have we given them to exist beyond our amusement?”

“Isn’t our amusement enough, sister?” said Mimir, and Thorus laughed again.

But Syf ignored them. “In my story, the mortal folk are each given a purpose. Some great, some humble, but each possessed of their own. And look, look how they fit together!” and in the flamesthe first threads of fate began to weave together, patterns of shimmering complexity.

Freya squealed in delight. “Oh, how beautiful! Like crystals!” and indeed as the Children stared into the fire the fates joined together in rigid, immovable lattices.

And Syf said, “But to have destiny without the means to change it makes for a poor story, for the endings are all written before they begin. That’s why they have not just fate, but will. And withwill comes magic, the expresion of will.” As she spoke, the crystaline lattices of fate twisted, and broke, each line now twisting and warping, ever-changing.

Mimir leaned closer, entranced. “What are they doing?”

Syf smiled and said, “I don’t know. Isn’t it wonderful?”