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“The universe is a fabric.”

“It is a billion tiny strands all woven tightly together into a large blanket we call reality.”

“Those strands are many things. Events, decisions, lives. Every single one, no matter how seemingly small, plays a role in the larger picture as they are weaved at eternity’s loom.”

“But what happens when someone takes a pair of scissors and begins to cut away at that fabric?”

“Those same strands begin to fray, the entire sheet of fabric beginning to unravel at the seams.”

“If someone so chose, they could manipulate reality itself so long as they have the means.”

“Scissors in their hand.”

“Malice in their heart.”

“With every cut everything slowly begins to come undone, lives ruined in an instant, reality itself turning ragged and tattered.”

“If left unchecked, the fabric could fall to pieces, all those, those strands, perishing along with it.”

“You’re the man who holds the scissors, Death.”

“Ever since OSW began escaping from your clutches, their strands weaving in patterns you didn’t expect, you began to try and fix reality yourself.”

“One by one you began snipping at the corners, pulling strings and yanking them out of place as the fabric in your hands began to unfurl.”

“OSW is the center of this piece of cloth and the strands that comprise it aren’t live to you, are they? They’re pesky threads of yarn refusing to cooperate with your vision of what it should be.”

“One by one the likes of Legacy, the Gods, even Yaweh himself fell to your wrathful blade as you reaped through them one by one.”

“Even your own son isn’t safe from the scissors in your hand so long as the fabric in your hands begins to take the shape you desire.”

“But while you’re the man who holds the scissors, Death?”

“I’m the one who holds the needle.”

“The one who sits at the loom itself and fixes all of your mistakes and rash decisions. With every cut you make I am close behind you, tying the threads together, stitching lives back to normal, and sewing the gaping holes closed as you fight to continue your path of destruction.”

“You hate me because I am the only one who can even hope to meddle with the fabric of the universe on the same level as you. Reality my needle, life my thread, time my loom, and love is what drives me.”

“At Red Snow you and I are going to finally see the end of the fabric, Death. Our little squabbles over the lives and dreams of the threads in this cloth will come to an end.”

“I won’t let you unravel it anymore.”

“I’m taking the scissors from your hands and using them to cut you from the cloth.”

“The strands you left behind will be put through the loom, woven together as they were supposed to be.”

“The end is coming.”

“I have walked this path before…”

“And after Red Snow, I shall walk it no more.”