Elmon didn’t let his pace slow as he approached the [Weaver’s] cottage. [Weaver] was an honorable profession, and this particular [Weaver] was as devoted to the town as he was. There was no need to indulge in pointless superstition. If he, the Prefit, appeared nervous when he approached the hut, that would set a bad example for everyone else. Despite what he told everyone, no town was completely immune to a [Witch] hunt. Not even Hammon’s Bog.

Despite how this was the center of town, where all the buildings were two or three stories high to fit Hammon’s Bog’s ever-growing population, the little cottage sat alone in a grassy clearing. The tall wooden structures on either side seemed to lean away, respectfully, as if to give the cottage space. The cottage sat there, quiet and serene, as if it didn’t notice the busy town surrounding it. Its walls weren’t the good strong wood that made up the rest of the town. Instead, straw, woven together.

He didn’t knock on the woven straw door. Instead, the door simply receded, its individual fibers wriggling and weaving themselves into the wall surrounding it.

He held his breath when he crossed the threshold. A pointless superstition, but some habits die hard.

The [Weaver] sat on a wooden chair, an actual wooden chair, not a woven monstrosity. She stared up at her loom. Not a real, wooden loom. A woven monstrosity.

Thousands of threads hung in the air, suspended by the [Weaver’s] Skills. They were disorganized in a huge, chaotic tangle. The threads were all different sizes and colors. Some as thick as ropes, some as fine as spider threads. The only portion of it that made any sense was a small woven image of the [Weaver’s] daughter, right in the center of the piece. Outside of that, there was no pattern, just snarls and knots.

This was a bad sign. When he was last here, the threads showed a perfect landscape portrait of the town, with only a few dark corners left to fill in.

“Why?” he asked. “Hogg returned with dire news, just as you said he would. But at last we have a clear image as to the threat we face. The threat you’ve been warning about. Shouldn’t your pattern be clearer now?”

“We are closer to disaster than ever,” the [Weaver] said. As usual, her face was emotionless, her eyes unfocused. “Some new element has arrived. Something I could not have predicted.”

“What is it?”

“You tell me!” the [Weaver] snapped. “Has something else happened? Is there someone new in town?”

“A child,” said Elmon. “Hogg brought a child with him.”

“And? Is the child a happy, innocent thing? Will he be our next [Streetsweeper] or [Flower Picker]?”

“He’s a dour, reticent boy. And his name is Scar the Mistaken,” Elmon admitted.

The [Weaver] looked away from her weaving long enough to scowl at him.

“The child interrupted your future. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Get rid of him.”

“I can’t. Hogg adopted him. I don’t think I can ship him away without losing Hogg as well.”

“Then I will make my own plans,” she said.

Her hands plucked at the strings, moving and shifting the floating threads with uncanny speed and precision. It didn’t make any sense to him, but he could feel the power like an itch under his skin.

She didn’t speak to him again. The door opened up behind him. Relieved, he left the cottage.