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The interminable shoreline stretches in the breaches of clotted fog, the very dirt beneath your feet seems rougher or harder somehow and the obscure water laps up at the shore. In the fog the vague silhouette of a small row boat comes into view and then closer and closer. A figure is sailing the boat using a ferryman's pole to guide and direct. Although a good distance away, at first your eyes tell you he seems like a young man with an average build, one you can sort of recognize. He's slumping over in the flat bottomed boat as if hung-over. With a cough that resonates loudly enough to shake you a little at the shoreline a second glance reveals you must have been confused in some capacity. As the ferry gets nearer, you get more and more sure in that judgment. He is an old man with weathered cheeks, a greyish knotted beard both long and unkempt, wearing nothing but grey rags which succeed in obscuring his figure and protecting him from the elements of his craft. He stops the boat right by you at the shoreline and stands in his boat, brandishing the ferry-man's rod in one hand and extending his left palm face-up. "Obolus? Danake?" His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire, pierce through your frozen gaze. "[[Coin]]?" You feel the cold copper in your hand, take a look at the coin, and extend your hand to [[pay the man]].

The coin is a little bigger than a silver dollar but made of copper. It's face has a "1" and some writing of which you were only able to read "One Check." Flipping it quickly, you can see the image of a clown with a pointed hat. The ferryman wordlessly extends his left hand to receive the coin. You [[pay the man]].

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The coin falls into his hand and his hand vanished under the myriad rags, only reemerging to goad you onto the boat with one simple gesture. You step into the skiff and take a seat. There are a few lackings you begin to notice. There's an obscure grayness to the sky and a darkness to the water, the fog between almost an exchange of obscurity making war on the horizon that divides the both. The ferryman begins to manipulate the boat as it slips into open water and leaves the shoreline to its foggy fate. Awkward silences will never do and the nagging sense of familiarity pours over the memory of his voice. It's a gravely low tone, monotonous but delicate enough to make your skin crawl. Your curiosity overcomes your anti-social tendency and you speak up. [["Have we met?"]]

The ferryman allows silence to reign for a moment, as not even the waters making any memorable noises, and in that familiar voice responds. "We all have met at some time or another. Whether or not we remember..." He shrugs somewhat but that could also have been a coincidence with him manipulating the skiff through the foggy waters after all. After leaving you to ruminate in silence for a moment, he adds. "Mind the water. Folk seem to lose all sense and wit about them the moment they take a tumble." You heed his warning and begin to wonder where exactly you're going. [["Where are you taking me?"]]

You get a slight snicker out of him as he continues to navigate. "You're getting that what you paid your pound of flesh for. It's a ways away and took a great deal of difficulty to dredge up from the deep but it's there, laid bare, for you and your eyes to see in full clarity. I will get you there, no worse for wear, so long as you tune in and keep your wits about you." [["Who are you?"]]

"Just a man, like many. I came here as a passenger once, but through time and trial it quickly became clear that my time is best spun ferrying folks like you to places the likes of which we're going." He turns to you with those dark eyes and sizes you up a second time. "I do recognize you. Or something in you. You never chose to really be here did you?" [["Of course I did."]]

He points with his left hand at you as if to catch you in the act. "Right there! Those words, you never chose. You spoke them, sure, but those are not [your] words from [your] mind." He tugs at his beard in thought and turns again. "Well, I suppose that's how these things work. Thing's [[get]] to you and you get got..." His voice trails off into unintelligible mumbling barely within your sphere of perception. [[A small island appears]], jutting from the dark river waters and holding a marble pillar'd structure and three silhouettes within. (if: $sight is 1)[His voice fades in as your now dripping ears allow all the words in. "...but it's quite fine. You'll learn from this and while you can't escape once you're tuned in, you can at least make the best life for yourself once you do. It's difficult because it's hard for folks to hear the truth, it's hard for folks to see the truth, it's much easier to live blindfolded as a slave to the conditions of the world instead of taking your one wild feverish life and seizing it as truly yours, for all its consequence and splendour."]

The words "get got" repeat interminably in a seemingly descending tone that goes on for what feels like an eternity. Your sight grows tunneled and dim and your ears painfully pop before a wave of deja vu washes over you. [["Of course I did."]] (set: $sight to 1)

As the boat approaches the shore, the ferryman gestures firmly and blocks your way with the ferryman's rod. "You're just to watch now. Your destination is not here." On the island three women of varying ages are spinning threads into a giant tapestry whose end is not visible of some undeterminable shifting colour. Their robes are blue with a yellow sash on their waists and a red cape at their backs. Splendid yet simple and, in total, they project a sense of majesty in their simplicity. The ferryman is avoiding making any form of contact with the women but does begin to describe what you're seeing. "Three. The first spins the thread from it's source, that which I cannot claim to know with true sense of confidence, but I have heard whispers from the past that tell me that it all begun with the λόγος and from which comes the threads she spins. The second measures each thread and with knowledge of it's φύσις weaves it into the grand tapestry of threads. The third as you can see with her large hardwrought shears does the task of cutting the threads off where they must be cut. By such a manner she, unfailingly, unturning, cuts the threads the way they must be cut at the time they must be cut with all factors by θεός arranged. To put and to place the threads means to know when and where the threads find their night." [[Look at the women.]]

The spinner spins, the alotter alots, the inevitable cuts. You turn to the man still [[droning]] on about this or that. (if: $sight is 1)[Scales fall from your eyes as your ears drip liquid light, you begin to feel it well up in your nose just ready to pour out. You see them working on an old tapestry, one from years ago, perhaps three years ago. You see them clacking with their needles and spinners and threads and shears. Their motions are almost predictable in how natural they seem, how they needn't use their eyes to know where all their faculties are and what their facultires produce. In a swift motion a knitting needle tears through the tapestry and the women descend on it, feverishly slipping their hands into their garbs. One, the one that spins the thread, removes a gem from the shoreline unlike the tapestry and places it in the void created by the puncture. The alotter measures the gem and admires it and the inevitable, setting down her shears, whispers to the gem a terrible secret and polishes it's refractive surface.]

"...and so I'm afraid I cannot help you further, not at this time. Between the fog rolling in and this terrible feeling like I've broken someth-" He descends into a wracking cough, a flock of birds fly overhead, the island is now obscured in the thick fog. The ferryman, having pushed you both out to the river waters points some direction. "Your destination. It's... somewhere out there. Let's keep rowing. Take an oar." He gestures to the oars and encourages you to join him on the journey into the bleak grey.