In a dank, decrepit cell with mildew lining the corners and rats scurrying about, a prisoner slouches against the corner of her cell. She is broken, betrayed, and anemic. The light slowly inches toward her chamber. She waits with anticipation so pungent it chokes her. The footsteps echo within the desolate expanse of her mind, so deprived of stimulation. The prisoner thinks to herself, "Have they finally come to execute me?"

The footsteps grow louder, and the doors screech open. A man stands there, his posture radiating sternness. "Clotho Borales, your audience is demanded by the clergy." Clotho squints, trying to inquire why, but she can't; her throat is as coarse as sandpaper. The man looks down at Clotho. He raises his hood as her eyes adjust to the light. "What has become of you, Clotho?" A tear comes down the man's face, and he carries Clotho out of the cellar. He gives her water and puts her on his back, carrying her out of the cellar as she nods off to sleep.

Clotho wakes up in a room with ornate curtains and carved gold, with elaborate engravings decorating the edges and corners of every item in the room. She thinks to herself, "Somebody wants something from me." Once again, she hears footsteps, this time with confidence. She notices the time between the sounds of the steps and thinks, "This person seems to be walking with purpose—a sense of urgency, probably a servant or a high-ranking noble." The door opens, and a high-ranking noble with a silver-lined cloak and extravagant attire appears, with almond-colored hair.

The noble looks at Clotho. "You served King Raphael, correct?" Clotho nods. "It has been brought to my attention by my sources within the court that there is a conspiracy against the crown by the clergy. This weighs on my mind heavily because I know what this empire, built upon the back of your deeds, did to you. And yet I dare ask this of you: If you would obligate yourself to the crown—no, the people—once more, I would give you my vessel. I am but a bastard and have no achievements to my name, nor strength or intelligence like my brothers."

Clotho musters a whisper. "Yet it seems your soul has no less vitality, no less essence. I will not take your vessel, child. It is the Great Mother's gift to you and not yours to give." Clotho smiles warmly. "My child, you need not graft my soul to your body to bestow my divine spark upon you." The prince smiles pleasantly. "Good answer. It was never necessary to begin with," the prince remarks. "There's a procedure that grafts the soul of a person to a homunculus. You will be freeing yourself and damning yourself to a seemingly eternal existence on the earthly plane. You will never see the weight of your deeds—not because you will not be a witness, but because you will be detached from the Mother and give yourself over to the Father. You will return to her when you find your heart once more." An uncharacteristic serious tone possesses the prince. "Alternatively, I will allow you to live out your days in peace in this very castle, but know that you damn us all."

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Clotho finally musters up the strength to speak despite her decrepit state. "I will aid you," she states, her resolve set.

The dank laboratory is dimly lit, with exotic creatures in vats and limbs hanging from chains in the ceiling, and the wailing of starved, malformed beasts in cages. A magus meticulously gathers the items needed for the procedure, and an emaciated old woman lies on the operating table among it all. The prince stands outside, impatient. The magus gives Clotho a look of reassurance.

"Lady Clotho, this operation will consist of me chanting to achieve resonance within my mind, body, and heart to call upon Yargulash, the Lesser Great One of Death, to graft your soul to this vessel. The consequences entail stillness within the mind and heart for movement within the body. You will be robbed of your divine spark for lives to come and will know no love, no pain, no joy, no suffering—only lust, only pleasure, only clarity, only logos, only principle. The union of the Mother and the Father will be separated within you. Do you understand what you are sacrificing?"

A tear runs down Clotho's face. "My humanity for lives to come, for the nations for centuries to pass. I understand that because of this, I will not be able to witness the weight of my deeds, but I will experience the weight of them for many lives to come."

The magus looks at Clotho and begins chanting. The light around the magus begins to bend and contort, and Clotho begins to feel her mind split, her heart break, as her soul is separated from her body and placed into the body of a creature with four arms, a tail, and wiry legs with hocks, and feet shaped like those of a deer's. However, no fur is present.

Briefly, Clotho feels herself die, and then she opens her eyes. Her mind is empty. The fear she had before is there, but it no longer compels her to act, and her rationale is, too, but it no longer stops her. Clotho looks at her hands and recites a verse from the Tabakha:

"A heart and mind that's not at war with itself is a lifeless one. Movement, be it towards order or decay, feeds the cycle of life; however, stagnation destroys it."

And so, Clotho accepts her fate and no longer experiences the joys that came with walking the earthly plane.