Fate His name was Fate. He wasn't THE fate, but he was simply Fate. He had few friends, he did little work, and he seldom really socialized. All he truly cared about was his "fickle finger". Fickle it was, as well as a finger. People often came to Fate. They came nervously, hands twisting, feet shifting, leaning from side to side. They came to ask Fate of their fate, in which the finger knew of. He would always poke and prod them; his empty, distant, eyes shining, void of all emotion. Then he would wait, clasping his hand over his hear and listening. He would listen for a good while, occasionally nodding his head, occasionally creasing his brow in concentration.
Finally he would step up closer to the person, eyes still emotionless, not really caring exactly how this person would die. He would lean over, his tall lanky body often folding in half from his excessive height. Then, with his hands cupped over his mouth, he would whisp