Another unfinished beginning of a sort of story

I don't think I've ever posted this before. This, I think, was supposed to be the beginning of some long story about crazy heroes.  How original. -_-

I'll write short stories first before I go all ambitious to write a whole series of children's fantasy books. Hm. 

Enjoy if you will. If you can, please criticize.

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In the end of a cave in a mountain under a sea in the middle of a desert of a floating island sat the weaver of souls. It was a she, and she weaved the tapestry of life in the odd old way of ancient cats - with a cuttlefish bone - except her tool never went dull. Her wool was the finest and it was in the stitches that one reads the ephemeral tale of each creature, and only in the rarest of occasion was the coarse threads used. She weaved away at a pace that found time negligible, and some say she had been weaving since the world began, or that it was she who weaved the world to life.

She had a companion, a chimerical beast of a dog with two tails, who would pull at the woven strings if he were compelled to, for if she finished weaving the world would end.

She didn’t really need him, however, for there were heroes in their world.

She had started at a neat patch, branching away, away, away neatly to other lives and other times of many many other creatures. She wove in great feats and interesting times and patterns that the eyes can scarce comprehend or mortal hands replicate. Then she wove the heroes, and was stuck with an unruly corner ever since.

She wove a straight path for a hero, to an early and painful death because that was how heroes went if they were to be remembered, and left it at that. From the frayed strings of his moribundity she started with a new life that would end the same.

The day came and passed, and she faltered. She looked at the pattern for the hero, and knew all was not right. There was a stitch out of place – fate has shifted somewhat. She unpicks the thread with a deer antler and weaves another. From the ending of that thread she begins another one anew.

The next day passes, and she finds another one, out of place in an awkward corner – little and barely there. She unpicks it with skill and weaves with her cuttlefish bone.

More days passed in the world and more knots were displaced. She unpicks those with the patience of a saint and weaves again.

The beast of a dog sits and watches with disinterest.

Heroes lived and died, but there were far more that lived these days. The weaver weaved and picked and weaved again.