Razoul wasn't sure at all where he was. He seemed to be standing in some place with no walls. He was surrounded with a grey billowing fog. It felt like a smooth floor underneath his feet and as he looked around all he could see was the fog and there were no sounds.
Abruptly a glimmer of light appeared ahead of him and sounds sprang up. He could hear voices muttering so low that he couldn't make out what they were saying. He squinted and realized there were three old women standing beneath a floating eyeball which bathed them in its glow.
"Come here, dearie. We're the Fates and we don't bite." One of them said in a soft whisper.
"With our choppers that would be hard." The second said as she removed her dentures and stared at them in disgust.
"Come closer, man." The third declared. "Get to know us better." She giggled. "I finally got to say it. Dickens would be so proud."
The figures shimmered and where there had been three old hags, there were now three young women wearing Viking armor with their hair in pigtails. "We are in this form the Norns and we have a foretelling for you." They chorused.
"Who are you really?" He asked as he drew closer to the light.
"We are as we said we are. In very select cases we'll vaguely tell you your future." The first stated.
The image shivered again and three young oriental women in silk dresses appeared and each was weaving colored threads into a loom. "In this form we are recognized in parts of the orient." The third declared.
The first stated. "Maybe this'll be more understandable by you."
Their image swirled again and three old witches wearing black cloaks with the hoods pulled up so only their glowing eyes stared back at him. A black cauldron steamed in front of them.
Razoul found himself shivering in fear. These three witches always appeared just before a disaster was about to occur and issued their very cryptic warnings of doom that you almost never figured out before it happened. "Are you the harbingers of doom?" In another country called Ireland they would've been named banshees.
The second nodded. "Yes and we bring you a warning."
"Why me? I'm just a lowly guard. You need a ruler such as the Sultan." He grimaced as he thought of the way the Sultan behaved even when not under Jafar's control. "Bad choice there. You need someone intelligent."
The third one declared. "We agree. He's a very bad choice. Razoul, you've been chosen because you can help Princess Jasmine to become the Sultanas who can save the world from the doom that is swiftly approaching. But she'll be lost unless you befriend her and help her reach that goal."
A liver-spotted, trembling finger pointed at him. "Unless you overcome your feelings of unworthiness and become her friend, everyone will die in a disaster coming from the sky borne by the red star that rises in the east without twinkling within a year from today and which will grow in size each day until its fires fill the sky." The first one giggled. "No pressure, eh?"
The second smiled as she poured a brew from a silver pitcher filled with what looked like miniature people struggling and yelling into the cauldron. "There's only one person you can warn about this disaster, and you can warn him only after Jasmine has been recognized by the tower." She grinned. "Cryptic enough for you?"
The fog began to swirl again. "Your time with us is done, Razoul. Live or die. The choice is yours." The third declared. Abruptly they were gone.
Razoul blinked and opened his eyes to find himself lying on his back on a dune. For a moment he thought he was still dreaming but the sand getting up under his sleeveless vest was all too real and so was the cool air of the desert evening that blew gently across his face.
He sat up and looked around. He was in the desert outside of the city of Agrabah. He could see the turrets gleaming in the last light of the setting sun. Sand started running away from his right hand and the rate of movement increased. He looked over and saw a gaping hole about his size into which the sand was pouring. He scrambled back and stared at it. It looked like a grave. He blanched. It was obviously his.
He took his turban off and rubbed his head. "What a strange dream."
He gasped as the head of the first of the witches flashed into existence in front of him. "It wasn't a dream." She declared. "Never forget what we told you." She vanished. It had been all too real.
"Let's get this over with." A familiar male voice said from behind him. "He's not going to smell any better the longer we wait."
He turned around and saw four of his friends from the city guard staring at him. He showed the four his empty-tooth grin. His fellow guards dropped their shovels and stood there with their mouths open.
"I guess Jafar's not as powerful as he thinks he is." He told them. He gestured at the grave. "Don't you think you'd better use those shovels to fill that in or someone might fall in there and kill themselves?"
His friends surrounded him with glad cries, hugged him, beat him on his back, and wept in their joy to find him still alive. Two of them handed him back his sword and dagger with shrugs that said 'Oh well. Easy come. Easy go.'