Chapter Text
Lace was pretending, down in the docks. She imagined that she was conducting a choir of weak, flittering creatures in a grand act of sedition against a god.
She'd never known the Weavers. She'd met a descendant here or there, but that was hardly the same as knowing them. She had heard the songs they had composed, lived in structures they had built. She had read their entreaties, the curtain call of those curious creatures first elevated to stand below Silk herself.
Sister, spider.
The gate clanked open. There she is. Oh, at last!
Lace stopped singing. She smiled, and turned to her foe, and called her what she was.
I can save you, little spider.
She was rebuffed, naturally. They all rejected her, but this spider was so ungracious as to be practically charming.
Lace had never known the Weavers, but she knew the mark of their claws. The indelible stain of their arrogance and ambition across Pharloom. No, this one would never heed her.
Then let them begin the dance, where but one end awaited marionettes on Silken threads. Though the spider had dismissed Lace so rudely, she backed her words with true skill, even after her journey in the rune-cage.
It made for a rare treat. That blade, lacking any mercy for obstacles to its wielder. The ring of their weapons joined, brighter than any bell Lace had ever heard. Their steps matched, action to reaction, spontaneous choreography of survival.
Delicious, indeed.
Lace's enemies underestimated her. Her delicacy deceived; her frail form was taken for granted. This was so refreshing, she wondered if it was what breathing felt like.
At least, until Lace realized too late that she risked being truly torn — damaged in way she would have to justify. An undignified end to her indulgence: she ran, following the fading echoes of her own scream.
Lace had tried, but who listened to her? What a taste this spider must have for her own suffering! Well, there would be plenty. Perhaps they could savor it together.
* * *
Hornet, cutting her way through down in the docks, had not expected one like this. She did not know, precisely, the nature of her foe. But she could never mistake the scent of pale strength.
This one was not unlike herself.
Or rather — this one was familiar, that rare scent on a being who was no god, or not one yet. Divinity in potential. Already Hornet had seen, and begun to understand, what worked its strangling will over this doomed land.
Now, such a creature appeared before her, offering her a tangled sort of mercy. Hornet had neither patience for nor interest in such prattle.
She readied her weapon, faced her foe, and called her what she was.
Your threats are worthless, child.
Whose child, Hornet did not know. She would have to win, if she wanted to learn. Such was the way of it.
It was a worthy battle. This one understood her own blade as well as Hornet did her needle. Against another opponent, the pale creature might well have delivered on her promises.
Hornet wished she could have savored the encounter, but her own weakness harried her. She had to win quickly: to learn, to survive, to press on. She had to finish it before her long captivity began again to drag at her limbs.
She drove her foe back, found rest beyond. Regained a little strength. She traveled onward.