Security is a novel concept. Many have aspired to obtain it, yet few, if any, have succeeded. Kings, merchants, and generals to peasants. All have sought refuge behind barriers only to discover themselves crushed against it. The sanguinary facets of existence couldn't be denied. And while necessary, it still amounted to a fool's errand—a doomed struggle to keep away the frigid hands of entropy. Valerna had seen it play out innumerable times. The names may change along with the faces. However, the song and dance presented itself as the same. Valerna was no exception; she, too, desired the impossible.

While an illusion, safety was a creaturely comfort Valerna didn't take for granted. Her time under the yoke of a self-imposed higher calling was ripe with turmoil. Her motherland, the Verdant Dynasty, was formerly teeming with conflict. The butchery of kin and social upheaval was once routine within that humid hellscape. Turbulence was the currency of the land. Its leafy bosom was painted red, and its animus ran deeper than its roots. Bigotry was commonplace, aimed at one's immutable traits.

Ever since she could recall, her father forewarned her of the realm's penchant for discrimination. The augury was ignored, assumed to be the ramblings of a jaded man. However, it wouldn't take long for the Araneae to encounter abuse. The people she met throughout her odyssey were skeptical of outsiders. They regarded her as a monstrosity, an aberration, and an affront against nature.

Relentlessly, Valerna was bombarded with invective and physical altercations. The monster with a heart of gold soon discovered that the world would never tolerate her. The dreams of starting a family and interacting with others as equals had long since evaporated. Alone, she faced the unrelenting heat of this truth. Aimlessly, she bounded between settlements, her spirit charred by the inferno of their indignation. To prevail against such a cruel reality, she retreated into her mindscape.

It was through the gardening of introspection that she discovered repletion. Those dexterous arachnoid ligaments toiled away at the construction of her webbing. Her thirst for knowledge couldn't be assuaged. With each discovery, she desired just a drop more. Valerna's dearth of savoir-faire presented itself as a stumbling block. Clumsily, she navigated an unfamiliar theatre. Her spindly appendages scribbled her thoughts in a bid to provide a resolution.

The fear of being harmed often fostered sequestration. Her quotidian existence resumed without incident for a time as Valerna vicariously absorbed more and more data concerning what led her to this precipice. It's ingrained in her; Valerna is an explorer of all pursuits under the firmament. She rends the veil between enlightenment and ignorance—the spearhead within the vanguard that is discovery. When she first cracked open the door to perspicuity, she studied prudently into the darkness. Fearful of the wailing horrors that dominated beyond the threshold.

She didn't balk, for a glimpse beyond wasn't enough for the mistress of the web. She had long since plunged headlong over the escarpment and set sails across the sea of understanding. In this ruminative stupor, there were no suns by which one could navigate. Nor a moon to guide the tides. Latitude and longitude would not avail her, for the laws of time and physics are unique to the temporal plane.

This errant sojourner represented order within an expanse of raucous chaos. And as she broke the murky swells, she discharged spumes or creation before her. The elders were ever anticipatory. The impudence of this mere speck amused them. But she was most zealous and would stand dauntless before these wills. After all, she helmed her destiny. She sought to break the code and discover the truth of her enemy. For understanding is power, and mental oblivion is weakness.

The defiled is the riddle unsolvable. The door unopenable, the tome unreadable, the query unanswerable. Nevertheless, Valerna pledged to solve the unsolvable and answer the unanswerable. The secret she searched for was one that even the demons of plague had forgotten and erased from the chronicles of memory.

There, within a cave, crystal lighting dimly pulsated. Its luminosity painted the ridges of the rocks. The shadows were repulsed into the depressions darted throughout the earthen chamber's walls. The space was eerily silent, with but the turning of pages to break its spell. Even the moats of dust seemed to be frozen from trepidation.

Valerna fell into its orbit. Her spirit rattled due to the reverberations of its gravity. She could feel it. The secrets, yet unlocked, yearned to be opened. That sensation swelled within the back of her mind as if twisting tendrils suctioned onto her sanity and squeezed. The crude pincers clenched her curiosity while snipping away the twines of uncertainty that remained. Her notes filled the heartless earthen pouch she had been camping in with inferential power. The sort of energy that would elude most.

While silent to others, Valerna swore it yawned with the fury of a leviathan. The waves of delirium crashed violently against the rocks along the shores of sanity. The foam scoured any fear as the moment passed, and the tide returned to the sea. It brought a eureka moment, one sealed by the scratching of a quill against hemp paper.

While she wrote, her arachnoid additions reached out, performing various complex motor functions—organizing her supplies, combing back her auburn mane, and spinning the strings of her bone harp. One thing was clear to anyone that may disturb her meditation. Valerna is within her zone, her very own pocket reality. However, she ultimately would close her journal shut, securing it within a bag of filigree she had spun. The giantess rose after collecting her things and tchotchkes before she crept through the veil of shadows, inching into the light and trekking down the dirt road.

The primordial call of her motherland was absent here. Its dearth brought with it a sense of forlornness. The psithurism of the wilds failed to fill the chasm in her heart. The kiss of the sun's rays that perforated through the verdant canopy supplied a mite of elation. The fauna of this world was foreign; it lacked the magnificence of the kaleidoscopic array of her motherland. The ferns were replaced by extensive patches of wild grass mixed with the bushes and thorns of the forest. The soundscape was serene, camouflaging the predators that prowled this labyrinthine wilderness.

The trees here were lilliputian in stature when contrasted with the edifices of her ancestral home. The animals she had spotted from the shadows were smaller and no more agile than the behemoths of the Verdant Dynasty. The saurians were replaced with more mammalian critters. And even the air itself emerged as lacking. Everything felt wrong. The biodome was an effrontery to what she had known. Valerna had felt such dismay before. During her time as the eternal voyager, she ambled through many climates. And, by happenstance, worlds.

The winks before her materialization here were a blur. The last thing she recalled was being immersed in a bright light. A sense of weightlessness took hold as an extraordinary void lingered for an indeterminable passage of time. She was adrift, bobbing on the currents and eddies of the great silence. Valerna brooked it all, curious to face what awaited at the end of such torpor. She languished but was thankful its permeance wasn't interminable. That's when she slipped into this plane of existence.

It didn't take long to thread together that she was far from home. The spider needed only to gaze at the welkin to reach that conclusion. Whatever this globe was, it had a lonesome sol traversing the sky. The positions of the stars were also off, further confirming her fears. Valerna was alone, an inescapable truth she had to accept.

A hefty sough divorced itself from her gullet. Her lips parted as that split oral muscle moisturized them. The woman didn't belong. She stood 13 feet tall, and her body was swathed in spider silk with a bone mold overlaid on top. Its rubicund hue matched the arachnid legs affixed to her back. Its light red hair picked up on the breeze as her armored palm rubbed against the surrounding plant life.

The dew streaked across her hand as she kept vigilant and analyzed her surroundings. Whatever caused her extraction remained an enigma. Nevertheless, this wasn't her first foray into such phenomena. Valerna understood the universe had a way of correcting itself. Things that didn't belong would return to their natural point in space and time. It wasn't a question of if, instead, when. And at most, all her measures could do was defer or accelerate that inevitability.

Val's sculpture was buxom. Her curves were hugged tightly by the protective veneer. Prematurely, some might be predisposed to assume she was hedonistically inclined. Should such wild assumptions manifest, she'd quickly shoo them away. Her people's culture and mastery over cellmancy would be lost to the people of this province. It wasn't donned to solicit the fickled and short-lived carnality of others. No, it stood as a testament to her proficiency and status in society. A telltale sign that she wasn't one to be trifled with—a woman who had warranted her status via the sweat of her brow.

Here, feminity may be taboo. She wouldn't permit the astigmatic perceptions of others to restrain her. Valerna was a matron, a woman whose only fetters were her responsibilities to her people. For heavy is the crown, but heavier is the heft of failure. Risque or not, this spider none would cage. She wasn't responsible for the libidinal hankerings of the dim-witted and close-minded. Regardless, she anticipated it to stand as an obstacle. After all, vainglorious cretins had a way of projecting their moral arbitration on others with little regard for the contrast. That's why, in her mind, most were slaves, subjects crushed under their belief. What wasted passion and effort if only one would be amicable to see the world through the eyes of another? Perhaps then, most of our woes might be circumvented.

Eventually, she reached a clearing. Her sharp eyes inspected the disturbed grass. Wildlife frequented this spot. She was famished and required sustenance. Quickly, she spun together a few lines of her web before crawling on all fours and hiding within the brush. She remained silent for some time until, eventually, a doe ran into her mesh. Once her meal had become entangled due to its pointless struggles, Valerna emerged from her nested position.

The spider sashayed, kneeling as she planted her hand on the quarry's head. Her eyes stared into the creature's own, seeing only fear mirrored back at her. Valerna's own reflected gratitude. A gesticulation that likely ranged hollow. Nonetheless, she'd present it all the same.

"Thank you for your bounty. May your life force nourish me. And should the predator become the prey, may my flesh add to the cycle. Rest now; your time to ascend the trunk of the tree of life has come. May you peer down from the leafy canopy and see my gratitude." She spoke in her native tongue, which none here could understand. Her voice was melodic, almost as if uttering a hymn or incantation.

Valerna wouldn't prolong the deer's suffering. She quickly snapped its neck before lurching forward and sinking her fangs into the beast. The venom she injected quickly liquified the animal's innards. The delectable soup was quickly sucked free from the body. The shriveled remains were ripped from the web and heaved into the bushes. Others would feast on what remained, guaranteeing the commemoration of the timeless cycle. The giantess kept silent as she removed the twine she had woven and ingested them, recycling the fibers. Now nourished, she'd continue following the traffic the other animals left.

Providentially, it led the Araneae to a body of water. She stood silently by the lake, kneeling down as she peered into its reflective and still surface. A weak smile formed across her countenance as she stared at her reflection. It had been too long since she had communed with nature. The anomaly behind her journey was unexpected yet good for her soul. Regardless, she doubted any benevolent benefactor was behind it all, whether mortal or higher.

Valerna remained, taking out her bone and spider silk harp as her talons danced across the strings. Her playing sent forth an otherworldly yet soothing melody- a hymn of repletion accentuated by the heavenly voice that accompanied its vibrations across the winds. A flash of solace, while ephemeral, merited appreciation. And she intended not to fritter it away. Visibly, she'd air an atmosphere of collectiveness. Internally, however, she mulled over a great deal. Were there any people on this rock? And, if so, what manner of folk were they?

She apprehended that the universe is hostile. That the natural order never favored wimps. Any intelligence she ran into was a threat, no matter its corporeal form. They had reached their position in the hierarchy of the macrocosm through tribulations—an endless bout against threats and fulminations. The tools they appropriated and the faces of their menaces may change. But the stage and play remained invariably immovable.

Still, she'd need to tread prudently and abide by any barbs. Valerna wasn't in the position to be antagonistic. It would be wise to observe, study them, and ingratiate herself. Assimilation, while a terrifying prospect, may prove indispensable to her survival. But the point remained. Would they reciprocate the gesture? Would they see the world through a similar lens? Time, as per usual, would serve as the lone arbiter. She need only wait and see how things might unfold.

Character:
Veron Blacktear






They called them vermin. Rats. For the Verm were birthed from the Great Rat. There was a great history lesson in there somewhere, but history was lost to time, a pale echo that no one cared to hear anymore. No one would listen even if the tales were echoed. Perhaps that was the lesson. Indifference. Ignorance. In the end, the truth was the lie, right? Only the lie was true. History was written by the winner anyway. That was the phrase. So even if the Last Rat spoke, and someone listened, there was never any certainty that whatever dripped from his lips was true or false to begin with, for he himself was neither true or false. He simply…was.

Like others of his kind, like so many of any kind, he was born in the womb. His Broodmother, some nameless creature, had given him into his clan. It did have a name, for broods and clans were groups and groups mattered. Individuals were less important. Only…this one had to disagree…and so he was banished from brood and clan, from cave and realm, from nest and home.

Some called him vermin. He wasn’t much different from the rest of his kindred, only in the context of many he was vermin in the sense of being a beast, a beast in the sense of being cruel, wicked, some ghastly, sadistic, destructive thing. He was Verm. He was Rat. Yet he was greater than his brothers and sisters, the lesser versions of their species, for he was Veshkei.

He made his own clan to his name, and his clan had rats with names, but they were nameless to him, forgotten and forsaken. Only one remained. Only one ever truly mattered. Only his name. Only me… He remembered as he blinked in naked shadow, where darkness had swallowed the light, where one eye was right, and one eye was wrong. I never forgot… He recalled his name, the only name worth its weight when it came to surviving the end times. It was the first name and the last name, for he was the first and the last.

He was Veron Blacktear. And his was a name that the denizens of Lagrimosa had come to fear before their land was ripped root after root, and the remnant of a dead civilization was spat out, bathed in the blood of his enemies, reborn in the afterbirth of a broken universe.

The Mad Rat, they called him, and maybe he was half-mad. Could he be blamed? As he gazed skyward, laying on his back in grass, naked, save for a lonely eyepatch, he wondered. His right eye was open, unblinking, once an orb black all over, obsidian, like the Verm, like his kind. Yet, amid his endeavor to survive, to escape, he had…changed.

He was something different today. He retained his tail and his horns, his skin was grey, yet it had no fur, and his face was more like a man’s than a rat’s. His right eye was still black in pupil, yet silver in iris, and white in sclera. As for the other, well, that was forever hidden. Some said his left eye was as red as blood, striped like a cat’s, and shined with malice.

Some said. A voice in his head said. I say…get up, Veron Blacktear… And so he did, but not for naught. He listened as much as he watched, and heard music, melody, strings of harp, and it had heart. He heard birds chirp, critters creep, smelled trees and beasts, blood and wood, but it was the music that had taken him in, so he followed it, and there he stood. There.

The creature by the lake, the musician, was no tiny thing. In his naked flesh, Veron stood seven feet tall, courtesy of his Shkei species, but what was she? His curiosity danced into the breeze like the notes from her strings, and one would have to forgive him. The creature before him was a woman who still had her head, whereas Veron had left behind a gravesite filled with the heads of men and women and children of which he had reaped in order to simply…be.

“You play that well,” said the rat to the spider. His deep voice came from a safe distance away, but whatever the power of either creature, well, distance and how much it mattered remained to be seen. “You are arachnid.” He stated the obvious. “Unless my eye has been deceived by some spell.”

@Spooder Girl

The chiming forth of that melody had lured in an unsuspecting traveler. He was just another soul lost to the call. The sonnets of which had eluded the man's comprehension. The anecdote it told, even if somehow translated, would fall on deaf ears. The vocabulary of the common tongue was insipid and pale. It lacked color and texture, a dichotomy ingrained in her native lingua. Perhaps it was this incongruity that roused the wander's inquisitiveness? Curiosity is dangerous, yet a crucial vulnerability if one aspires to develop or enhance oneself.

The stranger's approach was bereft of stealth. His footfalls resonated to her ear, slipping between the interludes between the plucking of chords. The talons discontinued their jovial dance across the strings while those amber eyes meandered to the advent of the disturbance. He was ostensibly homely, possibly destitute and solitary—a fragile thing, much like herself. The depth of his depressive miasma had yet to be culled or dissected. But one needn't be a savant to gain insight into his personage.

The vermin spoke and loitered about. There was a clumsiness to it. No, it wasn't some botched gesture but apathy. Impassivity has its usefulness if applied judiciously. But did the man before her hold such prudence? A question she would abstain from voicing as time would demonstrate itself as a satisfactory enough arbiter. Valerna's domineering gaze fixated itself on the eyesore. She took him in, analyzing the physical hallmarks.

She had seen a creature like him before. The horn affixed to his crown made her instinctively think of the bovinite's—something they'd find insulting, given his more spartan appearance. The eyepatch didn't warrant any outward or internal reaction. The giantess was accustomed to witnessing the maimed. She was a mercenary in a former life. And war brought with it a heavy cost. The body quickly healed, yet the mind never demonstrated itself as resilient. But just because the man was missing an eye didn't suggest he was a soldier. Such injuries often transpire in the most mundane of ways.

The Araneae was impressed by the stranger's capacity to emphasize the obvious. Indeed, nothing escaped that lonesome eye. She'd have to keep her guard up lest the brute uncovers some dark secret and drags it into the light. Gingerly, her dominant hand raked back those auburn locks as she stood. The difference in their stature didn't stand out to the spider. Such a thing was seen as typical and thus undeserving of note. Still, she'd maintain a healthy distance out of caution.

The sky was devoid of clouds. The solar rays kissed the earth as its luster bounced off the still lake. It produced a glimmering effect, heralding pleasant weather for the day. The chirping of the birds and the droning of insects usurped the soundscape as normalcy returned. Valerna's succulent lips curled into a smirk as the atmosphere between them remained uncharged. There was no tension, no easily perceptible indication of enmity. How refreshing.

Valerna positioned the harp inside the sack of webbing she lugged around before gently lowering it to the soil. She stood upright, arching her broad hip slightly to the right before settling her hands onto them. The elbows were flared as the abnormality stood proudly before the stranger. Her thick legs were parted, the bag visible behind her as those skeleton-clad digits clutched her flesh. The undersuit of her silk and the bone molding layered on top hugged her frame tightly. She was clothed from the neck down, yet the alien garb resembled an additional layer of skin with how form-fitting it was.

The arachnid's bosom rose and sank, nostrils flaring wide as she ousted a heated exhale. The appropriation of silence was by design. A subtle mode by which she aired a degree of dominance. Valerna was communicating to the man that she dictated the flow of conversation. And that all subsequent responses would be subject to her whims. Whether or not the stranger was cognizant of this tidbit remained unseen; it was seen as irrelevant and inconsequential.

Those spider ligaments attached to her back preener her hair, combing it back. Its volumetric sheen refracted the sun in a comparable way as the lake did. There was an air of potential beauty to the horror before the man—a union between the primal and the civilized, a walking and breathing paradox. Valerna had deemed the wait long enough. Not one to fritter any more time, her tongue delignated across those oral rims before she'd croon forth a rejoinder.

"Well enough to summon an audience, or so it seems." She added, stressing the fact she had ceased her playing. Yet another gesticulation to air dominance.

"There is no bewitchery here—no ensorcelled artifact to change my appearance. Your eye isn't deceiving you. However, the crude matter we don can change how people perceive us. But only a fool canvases the veneer and presumes to understand another. A proclivity we all must fight against." Her voice was melodic yet older than her body suggested. It bore with it the cloak of age, the aura of a wise woman. Something further stressed by those domineering and indifferent eyes.

"How wise of you to keep your distance. Trepidation hangs in the air; it's palpable to us both. I doubt our meeting will come to blows. Something tells me you're the sort to strike first if you discerned such danger emanating from little ol' me. Only the brave or the stupid would approach so candidly. Which one are you I wonder?" Valerna paused before continuing her address.

"I reckon this is the point where we dispense with pleasantries? I'm Valerna Jorgenskull, a name that tolls hollow here. Like you, I'm merely a voyager." She added nonchalantly. Her fist banged against her breast as a greeting. A gesture whose meaning was likely lost to the fellow, given it stemmed from her culture.

Valerna tapered her eyes as she studied the form before her. He'd likely feel it, a muted dissection, one without guilt or obfuscation. She was a predator, and so was he. It was only natural they'd evaluate one another. They'd be foolish not to.

"You can come closer, I don't bite." She concluded before sashaying forward, closing half the wedge of space that stood between them. Her strut was unpretentious, with only the nuanced bouncing of her buxomness to add anything interesting. That was assuming the fellow cared or was susceptible to the charm of a woman.

Regardless of whether things proceeded swimmingly, the spider intended to make the most of this wink. He was a source of valuable information, data that could spell the difference between survival and an abrupt demise. She intended to catch whatever she offered in her mental webbing and to store it for future use. Knowledge and information were an indispensable tool in her arsenal, a universal commodity in her experience. It can be a shield or a sword, depending on circumstances.

The music had ended, as expected upon the entrance of conversation. Those notes he himself had struck and plucked, casting speech forth in her direction for her to catch or ignore. Music did not end with silence, then, for the quiet constantly consisted of the noises of the forest, interjected with a man’s voice. A man. Was that what he was? Yes. No. He was more than that. More than man.

He thought as much but his thoughts raced within his brain in instants. Even as the words dripped from his tongue he could scarcely put a name to the tongue itself. The language consisted of letters and words within sentences. It was comprehended. He understood what he was saying. Clearly, so did she. Yet, if the tongue was common, was it from the world of old, or the world of new? What was the world anyway when his own fingers had unfurled a universe from the very fabrics of a reality reshaped and remade? What was language but the web spun between lips and tongues?

This one had one, and lips, and teeth. They probably bit harder than any punch. Sharper than a snake’s tongue. Tongues. There was a word that was suddenly so stuck. Yes…I remember some… Yes. He had taken them from his minions, but not out of punishment. I took one of their eyes to punish them, didn’t I… But he took their tongues simply to shut them up.

The stranger’s fingers might have stopped playing her instrument but her eyes never gave way. They played a different game. Those amber oculars of this giantess with arachnid elements gazed his way, and they spoke another language entirely, one of silence. But as loud as a blind eye shining with malice. With madness.

So, in those moments, as if this forest was an ocean and they were just two droplets within it, both man and woman played. They scrutinized one another, sized each other up, but not yet in the sense of assessing an opponent. If one proved to be prey and the other predator? The spider might likely feed on the rat, but the Rat was Veshkei, and the Veshkei was Veron, and even a rat of his character and stature may one day become a god even if this giantess was already a goddess.

Dominance. That was laced in her gaze. Where there was no fear there were spears, with pupils penetrating through his flesh and bone as if his body was already in her web, and her appendages might just wrap around him any moment to dissect him. At least, this was her attempt, but when she would see she would meet a defense. Her eyes attacked his form, swarmed over it like curled legs, but his eye attacked right back. He was dissecting her in turn.

She was nearly twice his height, her figure heavily accented, her sex rather evident in her giant breasts. That was yet a compliment. Yet his eye did not linger on her chest. The corners of her lips turned upward, she jutted her hip, every movement purposed as if practiced and predetermined, whereas he stood still and expressionless, unperturbed. Perhaps he simply admired the abomination.

Perhaps I may yet determine her sexual orientation. In seconds or days. Her skin was pristine, perfect amid the elegance of her constricted outfit, but not waxed like a doll’s. However, even as his eye took this tall woman in, tickling his imagination of mauling her breasts, rising and falling with her breaths, and even if she might kill men for less, they were lesser men, for Veron Blacktear was no creature’s thrall.

He thought. He watched. She did too. What she saw amid horns and tail fit for a Rat-man was a muscular figure, broad shoulders, skin grey as ash or the decay of the grave, black tattoos intricate and enigmatic at the crook of his neck to the chest, and scars across his body from head to toe. Fitting for a warrior who had taken as many blows as he had given, who had broken bones and bitten flesh. Was she any different? A spider with hair as auburn as a burnt autumn.

She speaks. He listens.

She said his eye wasn’t deceiving him. Apparently it wasn’t deceiving her either. But what about the one hidden beneath? That remained to be seen. She spoke of appearance, and that much was its own deception to him, for Veron knew of form, how to shift his, much unlike his Verm kindred spirits. They were idiots. He had to admit it. He was different.

Meanwhile his arachnid companion in conversation had a tongue as melodic as her music. She called him wise, and even one eye could possess the intelligence of evolution’s peak in its black and white and silver sea. She called herself little. It was his turn to smirk. Brave. Stupid. There was danger in wonder as much as there was wonder in danger. He didn’t answer her. Maybe that his own gate into the domination of conversation. Maybe it simply didn’t matter either way.

Valerna Jorgenskull. Her name sounded like a kind of hybrid between an elf and an ogre. He wouldn’t put either past her depending on her true nature. Spider… Voyager… Fist to breast, evidently a military salute, or at least what he was used to whatever her true culture.

At her offer for him to come closer, he tilted his head. She said she didn’t bite. That much was certainly a lie. One that he liked. She stepped forward, and maybe it was fated, because in that very same moment he stepped forward.

One step. Two step. Three heads. Four heads. Two breasts. Two pecs. Yet her chest was clothed where his was naked. Her gait was that of a woman with wide hips whether she attempted to hide it while his was straight and basic. The closer he came, the bigger her structure, like some looming tower that walked. The Mountain That Rides… Another memory, unbidden, from a long lost slumber. A minion. A red orc. Am I awake? Or am I asleep? He could only wonder.

“Veron Blacktear.” That was his name. Maybe ten feet away now. Approaching half. Given her height, such distance would not matter for either. I…remember… His tail curved from one side to the other. Captain of the Lost Scions. Lord of the Eye, Sycreet, the Iron Pikes and the Black Sea. “King Veron Blacktear of Nesthome.” His dominant hand lifted like his tail had, touching his eyepatch with one of his long black nails, as if the fabric might remind him of his own existence. “Once upon a time, perhaps...but perhaps my past is as blind as whatever hides behind this eyepatch.” He lowered his arm to his side as he paused his walk “And who are you? The Spider Queen?" That would prove to be all too amusing if true.

@Spooder Girl

The landscape that accompanied this wink of time was misleading. Everything about it circulated placidity, much like the surface of the lake. From the sounds of nature, the gentle breeze, and the agreeable temperature. It was all so picturesque and ideal. The juxtaposition was undeniable. But it seemed neither of them fell victim to its charm. A testament that communicated volumes, even if neither party was willing to voice it.

What the vermin lacked in stature, he made up for in grit. Valerna could see it, his defiance and stubbornness. Her drudgery at clutching the reins was contested. The two immersed themselves in battle, albeit a conflict not of the flesh, of crude matter. No, the battlefield was intangible and of the spirit. Would the stranger illustrate himself as a worthy quarry? Regardless of the outcome, the great spinner was intrigued to see how great he'd rise or fall.

The man raised his defenses, presenting a wall to repel the siege of those inquisitive eyes. Even with his best efforts, some things slipped through the gaps. The wanton fire was observable. She felt the man considered her a prize or trophy—some rare catch demanding to be subjugated. If so, the fellow would discover how quiet it is to fall. The acne of male egoism, inherent not in her kind, was reversed.

While he may have viewed her as a mountain, she envisioned the rat as submissive and breedable. Providentially for the creature, she hadn't deemed him meritorious of a carnal tussle. She might appear a monster on the surface, but Valerna was a proper lady who comprehended her value. She had long since conquered her lesser compunctions and bestial hankerings. That didn't mean temptation never reared itself. The smell of his blood was inebriating. The internal wrangling began, whether to wrap up the morsel for consumption or to crush such wants beneath her heel.

Ultimately, the man was categorized as empty calories and junk food. And the spider before him was watching her figure. Or so she'd tell herself, an inner exchange that invoked a grimace. The Araneae never contemplated how her domineering sights might perturb the man. The prey's feelings seldom penetrated the scope of the hunter. Rude, perhaps. But such was the natural hierarchy and way of the macrocosm. Who were they to oppugn it?

The giant had no inkling about the condition of Veron's mind. Whatever thoughts circulated through that cranium of his remained liberated from her insight. She may have been vigilant, but she wasn't a seer. No amount of flesh or traditions could perforate that thick skull. And even if she had been endowed with such an exalted ability, Valerna would yet respect the sanctity of one's privacy. There were some lines not even she was willing to violate.

The duo stood close, the vermin maintaining a distance between them. A cushion that likely ameliorated his vexation. Fear was a powerful motivator, yet an all too common shackle. The giantess wasn't offended, quite the opposite; she took it as veneration. The stranger had deemed her a threat and wavered to diminish his guard. She'd brook it all and vest the man his wishful thinking. In actuality, the feet between them weren't a barrier. Her reach was more significant, and the man was in mortal danger should it degrade into a skirmish.

Ignorance was euphoria, and the boulder by which he crouched behind didn't bolster the man's status. It compromised it. Valerna didn't come here to do battle at the end of worlds. She was a pawn under the yoke of an unfeeling universe—an all too common plight, perhaps even universal. One's acknowledgment of this fact was of no consequence. Our wants and desires never hamper the reality of things.

Veron spoke, presenting his name along with a title. The meaning eluded her cognitive webbing as she was unfamiliar with the honorifics of this world. That moniker caused her to tilt her head. Valerna was frustrated that the context supplied little in the way of an epiphany. The only thing she had managed to reap from those strings of meaningless words was the prospect of land ownership. If accurate, would that make the brooding one noble? It made sense; the peasantry lacked the luxury to piss away time ambling through the woods all willy-nilly.

The man resumed his loquacity with a much-needed lens. Once upon a time, that suggested he no longer held or cared for such titles. Why, then, even belch them out? Those mortally inclined were fickled things, clinging to the past in some hopeless bid to get high off the fumes of nostalgia. It all culminated with Veron touching and calling focus to his eyepatch. Did he expect her to inquire? Why would she? What benefit did such a line of inquisition offer her? Little outside of a history lesson meant to stoke the flames of a broken man's ego.

Valerna's amber eyes didn't bother to follow the lead. Those eyelids tapered as she sharpened her glare. That split oral muscle rotated, her lips piercing as she waited for the man to conclude. The spider raised her groomed brows. Could it be not only had an eye been visibly robbed of him, but his hearing or ability to recollect as well? She had given her name first. Was it his intention to ask what she was instead of who?

The giant clicked her tongue before sealing her lips shut. Throughout the ordeal, her spinal growths never refrained from preening her hair. They'd eventually halt before closing themselves inward and relaxing against her back. Her hand still grasped at her hips as she deliberated if there was a point regurgitating the same answer. But on the off chance he suffered from some cognitive impairment, she would.

"Who am I? I already answered that; I'm Valerna Jorgenskull. If you meant to ask what I am, that is infinitely more enthralling of an inquiry." She paused, raising her hand before motioning as if shooing away a fly.

"Who and what I am hold no bearing over this place. The imprints I left aren't visible from this space. I could bore you with my history. I could fling a slew of names that hold no meaning over you. But I'm not interested in such things. Feel free to stroke your ego off if you wish. But I will provide you a truthful answer." She replied with a smile. A faint pause left ample room for a deep breath as she continued her response.

"I'm a voyager. Nothing more, nothing less. I know, it's boring. But what did you expect? Some grand mystery to be revealed? For me to drop an earth-shattering revelation? You'd be wise to dismiss such notions. Ultimately, when all else fails, there is only you. Add as much fat and meat, but the bone is all that's left in the end. And even that can't last forever." She answered, knowing it wouldn't fill Vernon's spirit with excitement. There was no lie, merely a reduction of a truth.

"Tell me, what is a king, and are we near or at Nesthome? Should I be alarmed or impressed at my fortune? I'm not arrogant enough to believe myself to be the apex. Surely there must be something greater lurking within or beyond these woods." She questioned with a smirk, presenting the man with her pearly fangs.

Valerna Jorgenskull. She may say the name a dozen times over but it meant little and less to him. It was piss in the wind. If a bit uncanny in resemblance. Valerna. Veron. Jorgenskull. Blacktear. ‘Jorgen’ might very well be some foreign term for ‘mountain’ while ‘Blacktear’ was a compound noun anyhow. Then again…in whatever tongue emitted between them, as permitted in this dungeon of an environment, was there even a V in ‘Valerna’ or ‘Veron’? Were there even letters and words in this universe?

Whatever the answer, she had disappointingly missed the point. Maybe it was the fault of his own voice. He hadn’t asked for a name she had already given him. He had asked for a name. To some, a person’s name was inseparable from their title, or reputation in a certain definition, to the extent that ‘who’ amalgamated with ‘what’.

Veron Blacktear, whoever he is, whatever he was, he is/was King of Nesthome. That’s what he was. That’s who he was. Who I am… Who am I..? If his own inner monologue could not satisfy his blighted mind with an answer, how could she? It didn’t matter whether the spider could read the rat’s mind. His thoughts were his own, as were the letters and words written on paper, scrawled on parchment, inscribed on bark, etched in stone. Spoken between lips of man and woman.

Truly, he did indeed consider his query to be an enthralling inquiry; for she had already enthralled him, but not as a queen so much as a beast. A thing. A painting, in a manner of speaking. She might hiss, her tongue more serpentine than arachnid, and she might become his, if he could only remember his powers within…well…whatever this domain is. It was not his. His demesne was…was…abandoned… Forsaken. Forgotten.

Yet they had as much in agreement as they had in opposition. Who and what they were apparently held no bearing over this place they were in. The imprints of their existence were like rat droppings in a pit, or dusted cobwebs in a corner. They existed on the borders of this universe. Either could only bore each other with their history.

Truly, what did ego matter in a forest where trees stood taller than either rat or spider? For this was no mere forest. It was alien if they were ancient. Even a king could lose the weight of his crown whether he still wore it. There was a difference. Her challenge to him, however, whether it would go unpunished, was permitted. No, not just. It was relished.

So, if she had or hadn’t detected the sarcasm in his tone, if she had a crown or coronet of her own, if she was a queen of her species, or some sorry outcast with a broken past, he at least knew he was a king. To cling to his forsaken kingdom, on the other hand, would make him…what, exactly?

Fat. Meat. Bone. It didn’t take much of a predator to relate to the notion. He smelled blood in the air, and maybe it was her share, or another creature’s, but Veron Blacktear had yet to feast. He had yet to chew the fat, to suck the blood, to gnaw the bone. Having ferried with gnoll and dwarf, elf and lizard, and others, in his own voyages, he had plundered wonders, fed creatures to each other, and tasted flesh and blood beyond imagination, but never…spider…

“A king is a ruler of a kingdom; the sovereign of a realm,” began his answer. His gaze never wavered from her. He digested her words, even if he might not address every letter that spilled from in between her lips. He expected no different with him. “Though I have met mighty kings and petty kings. I am, or was, King of Nesthome, a realm that was mine own.”

It was his turn to pause, not to scratch the itch beneath his patch, but to observe her fangs, and wonder. His thoughts? They needed no monologue. “We, however, are nowhere near Nesthome.” He could sense it as surely as the scent of her presence. This place was…different…to put it mildly.

“The world I hail from was known as Valucre. It was born. It became no more. I found a way out from the collapse, a means to survive beyond the bounds of its reality, and here I am, with one good eye and two good hands.” But he did not bow. He just bared his own teeth, sharp and preserved as they should be; and judge his not by familiarity of any Order of Rodentia, for the Verm are vermin different, and the Veshkei superior.

“As to whatever lurks beyond these woods, well…” For the first time in moments, Veron took his eyes off her. His singular gaze roamed the wood, observed the squirrel climbing up the bark, the spider dangling from the branch, the bird perched in the canopy, the fox-like thing in the distance. “Perhaps we can discover that together.” His gaze turned back to her.

The rodent standing before the spider made no effort at obfuscation. Valerna could discern the tinge of enthrallment. The poundage of allure kept Veron seized in her orbit. Whether this bewitchment would be short-lived or long-lasting was inconsequential. She regarded the odd little creature as an enigma. But sometimes, the mystery is more engrossing than the answer. One thing was evident: the two were unique in more ways than one.

Those distinctions became all the more pronounced as time trickled on. The Araneae's mind, like a sponge, soaked in whatever she could thread into a picture. She analyzed not just what he said or did but also what he didn't say or do. What started as conjecture metamorphosed into theory. Fragments of those theses budded into empirical data or were tossed to the wayside. Those inner ruminations were safe from her inquisitive yet spindly mental feelers.

Veron was an odd beast. He fancied a slow approach, sulking as if levying every move. His opponent favored a much more fluid approach to defensiveness. The chieftain fostered the sentiment that the best defense is one of offense. That the only winning move was to prod at the brooding vermin and see how he might squirm. It was a winsome dynamic, a brilliant juxtaposition of contrasts. However, like all things, such romanticization would come to an end.

The king spoke, and he elaborated. The linguistic and mental webbing that Veron spun was messy. The spider could see through the holes and follow the fragile twines, barely supporting his delusions. How terrible of a thing to fall, but even more depressive to not comprehend the gravity of that plummet. The rat strutted about; his bosom puffed with a sense of achievement or worth. He used appellations that affirmed a halcyon stretch. Despite having one eye, he seemed to be blind.

It's a pity. Denying the truth is often the innate reflex of the dim-witted or arrogant. But that was the opinion of a humble spider. Valerna hearkened to the weaving of that tale. The account was met with stoicism. Her mind tugged on the strands of data as she interconnected them to construct a clear image. The interest she harbord had waned ever so slightly. One particular statement stood out as the most disconcerting.

Veron labeled the province as his own. To the chieftain, this communicated volumes and gave her a glimpse into the true nature of the rat. He failed to comprehend a rudimentary element of leadership: servitude. Accountability was a powerful and simple word, yet its application was seldom self-applied. But it made sense; Veron likely considered his constituents as pawns to slake his desires. He was no true warrior, no true king, and no true man. He was a child wearing the skin and boots of an idealized version of himself.

The "king" shifted about. His eyes darted from her to that of the panoramic habitat that surrounded them. The scritching of his chin hair was interpreted as a vapid idiosyncrasy. Valerna wouldn't delve much into it and instead weighed the concluding proposition. But there was a more remarkable revelation than his deficient leadership. The varmint was lost, cast a drift, just like her. What were the odds?

It stood to reason that perhaps weak points existed where such anomalies were more plausible. Nevertheless, it was suspicious and came across as a cosmic contrivance. Veron was fumbling in the dark as much as she was. He couldn't provide any solutions or insight into the domain around them. Hopefully, the braggery of his "good" arms wasn't hot air. Otherwise, she'd likely be babysitting some inbred bovinite, which didn't sound appealing. Hopefully, such a reality wouldn't surface.

Valerna soughed. That split tongue desisted the spinning of her lip piercing. Her talons drummed against her hips as she waited for the man's attention to return. Once Veron stopped marveling at the squirrels, and she had his undivided attention, the spider would initiate her reply.

"You've fallen far and remain oblivious, or so it seems. A king who doesn't serve a greater cause is a juvenile who plays the dictator role—a sad and contemptible thing. But it's clear to me that your world and people mean nothing. You're either delusional or a fool. You are unaware of the seriousness of your claim. The heft of responsibility must be a foreign concept.

I apologize. I thought you were interesting, but I now see I made a grave error. You'd have to forgive me if I remain skeptical about your alleged good hands. They did little good for what was "yours." I fail to see how they'll avail me, given that I am not your plaything or property. I don't know what game the universe is playing by crossing our paths. But I'll play my role a little longer.

Go ahead, oh great king. Lead the way. Let us do battle and vanquish what remains on the fringes of this world. Far be it from me, a mere voyager, to overstep my boundaries. I would never have spoken if I had known you were such a great man."

Valerna spoke with a grin. Her dominant hand now rested on her chest, and she pretended to quiver at the immensity of his shadow. Grant it; the ruse was dramatic and would only persist for a short time. Valerna returned to her original posture and deportment before adding one final string of thoughts for the rat to consider.

"Whether we like it or not, we're stuck together. But unless I see merit, be cautious, for circumstance is a fragile alliance at best if not nurtured. I look forward to seeing what a kind of Valucre can do." She concluded with a smirk.

The way this ‘woman’ had spoken to this ‘man’ just then, the bold insults and the insolence that dripped from her luscious lips, was no less delicious. There was a time when Veron Blacktear would have taken the tongue of the one who spoke to him so, and though this beast would probably prove to be not so easy on the approach as those, his anger might have blazed just then regardless and gotten the better of him.

However, that time was gone, and it had been a long time since the rat, the man, could converse so candidly, so freely, never mind whether he was ever a king, is or was. Is she… Even his thoughts trailed off but, like the critters he had observed, his mind was never vacant. While one eye watched, the other ‘eye’ listened, so that his mind was always active, never distant. My mirror image..? Fragmented, perhaps, but in a way she reminded him of his forsaken past.

Despite the spider’s odd and awkward hostility toward him, there was honesty that even an arrogant king could not deny. Especially when said king was no longer bound by the chains of his own sovereignty. She was right, to an extent. He had lost his kingdom the very same day his world died. All is lost. All is gone… No, you’re wrong, Veron. You are not. You remain.

Valucre may have died. Veron was still alive.

And why should he hide whatever image he remembered of his very own self from her? As amusing as this creature before him was, an enigma in her own right, she had all the importance as the fox, squirrel, the bird…the spider. The trees around her and him might still be standing whatever happened to either.

His contemporary might see him as a means to an end, a tool to take her on a tour in this forest that may be as forsaken as their realms of old, but he did not need her even on that level. To impress her required purpose from her; yet, if in the end Veron Blacktear was really still asleep, and this was all a dream, of what purpose was his own existence within it, never mind the spider’s?

She smirked. He smiled. Whether because of her words or his thoughts. Whatever her tone, a merger of sarcasm or sincerity, one or the other, she was funny. She quivered, mocking him in a way he did not already expect of her character. A sense of humor. In the end, she was no mere voyager. A strange quaint little creature, certainly, but another survivor from time and space dark. Though he would take her claims of his being great to his heart.

“A king of Valucre can eat, sleep, piss and shit just like anybody.” He didn’t know or care how she would take it. Emphasis on circumstance seemed appropriate. “If there are only trees around us then you won’t see anything else from me.” No point in hiding it. No point in foraging for forging a kingdom of leaves and twigs, a crown of lettuce and sticks, with foxes and squirrels for his subjects.

“Stuck together, is it?” Apparently they were matching grins. “That sentence remains to be interpreted. I can only hope you don’t mean being stuck in a web to drink me in ways…unfitting.”

His naked eye shifted again, but not to gawk at insects. There was movement in the distance; the rustle of leaves, like a violent wind had thrashed at branches, pushed past bush, closer, closer. “Table this conversation for later, maybe?”

He had no armor. No weapons. Except for hard skin, his fists and his barbed tail. “Something is coming.”

The abrasiveness of that tongue was meant to induce a reaction. Valerna strived to awaken the man from his self-imposed lethargic state. Everything about Veron appeared distant and detached. She could empathize; she, too, had been broken in the past. His world may be dead, but hers was alive and thriving. The globe would continue to rotate on its axis whether she inhabited it. The wheels of time and fate wait for no one, least of all this voyager.

Veron remained in that dream-like state. The disconnect between their predicament and his consciousness was evident. How riveting. Out of all the souls, she could have been cast adrift with the macrocosm selected this damaged and errant spirit. The vermin wasn't a riddle; his presence was an effrontery to all Valerna stood for. She'd offer no kind words or generosity lest she do more damage with an open hand than a closed fist. What the boy required was a cold dose of reality. Something she'd happily provide should a moment present itself.

The spider never mulled over what the rat regarded her as. Their divide was grand; it exceeded the breadth of space that wedged itself between realities. She could minister until the heat death of all existences, and not a single word would be ruminated over. Veron had ears but was deaf, an eye but was blind, and skin but couldn't feel. She would have likened him to a corpse, but that would be an insult. The dead at least nourished the soil and the maggots; Veron couldn't even be bothered to do that much.

The smirk he presented provoked no response from the web spinner. The giantess couldn't be bothered to care for one that didn't care for itself. She had better things to do than play captain save a sad boy. That opening statement did little to alleviate her harrowing criticisms. Once again, he had missed the point. It appeared the deformed bovinite had an aptitude for sidestepping the crux. That, or his skull was too thick to be penetrated. Whatever the case, she wouldn't fritter her energy.

Veron felt compelled to accentuate her arachnoid elements. The man's playful banter was met only with her resting bitch face. If only he were so worthy. As he stood now, there was nothing he could offer. But something told the giant that his prior self wasn't much better—a suspicion she couldn't shake and one that rationalized raising her guard. Her senses were whetted by experience, and she kept watch over her fellow wanderer and their surroundings.

"Drink you? I'm sorry. I don't eat junk food or empty calories." She responded before waving that absurd notion off with her hand. Valerna's brown spheres darted to the foliage that rustled in the distance.

Could it be his rancid stench attracted an opportunistic predator or carrion? Considering the game she had witnessed thus far, she doubted the beast could be that imposing. Nonetheless, Valerna wouldn't leave anything to chance. Complacency kills, and she had no intent on dying on this mudball with this imitation of a carcass to keep her company.

Instinctively, those arachnid ligaments affixed to her back shifted about. Those spindly appendages opened back up as their tips aimed at the general direction of the source. The spider's posture was relaxed, her mind sharp as she controlled her breathing. Those pupils dilated as the thrill of the hunt coursed through her supple body. Valerna wasn't afraid nor threatened; she was excited. Finally, she'd have something valuable to measure her situation.

The wildlife of this world divulged much information. Life adapted to suit its environment. While the backdrop might be alien, certain principles remained invariant. Biology, despite its diversity, was relatively narrow in breadth. The universe's antagonism didn't support wimps. Dead-ends were destined for oblivion. There were merely a handful of ways to move across the terrain and finite senses by which one might interact with it or dissect data.

The deer she had consumed and other miniature mammalians supplied much-needed edification. They were all lilliputian in stature. And whatever feasted on them within this biodome couldn't be too large. They were also devoid of any magical traits. An observation that informed Valerna that the world wasn't as magically charged as her ancestral home. There, even the saurians had organs to exploit the magical forces. They'd gather light to their frills and expand them, sending a blinding flash to ward off threats.

Should the thing rushing their way defy all empirical evidence, she had a backup plan. The lake and her ability to bend water would allow a quick escape, and the silk she could produce might ensnare or slow down the predator. Once she was skating on the surface of that still lake, she might have been able to balloon her webs and fly far away. For this reason, she exhibited no fear and kept a neutral yet fluid stance.

But would she save Veron if he somehow proved less adept? Likely, if for nothing else, then to assert her dominance over the highbrow "king." It wouldn't be the first time the less evolved gender required saving from their hubris. Sexual dimorphism favored the females of her species. Men were relegated to watching the children as their wives ran the world and broke the wilds. And while she had met many species, whether the inverse was true. Rarely had their men impressed her.

Regardless, Valerna was ready to see if Veron would be the first or just another subsequent disappointment among an infinite line of failures. Either way, it would be entertaining.

Whatever was coming their way, Veron wondered if it ate junk food, if it could be nourished from empty calories. If the reverse was true. As lost as he was, as uncertain of his own existence in a universe that was so unknown, perhaps there was freedom somewhere in obliviousness; the freedom to find more amusement at this moment than concern over what comes.

Maybe that was why, ultimately, it was so easy for him to shrug off her words, whatever their worth, whatever her worth wherever her world was. What was a rat to a spider? Probably the same as the spider to the rat. In his observations, sometimes they ate each other. Though his world was surely as different as hers and both from this world.

The Mad Rat, some called him, claiming that madness was in his veins. What was madness anyway? Perhaps it was this sorry excuse for a forest or whatever stormed between its trees. “Heads up and legs up, spider.” Though, given her distinct inability to distinguish figures in speech as much as figures of speech, and had difficulty with terms like ‘king’, he could only wonder of her species.

Not that she needed encouragement. Her appendages lifted, her legs spread in a sense, and while there was nothing specifically impressive about the simplistic movements he was impressed. There was an elegance to her motion, a natural beauty to it, amplified by her giant height. She was indeed twice his size and, though those back home might laugh in their grave to hear it spoken, hers appeared to be twice the size of his own ego.

He had met many arrogant souls before and would not hold this against her. Perhaps arrogance was a dish their visitor would find delicious. Perhaps I can eat it for mine own nourishment. If he was dead, well, death had a sense of humor, because it included hunger and thirst. Here we go.

“Oh, hello." The bushes shook madly, like they had broken into some wild dance, first over here then over there. “One for me and one for you it seems.” Two of these things, hidden between the trees, had evidently separated from their advance. Their speed and focus were definitely indicative of predators.

For Veron’s part, he barely moved a muscle. He assumed no battle stance. He just stood and waited. Moments later, as branches swayed in defiance, a giant thing in its own right emerged from the foliage. Truly, Valucre was home to all sorts of beasts, some kinds similar but of varying heights, as much as there were rats and then there were Rats.

Veron had seen a boar before, and what tore toward him was not much different. Only larger. It was a strange thing, its vicious cry quite like that of a wolf’s howl as much as a pig’s squeal. Its great tusks pointed forth so as to gore its target. But the rat was ready for it.

He stepped aside without a roar or wasting any time. His tail whipped as he did, its sharp barbed bits tearing across its neck, opening the throat, so that his prey crashed some feet away.

Whatever became of the spider’s opponent, the Veshkei paced over to his kill and once again wasted no moment. He crouched down to the carcass on the ground and he began to feast.

The forewarning wasn't necessary. Valerna was hardly a damsel in distress. She was no stranger to conflict; her eternal voyage was overgrown with it. In her youth, the thicket of despair and its prickly thorns strangled her. The spider was born in blood; her mother was cut open so that she might live during the delivery process. That baptism continued through the innumerable wars and dissents spurned by the factions she once served. Peace was fleeting; it loitered one moment and dissolved the next. If one blinked, they might miss that wink of respite.

Her account was one of strife. The giantess lived for the hunt and was purified through the continual process of proving herself. Should death somehow claim her now, she'd expire as she lived, opposing its power. Her ligaments had long since awoken, their tips aimed at the rustling of the brush. The emergence of a second disturbance within the overgrowth brought a smile to her face. How riveting. The pair found themselves becoming the hunted. She could only speculate what manner of beast stalked in pairs.

Veron's side commentary had been rightly ignored. Now wasn't the time for idle chitchat. She did not need his direction, nor did he hold any authority over her. The rat had vastly overestimated his influence over their little dynamic. Perhaps he regarded Valerna as an equal or a subordinate. If so, the potency of his delusions knew no bounds. They were not comrades; no great thread of camaraderie linked them. No, they were merely aligned presently due to circumstances. And it was a transient alliance at best.

Her twin hearts thumped wildly against her ribs. Her breathing became calm as those pupils dilated. Valerna's split tongue sketched her lips as she crouched and stood on all fours. Her spider legs rested on the soil as she exhaled. The loose dirt was carried off as those eyelids tapered ever so negligibly. Something was calming about this experience, something palliative about being so close to her roots. Her hearts drummed to a primordial and primal cadence, the tempos like that of war drums.

Where the trees stood tall and proud, a treeline thick with brush camouflaged their foes. The dense greenery formed a natural barrier, obscuring the view beyond and lending an atmosphere of mystery to the surroundings. Each leaf appeared to whisper the forest's mysteries, while the tangled undergrowth presented sanctuary to unseen creatures.

Amidst the verdant landscape, the calm lake lay nestled, its surface as smooth as a mirror, reflecting the emerald hues of the surrounding herbage. The tranquil waters sparkled in the dappled sunlight, casting dancing shadows upon the forest floor. Yet beneath the tranquil mask crept the unknown, a silent sentinel waiting to reveal its secrets.

The forest's silence was palpable, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the soft chirping of birds. Its stillness seemed to linger as if holding its breath in anticipation of what would come. The air was heavy with the aroma of earth and damp vegetation, mingling with the faint bouquet of wildflowers carried on the breeze.

Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, casting spotty patterns of light and shadow upon the earth. Each beam supplied a window of wonderment, unveiling glimpses of concealed beauty amidst the thick foliage. Yet even as the daylight danced upon the forest floor, there was a sense of presage, a sensation that all was not as it seemed.

Despite the picturesque stage before them, there was an underlying suspense, a connotation of forthcoming conflict that hung everywhere. Two unknown predators lurked in the forest's depths, their presence only betrayed by the subtle indications. And as the serenity before the storm swathed the wilds, the treeline silently witnessed the impending clash.

It wasn't long before the boars walked into view. Valerna's eyes locked with one of them as they sized one another. The wild hogs were impressive in stature. Nonetheless, they were dwarfed by the Araneae. Each beast had to weigh at least a thousand pounds. Their muscular build suggested they were successful predators. They reminded her of the tusked critters of her ancestral home. However, those pigs were far bigger and hideous by comparison.

These boars were odd; they behaved differently. Rather than focus on the smaller prey, they renounced their edge. Most pack hunters ganged up on whichever prey they deemed weaker or more vulnerable. Instead, the hogs broke ranks from one another and confronted the pair on equal footing. Bewildered but not stupified, the spider kept her wits and senses about her. She wondered if more were waiting in the woods and that this was merely a distraction. Their hooves trampled the tall grass as they proceeded cautiously at first. This opening gave Valerna time to examine the beast more closely.

Her opponent towered over the undergrowth; his enormous frame bristled with muscle and sinew. His coarse and mottled fur bore the scars of numerous battles, proof of the ferocity with which he defended his territory. With gleaming tusks, his formidable weaponry protruded from his snout, honed to razor-sharp points capable of quickly riving flesh and bone. His steely gaze revealed a rudimentary instinct.

As he moved through the forest, the ground trembled beneath his weight; the earth seemed to recoil in deference to his poundage. Those hooves left imprints as his deep, guttural grunts echoed. Yet despite his homely shell, his form had a primal beauty. It embodied the untamed wilds from which he hailed. He was a creature of raw power and indomitable will, an incarnation of the untamed spirit of the wild. The board now charged headstrong into the fray.

Valerna remained muted as she counted to herself. The sprinting beast warranted no fear or disdain but respect. She was humbled that he considered her worthy game, an honor and distinction she'd reciprocate. The spider waited as his stampeding diminished the space between them. Her posterior rose as those spinal legs were bent and supported her weight. The giant's bountiful bosom dangled and swayed as she wiggled her rear from anticipation.

It had finally come, the opening to strike. It's a pity the critter had a slew of openings. Valerna used her arachnoid legs to pounce into the air. It was just enough to clear the creature by six feet or so. While she did so, one of her ligaments fired a blotch of webbing onto the soil. The unwitting boar ran into the trap as he squealed and writhed. Vainly, the hog thrust his tusk, further entangling himself within that silky filigree.

There was no escape; the swine's fate was sealed. The natural forces of the world would do all the work for Valerna. She weighed over a ton, and all that was crashing down. Gravity was as much a friend as it could be an enemy. A variable that, in this instance, aided her triumph. Her boots came down first, only for the right foot to dig into the boar's neck. Bone snapping and a terminal cry of resistance rang out across the wilds.

The distant birds flew away as silence once more returned. Valerna stood upright, her boot pushing deeper and crushing the neck. She stepped off and turned to look down at the predator. Its body twitched as its little legs kicked futilely to escape. She sighed, and her bosom rose and sank as she brought her left leg upward. The spectacle showcased her flexibility as it pointed to the heavens.

Valerna sent the leg downward in a fluid and powerful strike. The boot collided with the boar's cranium as it caved in. Blood pooled around its mashed skull as the fleshly bits were crushed and smeared by the digging of her footwear. Her spider legs combed back her auburn mane once more as the Latina giant turned her head to catch Veron gobbling the corpse. Had he foregone sustenance? How long had it been since the rat had eaten? Judging by the ferocious manner in which he consumed the prey, she'd assume it had to be a notable period.

The prehistoric hogs of her world were classified as unclean. If the meat wasn't cooked just right, one risked parasites. And here Veron was, eating them raw without care. Was it possible his gut wasn't susceptible to them? They were aliens, so maybe the differences implied they didn't exist or wouldn't affect him. Of course, it was equally likely he'd have no defense to oppose the invasion. Either way, a foolish risk given, there were methods to sidestep the potential hazard.

The spider didn't dare deny him his meal. For all Valerna knew, this could be Veron's last supper. While he feasted and gorged himself, she walked to the lake and peered out across its glass-like surface. She said nothing, opting to feel the moment instead of spoiling it with cheap words. The giant procured water yesterday and boiled it. She had had enough for a few days and now pondered, questioning the rat about whether he had any containers on him. She had collected sufficiently for herself, but two may dwindle her reserves.

Outwardly, she appeared still. Privately, Valerna regretted not bathing before playing the harp, but that's what she got for breaking her mourning routine. She shrugged indifferently before pivoting and facing the rodent. Her eyes scanned the carcass, estimating how much meat would spoil. There was no way the man's gut could hold all the gristle and muscle. How sad that so much would go to waste. But at least the fur would provide him some fiber.

He hadn’t eaten in weeks. Or was it days? Was one unit of measure, one increment in time, the same as the other anyway? Whatever the case, amid the gore, he gorged. He fed. He drank. He satiated. He nourished. One verb was certainly the same as the other. However, he needed more. Hunger. Thirst. Flesh. Blood. The fur was spat out, of course. He had sharp teeth, yes. Yet, admittedly, his former incisors might have made this feast easier.

Skin ripped away, hanging from lips, blood drips. Not a pretty sight by any means. A Ratman wasn’t a pretty thing. Only…a Veshkei was always different from the Verm species. A special breed. A superior breed. A more pleasing thing to see. Not to many but to some. This one? He had since shaken the form of the furred Ratkin. He had the tail, he had the horns, he had resemblance of the former in his face, but his was a new shape.

His teeth were like a human’s in comparison, if sharp as a shark’s. His skin was nearly barren of fur. Of hair, even. He was like a hybrid. But whatever he was, whoever he was, his insides were still his. His system was still Ratkin. And the Rat, the rat, was known to eat just about anything, just about any meat, and to live with it.

Rat. Ratman. Ratkin. A few terms with different definitions. His was different from other Shkei even. Yet he still had arms. Legs. A heart. Breath. Feet. Teeth. Nails. Stomach. Cock. Tail. So was it the rodent’s different gastric cocktail that did it? Digestive tract and trail that made him less susceptible to the toxins and whatever-it-is that may make him sick from his hunt. Different species of course, different breeds, different dynamics, different boars, different rats. But only one me…

Another thought. Another memory. Triggered from nothing. But not spurned. Didn’t interrupt his meal. Or…was the blood in the memory? A vision in his vision of yesterday. Of the past in the present. Of purpose unspent. Of a future unearned. Stupid. Quit thinking it. Whatever he was, whoever he is, Veron Blacktear surely had the same protective stomach, the same digestive system as his previous life…right?

Moments later, Veron had found his nourishment, whether from the blood or the fur, the flesh or the bone, one or both, none or all at once. Hell, maybe it was the life he was eating, the death he was drinking. Time would tell. Slowly, he rose, but not lazily. Reinvigorated already, or was that what they said to be the placebo effect?

He turned to face her, the spider, to take in her presence all over again. Abomination. Maybe. They said the same of him. Of his Ratkin. Whether Veshkei or Verm. It didn’t matter to them. They were all vermin.

And Veron was the worst of them.

He wiped blood from his lips with the back of his hand. Debated whether to scratch the itch behind his eyepatch. No. Leave it. It will feed and drink alongside the falling of the leaves. Whatever that meant. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it meant everything. Maybe it means as much as his own existence between these trees…or the meaningless conversation between a rat and a spider. And another stupid question. His was toneless. His expression was vacant.

“Have you ever looked in the mirror?”

The beast wolfed down its prey ravenously. Veron's feral presentation and choice of words throughout their little exchange revealed much. The spider had peered beyond the cracks and glimpsed fragments of the man before her. She wasn't impressed or amused. He was an unscrupulous and lost soul, a damaged man—the remnant of a world that had surrendered itself to its lesser inclinations. She regarded him as a child, a dolt who had become drunk on power and satisfying his hedonistic wants.

What sort of king would denote the people he served as his own? What sort of fool wouldn't see the destruction of all that was as anything less than a thorough drubbing? The Araneae gathered no semblance of remorse or personal accountability. Veron appeared to be walking through a waking dream. There was a disconnect, as if the whole was fragmented and sought to reform into the despicable image of a past self. Who was Veron? He was nothing.

Veron was a man without purpose and anchor—a blighted soul damaged by madness and the wickedness of yesteryear. A man-child who fell and yet learned nothing. A rule that, instead of showing his people how they might live, demonstrated how they would fall. The miasma of egocentricity and butchery was evident. Its rank was so potent it overpowered the earthy aroma of the wilderness. But at least the rat stood as a testament and an affidavit.

He embodied the universe's imbalance and injustice. So many had perished during the collapse of what was, yet the contemptible creature somehow survived. Valerna at least respected his resolve and tenacity. If only such grit had been applied to something of substance, then the rash king would have produced something of merit. She wouldn't waste her effort tutoring this animal. She learned long ago not to wrestle with or cast pearls before swine. They enjoy the mud and will only trample such precious things into the squalid earth.

It wouldn't be long before the bloodied husk that was Veron concluded his piggish feast. The grub rose, peeking over her way with a vacant expression. The words that escaped his lips were hollow, bereft of care or awareness—yet another manifestation of his brokenness. The comment he blabbed her way was nonsensical, devoid of context, and thus deemed vapid—noise for the sake of noise. Despite this harsh perspective on the man, she'd humor him for a bit longer.

"If you mean a metaphorical mirror, yes. Unlike you, I know what I am. I don't have the luxury of self-denial. The answer remains unchanged if your question is aimed at a physical mirror. If this is meant to highlight my monstrous veneer, save your breath. It is better to be born a monster and master yourself. Then, to be a king who has yet to conquer his lesser proclivities.

Let's not stand on ceremony here. There is no need to weigh my words or mull over them, and I'm well aware that my speaking is a waste of breath. Unlike the boar, I don't fear you because I don't fear broken men. Your ego has sapped you of your strength, and hedonism has defeated you. As you are now, you're impotent and a waste of life. The unvierse elected not to eradicate you. Your sentence will be far more severe.

Bravado and valor are effective mechanisms for the uninitiated. Nonetheless, Veron, we aren't nascent souls. We have both been baptized by conflict. Yet only one of us evolved while the other remained stagnant. I derive no pride, pity, or remorse from this exchange. What I take away from it is a mirror of the man I see before me—nothing.

I hope these words start a fire in you and that flames and smoke rise. That somehow, nothing can become something. Collect what you once were instead of wafting like an errant ember soon to be extinguished. What I wish to see is a miracle." She spoke candidly, wanting to clarify her position with the man before they started this little journey. Her tone was harsh, like a mother who disapproved of her son's antics.