Forsaken by the one person who was supposed to love her unconditionally, Red must brave the magic and monsters of the Wylds to find her true place in the world.
*****
Plague...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The Weaver was beautiful in the most horrific sense, like a perfectly preserved corpse made up for a funeral. Her skin was white as chalk, contrasting starkly with the black kohl around her eyes and the garish red paint on her lips. It reminded me eerily of Gretchen's preferred style, but there was something twisted in the Weaver's rendition, like she was trying to recreate the features that Gretchen naturally possessed and simply wielded makeup to enhance.
The mimicry even extended to the Weaver's hair, a carroty orange that belied the dark roots at her temples. It was woven up into a breathtaking wreath, not a single strand out of place, so that the six round eyes planted around the circumference of her skull had an uninterrupted view of our surroundings. The red glow they emitted crowned her with a hellish light that illuminated her upper body, showcasing the fine craftsmanship of a full-sleeved, black-lace dress, the collar of which crept as far up as her chin.
It was the eyes set in her face that truly chilled my blood, for they were human only in shape, filled to the rims with an opaque black that gleamed like a carapace in the light of her crown. Only the shifting of that reflected light testified to her roving attention as she scrutinised me from head to toe, nose wrinkling in disgust.
"This is not the one I was promised," she hissed abruptly, whirling on the host gathered in the dark. "Where is the lycan?"
There was no response, save for a collective scuttling as her creatures shied away from her wrath.
"I simply must have his soul," she impressed upon them, lips pulling back from her teeth. They were the same gleaming black as her eyes, and I could have sworn I saw a bead of venom swelling on the tips of her elegantly tapered fangs. "That wretched witch was seen wearing silver last week, and I refuse to be upstaged! Only a gown spun from the Night Goddess' brightest thread will suffice."
It took a moment for me to realise she was referring to Gordon's soul bond with Mysandra. Which in turn meant that these ghastly creatures were in the business of harvesting souls and spinning them into whatever fabrics they desired, soul-bonds included. The thread binding my soul to Hunter's must have been so thin that it escaped the Weaver's attention at first glance, but I didn't place much stock on my luck holding. Thus I held quiet and still, hardly daring to breathe lest the sound snag her attention once more.
"Answer me!" the Weaver shrieked, skirts rustling as she took a threatening step towards the host of spiders gathered in the dark.
Only one of them dared to step forward, into the ghastly red light of her crown. He too was clothed from chin to waist in black lace, but that was where the similarities to the Weaver -- and anything I'd ever known -- ended. Like some twisted mockery of centaurs of legend, the lower half of his body belonged wholly to a spider, with a furry, bulbous abdomen that ended in two sharp prongs. Six spindly legs bore the brunt of that monstrous weight, while two human hands were raised in the universal gesture of surrender.
