The chamber is dim, lit only by pools of pale druid-light and the faint shimmer of containment wards. The Spider Matriarch hunches in the center of the ritual circle, her eight legs folded tightly, as if unsure whether she has been captured… or adopted.
The moment Mamba walks in, the druids straighten.
Some bow. Others simply exhale in relief — they have been awake, working relentlessly, doing everything in their power to keep the creature fed, calm, and unprovoked.
Halsin stands closest to the spider, arms folded, posture tense but hopeful.
"Warchief," he greets, voice low. "She's… making progress. Slow. Very slow. But progress."
The druids immediately begin clearing space, murmuring warnings:
"Careful, Warchief—"
"She responds only to dominance displays—"
"Her instincts are still sharp—"
"Please don't get too clo—"
But Mamba is already stepping through the warded circle.
Every druid freezes.
The spider matriarch lifts her monstrous head, eight pale white eyes narrowing. Her mandibles twitch. A low, rattling hiss vibrates from deep within her thorax — not aggressive, but conflicted, as though she is torn between the urge to flee and the urge to submit.
Her legs shuffle. Her body dips once.
A sign of recognition.
The druids gasp.
"That was intentional," Halsin whispers. "She remembers you."
Mamba moves closer.
Slow.
Steady.
Unthreatening but utterly unafraid — the exact posture of a dominant creature who has no need to posture.
He raises a single hand.
And to the horror of the entire druidic circle…
He reaches for her head.
A few druids flinch.
One chokes on spit.
Someone audibly whispers, "Selûne save us—"
The spider freezes.
Every muscle in her alien body locks, like a bowstring pulled to breaking.
A breathless second hangs between them.
Then—
she lowers her massive head.
Just enough.
Mamba's hand finds the rough, chitin-plated crown between her eyes.
He strokes once.
A deep, resonant chitter vibrates through her body — not a hiss, not a threat… but something like a purr twisted through a predator's throat.
The entire chamber erupts in murmured disbelief.
"She… accepted the touch," a druid whispers.
"She recognizes him as… as leader?"
"No creature of her brood has ever—"
"This is impossible—"
"Not impossible," Halsin murmurs, "just unheard of."
Mamba kneels slightly so he is directly at eye level with the towering phase-spider. His voice lowers to a quiet, steady rumble.
"Will you listen to me?"
The matriarch's fangs fold back in submission.
Her forelegs tuck inward.
A small shuddered bow rolls through her segmented body.
It is the closest thing her kind has to a yes.
Mamba smiles — a small, warm, honest thing reserved only for creatures he respects.
"I saw your sign of recognition," he says.
"You did not have to. But you did."
His hand continues to stroke gently across the armored chitin, slow and deliberate.
"You survived because my warriors showed you mercy. You live now because Snake Tribe understands beasts are not evil — only lost."
The spider's body relaxes another inch, enormous abdomen lowering toward the ground in a posture of cautious trust.
Druids watch in stunned silence.
Halsin's brow rises in disbelief and hard-earned pride.
Mamba's next words are soft, but carry an authority primal enough for even a spider matriarch to understand:
"You are safe here.
But hear me…
If you listen to me —
if you obey —
I will give you a purpose.
A home.
A tribe."
The spider's mandibles click… softly.
Not hunger.
Not threat.
Recognition.
Acceptance.
A bond forming in real time.
Mamba continues to pet the creature, entirely unfazed by the looks of shock, awe, and mild horror surrounding him.
Behind him, Halsin finally inhales and whispers:
"…Warchief…
I think she's chosen you."
The chamber falls silent.
Absolutely, deathly silent.
Halsin's eyes go wide.
The druids freeze mid-chant.
Two apprentices drop their carved bowls of rare moss, which shatter on the stone.
Not a single soul in the room expected Mamba—
the Warchief, the breaker of tyrants, the unchallenged apex of Moonrise—
to step forward and wrap a twenty-foot, venom-dripping, phase-shifting apex predator in a warm bear hug.
And even less expected the spider to…
allow it.
⟡ The Creature's Response ⟡
The queen's long, barbed legs flex with tension at first—
the instinct to strike, to bite, to phase through you—
but then something flickers behind her midnight eyes.
Recognition.
Submission.
A strange… comfort.
The immense beast lowers her weight into your arms—a subtle, cautious settling—letting the full, impossible reality sink in:
She accepts you as her superior.
Her protector.
Her… brood-keeper.
The air warps around the two of you as she gives a low, resonant chitter, like a vibrating harp string.
Someone in the back audibly gasps.
⟡ "Then mine she will be." ⟡
Your declaration rolls across the chamber like a decree spoken by a king of old.
The druids collectively take a step back—
part awe, part fear, part complete "Selûne help us" disbelief.
Halsin opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
"…Mamba…" he says slowly, carefully, "you do realize she is an apex predator of the Underdark. A mother of nightmares. An architect of webs that consume villages."
He gestures helplessly.
"And you… are hugging her."
⟡ "Let her go. She travels with me now. No more cage." ⟡
This shatters the room.
One apprentice squeaks:
"WHAT!?"
Another nearly faints.
A senior druid drops his staff and whispers, "We are all going to die."
The spider queen's mandibles twitch, but not in aggression—
In anticipation.
In approval.
She phases once—just a flicker—
and when she reappears, she's standing closer to you, like a wolf pup trying to press against its chosen master.
Even Halsin's jaw hangs open now.
"Mamba…" he says again, voice low.
"You really intend… to bond with her?
To take her into the field?
As your companion?"
You can hear his heartbeat from across the chamber.
The druids hold their breath.
The queen bows her head toward your hand—
the same head that devoured armed men whole.
She waits for your touch.
This is where everything changes.
If you pet her, the bond becomes permanent.
If she accepts that touch, she will follow you into war.
Into Moonrise.
Into the spider dens.
Into Vlaakith's domain.
Into hell if you asked.
And the Snake Tribe?
They will gain:
A matriarch spider brood
Phase-shifting scouts
Poison dragoons
Web-fortress architecture
A living siege engine that can teleport through walls
The druids will gain their greatest challenge.
Minthara will gain a favorite war-beast.
Shadowheart will pretend to disapprove but secretly marvel.
Jaheira will write ballads about the moment.
Orpheus will simply say: "Of course."
The tribe will speak about this for generations.
The Queen of Web and Shadow lumbers beside you, her eight legs clicking with a strange mix of uncertainty and curiosity as she follows the towering war chief through Moonrise's stone corridors.
Behind you, several druids trail nervously, ready to intervene if she lashes out—
but she doesn't.
Not once.
The matriarch moves with a cautious, almost feline grace, making low chittering sounds as her massive abdomen brushes the stone. In the torchlight she almost glows—pale blues and silvers swirling across the chitin that only a druid or ranger would ever notice.
But she isn't staring at them.
She's staring at you.
The being who spared her.
The being who healed her.
The being who hugged her.
To the astonishment of every druid in the hall, the spider queen's front legs lower…
like she is bowing.
⟡ Choosing Her Territory ⟡
You bring her into the courtyard—wide, open, perfect for a creature her size. She pauses, tasting the air, tapping the earth with her pedipalps.
She circles a half-ruined corner of the keep—shaded, strong pillars, good vertical lines. Perfect for webbing.
She likes this corner.
She claims it.
The druids gasp as she suddenly leaps straight up the stone, slamming threads down onto the pillars with frightening speed. In moments she lays the foundation of a colossal nest, weaving with hypnotic precision.
You watch her, completely unbothered. To anyone else, it would look like the birth of a monster lair.
To you?
It looks like the beginning of a new alliance.
When the frame of her future brood nest is complete, she crawls back down the wall—slow, deliberate—and lowers her massive head toward you.
She wants your approval.
⟡ "The Druids will feed you and your children." ⟡
She chitters again—
but the sound is softer this time.
Almost… pleased.
Her fangs click, but not in aggression.
In agreement.
She understands.
And the druids around you, all slack-jawed, whisper among themselves:
"She's responding…"
"I've never seen a spider of this size show submission."
"He's actually bonding with her…"
"We might actually tame her brood…"
Halsin folds his arms, looking equal parts impressed and horrified.
"Goddess above… Mamba, you have an… unusual gift."
⟡ "Now we bond." ⟡
You step toward her slowly, placing one enormous hand on her head—a head the size of a full-grown bear.
Her muscles tense at first.
The druids all reach for their components.
And then…
She leans into your hand.
The matriarch presses her skull against your palm, mandibles lowering, body relaxing—like a massive, monstrous hound accepting its master.
A sound escapes her—a deep, rumbling vibration felt more than heard.
A purr.
A spider queen purring under the touch of the Warchief.
Everyone witnessing will tell this story until the day they die.
⟡ "There is a Shar temple nearby…" ⟡
When you speak, her entire body stiffens—not from fear, but interest.
Shar is darkness.
Webs thrive in darkness.
Her brood thrives in darkness.
A temple of shadow would be a feast for a creature like her.
You see realization dawn in her alien eyes.
A wicked hunger ripples through her mandibles.
The Druids stiffen.
Halsin's face goes pale.
"…Mamba… are you suggesting she… clears the temple?"
You place another gentle hand on the creature's head.
"No," you say calmly.
"She feasts."
The spider queen clicks her mandibles eagerly.
Her body ripples.
Her legs scrape the stone.
She is ready.
⟡ Walking Together ⟡
You turn, gesturing for her to follow.
She does. Immediately.
Eight legs clatter behind you in perfect rhythm—
a creature of nightmare now walking like a trained hunting beast,
massive enough to blot out a doorway,
but gentle enough to keep pace with your stride.
Every ogre, Harper, druid, and myconid freezes as you pass.
Mamba.
The Warchief.
Walking a tamed phase spider matriarch like it's a loyal warhound.
A new weapon.
A new ally.
A new terror for your enemies.
Her brood will grow here.
Her loyalty will cement here.
Her place beside you will become fact here.
And tomorrow…
She will follow you into the temple of Shar.
But for now—
The two of you walk the inner halls of Moonrise,
her chittering echoing behind you,
her shadow massive and loyal at your side.
A king…
and his monster.
A monster…
and her chosen master.
The bond has begun.
The great halls of Moonrise are still heavy with morning torchlight when you lead the massive phase-spider matriarch out of her chamber. Her chitin scrapes softly against stone, her eight legs moving with uncertain precision — not aggression, not fear… but something like cautious curiosity.
The Druids watch from a distance, half-proud, half-horrified, gripping their staffs as if at any moment she might devour you whole. But she doesn't. She follows.
Because you spoke, and she listened.
⟡ You Pet Her Like a Wolfhound — And She Allows It ⟡
When your hand comes to rest on her head — that broad, shimmering crown of iridescent plates — a wave of shock runs through the entire Druid circle.
Halsin actually steps forward, as if ready to drag you back by the collar.
But the matriarch…
She doesn't strike.
She doesn't recoil.
She lowers her head.
Slowly.
A gesture of primal acceptance.
Your strike team couldn't believe it.
The Druids almost fall over.
Even the Myconid courier gives off a puff of bewildered spores.
"Then mine she will be."
The words echo through the atrium like a divine decree.
And then you pull her — this towering 20-foot apex predator — into a massive, crushing bear hug.
Gasps scatter like thrown stones.
One Druid drops his staff.
Another stumbles back like you've gone completely mad.
Shadowheart, watching from the stairway, covers her mouth to hide a disbelieving laugh.
Minthara tilts her head, muttering under her breath:
"…Of course he would tame the thing."
But the matriarch…
She doesn't resist.
She leans into it.
A terrifying, elegant, ancient beast…
Hugging back.
**"Let her go. She travels with me from this point on.
No more cage."**
Those words freeze every Druid in place.
Halsin actually whispers:
"…Sweet Silvanus preserve us."
The apprentices stare with wide eyes, immediately scrambling to adjust their entire training program, repurposing the surrounding chambers not as a prison… but as a nursery.
"You're serious?" one asks weakly.
You simply nod.
And that's all it takes.
The entire Druidic order pivots their stance within seconds.
⟡ You Walk Her Through Moonrise Like She's a New Knight ⟡
She pads beside you, eight legs clicking neatly on the stone floors, phasing in and out of slight invisibility as she grows used to the environment.
Guards scramble back.
Recruits duck behind pillars.
Harper scouts climb the rafters.
One ogre drops a barrel on his foot.
The matriarch pays none of it mind — she follows your stride with complete trust.
You take her through the courtyard, letting her test open air and sunlight. Several training squads stop mid-form to stare, jaws slack. A few kneel instinctively.
Finally, you bring her to the upper terraces overlooking the valley.
⟡ "Pick your spot, queen." ⟡
She lifts her head, scanning the stone shelves, the rooftop ledges, the archways, and the shaded alcoves.
She circles.
Studies.
Phases once, twice, then leaps — phwip — onto a high parapet.
She tests the wind.
Anchors webbing.
Chitters approval.
She has chosen.
**"The Druids will feed you and your children.
But first we need to bond."**
Your voice is calm, paternal, sovereign.
The matriarch kneels — a bow.
A creature once feared as a nightmare lowering itself before the Warchief of the Snake Tribe.
You stroke the crown of her head again.
She purrs.
Actually purrs.
A deep, resonant vibration that shakes the stones.
"Good girl."
You pat her again.
Hard.
She shivers in delight.
Minthara watches from across the parapet, arms crossed, amused and impressed.
Shadowheart can't hide her smile.
The matriarch follows you like a loyal hound as you continue:
**"Now let's go get you a treat.
There is a Shar temple nearby."**
The moment you say Shar, Shadowheart stiffens — but she sees the intention.
She nods.
If the temple contains lingering shadows, leftover cultists, or corrupted beasts…
A feast for a growing brood.
You turn to the matriarch:
"Come, Queen.
Today you eat well."
She phases at your side.
Ready.
Obedient.
Herself reborn under your command.
The spider queen follows at your side like a monstrous shadow with eight legs, her body gliding low, cautious, instinct sharpened but no longer hostile. The Druids trail far behind—wide-eyed, whispering, absolutely pale that you've taken her off the leash they never truly had control of.
Every ogre guard you pass pauses mid-patrol, clutching their weapons, unsure whether to attack, run… or salute.
They choose the third.
"W-Warchief… s-sir…"
You wave them down calmly.
"She's with me."
The queen's mandibles twitch.
A sign of recognition—maybe even pride.
You guide her through the courtyard, massive hand resting on her chitinous head, stroking gently as though she were a hunting hound rather than a 20-foot mythic predator.
Each touch cements the bond.
Each step she takes beside you deepens it.
Her legs click softly across stone tiles, echoing through Moonrise Towers like the ticking of an enormous clock counting down to something inevitable.
And when you reach the outer gate that leads toward the cursed woods, she makes a rumbling sound—somewhere between a growl and a purr.
⟡ Entering the Woods — The Queen's New Instincts ⟡
She begins moving differently now.
Lower.
Quieter.
As if she senses the old darkness clinging to the air.
Selûne's touch on your soul burns like silver in your chest—she hates this place more than you do.
The queen, however…
She thrives in the shadows.
Her body practically vibrates with anticipation.
"You'll have a prospering family soon," you say softly, hand sliding along her largest mandible. "But first, a treat."
Her abdomen lifts slightly—
a spider's version of tail wagging.
⟡ The Temple Appears Through the Trees ⟡
Half-sunken in moss and rot, the false sanctuary of Shar looms ahead.
Once meant to deceive.
Once meant to ensnare.
Now meant to feed your new ally.
Black marble pillars cracked by moonlight.
Shadows crawling unnaturally along the walls.
The dregs of Shar's faithful gathering inside—priests, acolytes, zealots, and a few shadow-tainted monsters.
They look up when they hear you approach.
They do NOT expect what comes next.
⟡ The Entrance — The Queen Steps In ⟡
The first priest opens his mouth to speak—
and the spider queen pounces.
Eight legs flash.
Mandibles snap.
A shriek splits the hall.
And then silence.
Her massive form fills the entrance behind you, blocking escape.
Her shadow stretches like a living nightmare across the prayer tiles.
You fold your arms behind your back and watch.
"Good girl," you say warmly.
Her head flicks toward you, dripping black ichor from her fangs, waiting for the next command.
You gesture deeper inside.
"Feast."
She obeys.
⟡ The Feeding Begins ⟡
The queen surges into the temple proper.
Acolytes scatter—
but her webbing is faster.
Threads fling from her spinnerets like silver spears, pinning two cultists to the stained-glass wall.
One screams.
One prays to Shar.
Neither prayer is answered.
She drains the first in seconds, the corpse shriveling like parchment collapsing inward. The second watches in horror, then in resignation.
You place a comforting hand on his head.
"You chose evil," you whisper.
"Now you feed something pure—instinct."
The queen does the rest.
⟡ Mamba Walks the Rows of Shadows ⟡
As she hunts, you stroll through the temple with serene confidence, boots echoing across the black marble.
No fear.
No hesitation.
Just purpose.
You push open the inner doors—
Several more corrupted faithful stare back at you.
"Run," you say.
They do.
The spider queen crashes down from the ceiling behind them, legs slicing between pews, dragging prey backward into shadow.
And you continue deeper.
⟡ The Altar — The Last Stand ⟡
At the heart of the temple sits the high priestess, her eyes wild with Shar's madness.
"You dare bring that creature here?!" she hisses.
"You insult the Lady of Loss!"
You smile faintly.
"No. I feed the Lady's leftovers to a better creature."
The priestess shrieks and raises her hand, shadow magic spiraling—
The queen slams her down mid-spell, pinning her beneath a massive leg.
The air fills with snapping bone and tearing cloth.
You kneel beside the dying priestess.
"This temple dies today," you tell her gently.
"No more stolen children.
No more manipulation.
No more lies."
Then, to your queen:
"Finish her."
She does.
⟡ After the Feast — Bond Sealed by Blood ⟡
When the last shadow fades and the last scream falls silent, the queen returns to your side—her mandibles clicking slowly, her body full, her instincts calm.
She bows her massive head toward you.
A gesture not of dominance…
…but acceptance.
Submission.
Bond.
Family.
You place your palm on the top of her head.
She doesn't flinch.
She leans into the touch.
"Good girl," you whisper again, stroking the warm chitin.
"You did beautifully. You'll make a fine mother.
Now choose your nesting place."
She chitters happily.
You guide her outside, back toward Moonrise—
a towering monster walking like a loyal hound beside her Warchief.
Your tribe will scream when they see this…
But they will learn.
They always do.
The moment you swing yourself onto the Spider Queen's back, the air around the ruined Shar temple seems to shift. Ogres stop in their tracks. The druidic attendants, who had hurried to prepare the area, look up with a mixture of awe and open-mouthed terror.
Even the earth beneath her eight massive legs trembles as she straightens to full height, chittering softly — a sound that, until today, only meant hunger, danger, or blood.
But now…
there's something else behind it.
Something new.
Something protective.
Loyal.
Bond.
You place one steady hand on the carapace behind her head, and she tilts it — an unmistakable gesture of acceptance. A gesture that would have been unthinkable just yesterday.
And when you softly whisper:
"Let's get you home so that you may start your family."
…she lowers herself in obedience, ready for you to guide her.
⟡ THE RETURN TO MOONRISE TOWERS ⟡
The moment you and your newfound companion step into Moonrise's outer causeway, the reaction ripples like lightning.
Ogres
They freeze mid-stride.
One drops an entire barrel of salted meat.
Another rubs his eyes like he suspects he's hallucinating.
"Boss… boss is RIDIN' it."
"No way… he's RIDIN' it??"
They whisper with childlike excitement and horror mixed into one.
Harpers
Bows rise instantly — then slowly lower when they realize she's walking beside you, not lunging.
One Harper scout mutters:
"…if she listens to him, we're all safer than we thought."
Druids
Halsin is the first to step forward — the look on his face priceless.
Equal parts relief, disbelief, professional horror, and grudging admiration.
"This is… fast progress, Warchief," he says, voice tight. "To allow her free roam requires trust, discipline, and—"
He stops dead as she presses her head gently into your hand like a massive, armored hound.
"…and apparently she already respects you."
He sighs.
"You are either blessed… or mad, Mamba."
One of the junior druids whispers behind him:
"…he's both."
⟡ MAMBA'S COMPANION CHOOSES HER HOME ⟡
You guide her into the castle itself.
The footsteps echo.
Tremble.
Reverberate.
But she does not strike.
She does not thrash.
She simply walks at your side, following your every cue.
You show her different chambers, courtyards, lower halls, gardens.
Each time you ask:
"Is this your spot?"
She sniffs.
Studies.
Rejects it.
Until—
She stops before one of the abandoned Moonrise galleries, high-ceilinged and shadowed, with natural stone that carves downward into a cool cavern-like alcove.
A perfect nesting space.
She lowers her body slightly, meaningfully.
She chooses this place.
The druids stare in shock.
"That… that's a good sign," one mutters.
"Better than good," another says. "She's… claiming territory. Peacefully."
You stroke the back of her head.
"Good girl. This will be your den. Raise your children here. My druids will bring you meat, water, and care."
She clicks her fangs softly — approval.
⟡ OGRES ARRIVE WITH THE FEAST ⟡
Your earlier horn-blast echoes through the halls.
Soon, three ogres arrive carrying burlap-wrapped shapes — former Shar cultists, souls sent swiftly to judgment. Meat for the Queen, meat for the ogres. A grim but necessary cycle.
They drop the bodies with reverence.
"Food for queen spider!" one announces proudly.
"And for us after!" another adds before being elbowed.
The queen wastes no time.
Her mandibles pierce the first corpse, venom hissing softly.
The ogres cheer like it's a holiday.
⟡ MAMBA SPEAKS TO HER LIKE A KING TO A BEAST-GOD ⟡
You dismount, place your palm gently on her head, and look into those dark, many-faceted eyes.
"You're home now.
Eat. Grow.
Raise your brood under our protection.
And never hunger again."
She presses her great head against your chest — a gesture so startling the entire room goes silent.
Not violent.
Not predatory.
Affection.
She trusts you.
And every warrior, druid, ogre, Harper, and spore-being in the room realizes something:
The Warchief is building more than an army.
He is building a force of nature.
⟡ WHAT COMES NEXT ⟡
Your new companion will:
Raise a brood of phase spiders loyal only to Snake Tribe.
Serve as Moonrise's living guardian.
Become the rangers' greatest mount and weapon.
Act as a counter to red dragons in aerial war—it can phase out of breath attacks.
Grow stronger with each feeding and druidic infusion.
Develop a telepathic bond with you, eventually.
Halsin wipes his brow.
"You've just changed the fate of this entire region," he mutters.
"Whether for better or worse… we shall see."
But everyone, deep down, knows:
It's for the better.
Under your hand, the Queen lowers herself again, mandibles opening to accept the next corpse.
A terrifying, beautiful creature.
A monster made family.
And she is yours.
The chamber you guided her to is warm and dim, lit by soft druidic lanterns that glow like captured moons.
The stone floor still shimmers faintly with wild magic — a place chosen for new beginnings, not violence.
The Spider Matriarch moves with slow, deliberate steps.
Not fearful.
Not hostile.
Just… cautious.
Testing the space.
Testing you.
Her legs click softly, each movement mesmerizing and oddly graceful for something so massive and deadly.
Her abdomen trembles with instinct as she circles the room, scraping webbing into corners, choosing her nesting ground.
**You don't touch her. You don't rush her.
You simply kneel.
Present. Calm. Steady.**
Support, for a creature like this, isn't physical.
It's presence.
It's the quiet message of your body language:
"You are safe here.
Your brood is safe here.
I am with you."
And she understands.
She keeps glancing at you — eight eyes, one mind — checking if you're still there.
You are.
Every time she looks, you give the same gentle nod.
To a predator who has never known anything but fear, hunger, and survival…
that nod is everything.
⟡ She Begins Her Work ⟡
A deep vibration rolls through her abdomen — a natural instinct, a primal rhythm.
She anchors strands of shimmering phase-web, each one humming with planar energy, building a cradle strong enough to hold creatures that can slip between dimensions.
Druids whisper in awe behind you.
"By the oak… she trusts him."
"Spiders never nest in front of anyone…"
"How is she… letting him stay?"
But you ignore them.
Your focus is on her.
You speak quietly to her:
"Easy, girl…
Take your time.
No one here will harm your young."
And she hears it.
Her body settles.
Her movements slow.
Her webbing becomes more precise, more confident.
That is support, Eli.
Not physical.
Not strange.
Just presence. Protection. Trust.
⟡ The First Egg Drops ⟡
It's small at first — a shimmering blue orb that pulses with planar heat.
The room gasps softly.
Not you.
You simply smile, proud, calm, unshaken.
She turns to you.
Not aggressive.
Not warning.
Just… acknowledging.
You nod again.
"I'm here."
And with that reassurance, she continues — weaving, arranging, humming deep within her thorax as she builds the first brood of the Snake Tribe's future phase spiders.
⟡ When She's Finished… ⟡
She slumps slightly, exhausted, and leans her massive head toward you.
Not threatening.
Not dominating.
Seeking comfort.
The druids nearly faint.
You place your palm on her coarse, chitinous forehead and whisper:
"Rest.
You've done well."
And she closes her eyes — something a phase spider never does around others.
Because she trusts you.
Because you supported her the way a true Warchief does:
Not by force…
but by steadfast presence.