The light and my sisters denied me, so I wait in the darkness, my own Circle, a trap I’ve set to feed upon foolish heroes. Sometimes I dream of Aethyria, the laughter of young girls wrestling in the sunshine. I can almost taste their sweat, their hopes, their brash youth. I can taste it in their blood, when I’m fortunate enough to lure an Aethyrian into my lair. I can taste anything with the blood of the right victim. I spin my webs, hoping she’ll come to me, contenting myself with meager fear. Adventuring is no longer fashionable, so I’m feasting less and less. I have a plan to lure more victims into the Dark Circle. Spare the right shivering victims to tell tales of the riches lying waiting to be plundered, if you can slay the monsters. Sometimes the victims are themselves the bait. Some of them are unaware they serve my purpose while a few willing bring food to me. They spread my web far and wide, thinking they’re serving their own greedy little interests. These tools are delivering unto me what I truly desire. I just have to sit at the center of my web and wait.
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