Simultaneously, she began to secrete. A slow, measured neutraliser. Not enough to weaken the structure — just enough to suppress the stick without weakening the threads’ tension. Slowly, carefully, Barbarthara shifted her form and entangled herself. One movement too sudden, and the whole web would tremble. Once free, she inched her weight forward, blindly choosing a direction. There was no up or down. No left or right. No out. The threads gave no such truths.
But then — sound.
From somewhere above.
A breath
Silence
Silence
Silence
Another
A brush
A scrape
Not loud.
But enough.
Grunting
A voice —
guttural, rough
Not a beast?
Words?
Slurred, incomprehensible,
but the tone —
The ork?
She had no way to be certain.
But Barbarthara needed it to be him.
She advanced, faster now. Traversing the net like an errant spider, her roots spread across the web, constantly adjusting, analysing, mapping. Testing each thread — structure or snare? The load-bearers were thick, rigid. The others were delicate, twitch-responsive, fine as breath. Built to sense and react, they gave in to the slightest pressure. Barbarthara moved between them, clinging to the rigid and avoiding the fine.
She moved with precision. And fear. Directly or indirectly, all threads were connected. A shift in one echoed through the rest. Pull wrong, and the whole net spoke. It did shift and speak — but only when Barbarthara moved.
No foreign weight.
No pulse.
No other body.
As far as her senses reached,
she was still alone.
But the cold clawed deeper. And with it, dread returned — sharp, viscous, creeping under her bark like oil. It ate into her. Drained her reserves. Paralysed. She would not be able to walk the threads much longer. She strained to produce more secretions — barely enough to keep moving. Focus wavered. Motion turned erratic. Rushed. She had to move even faster. She climbed as if drowning in stone. As if the mountain was closing and collapsing around her —
inside her.
Barbarthara drove herself upward.
Always upward.
Toward the voice.
The only thing she could still believe in.
Let. it. BE. HIM.
Let it be the ork.
Let escape still be real.
Let the swamplands still lie at the foot of this mountain prison, the realms she remembered so vaguely from her first sapling years — lands of warm rot and shifting mud, beyond reach of web or witch. Let them exist. Let them never have been taken. She needed to believe that.
The breathing above grew clearer.
Louder.
Closer.
More real.
She was so close.
She needed to claim him now.
She reached —
The DARK erupted.
Simultaneously, she began to secrete. A slow, measured neutraliser. Not enough to weaken the structure — just enough to suppress the stick without weakening the threads’ tension. Slowly, carefully, Barbarthara shifted her form and entangled herself. One movement too sudden, and the whole web would tremble. Once free, she inched her weight forward, blindly choosing a direction. There was no up or down. No left or right. No out. The threads gave no such truths.
But then — sound.
From somewhere above.
A breath
Silence
Silence
Silence
Another
A brush
A scrape
Not loud.
But enough.
Grunting
A voice —
guttural, rough
Not a beast?
Words?
Slurred, incomprehensible,
but the tone —
The ork?
She had no way to be certain.
But Barbarthara needed it to be him.
She advanced, faster now. Traversing the net like an errant spider, her roots spread across the web, constantly adjusting, analysing, mapping. Testing each thread — structure or snare? The load-bearers were thick, rigid. The others were delicate, twitch-responsive, fine as breath. Built to sense and react, they gave in to the slightest pressure. Barbarthara moved between them, clinging to the rigid and avoiding the fine.
She moved with precision. And fear. Directly or indirectly, all threads were connected. A shift in one echoed through the rest. Pull wrong, and the whole net spoke. It did shift and speak — but only when Barbarthara moved.
No foreign weight.
No pulse.
No other body.
As far as her senses reached,
she was still alone.
But the cold clawed deeper. And with it, dread returned — sharp, viscous, creeping under her bark like oil. It ate into her. Drained her reserves. Paralysed. She would not be able to walk the threads much longer. She strained to produce more secretions — barely enough to keep moving. Focus wavered. Motion turned erratic. Rushed. She had to move even faster. She climbed as if drowning in stone. As if the mountain was closing and collapsing around her —
inside her.
Barbarthara drove herself upward.
Always upward.
Toward the voice.
The only thing she could still believe in.
Let. it. BE. HIM.
Let it be the ork.
Let escape still be real.
Let the swamplands still lie at the foot of this mountain prison, the realms she remembered so vaguely from her first sapling years — lands of warm rot and shifting mud, beyond reach of web or witch. Let them exist. Let them never have been taken. She needed to believe that.
The breathing above grew clearer.
Louder.
Closer.
More real.
She was so close.
She needed to claim him now.
She reached —
The DARK erupted.
Simultaneously, she began to secrete. A slow, measured neutraliser. Not enough to weaken the structure — just enough to suppress the stick without weakening the threads’ tension. Slowly, carefully, Barbarthara shifted her form and entangled herself. One movement too sudden, and the whole web would tremble. Once free, she inched her weight forward, blindly choosing a direction. There was no up or down. No left or right. No out. The threads gave no such truths.
But then — sound.
From somewhere above.
A breath
Silence
Silence
Silence
Another
A brush
A scrape
Not loud.
But enough.
Grunting
A voice —
guttural, rough
Not a beast?
Words?
Slurred, incomprehensible,
but the tone —
The ork?
She had no way to be certain.
But Barbarthara needed it to be him.
She advanced, faster now. Traversing the net like an errant spider, her roots spread across the web, constantly adjusting, analysing, mapping. Testing each thread — structure or snare? The load-bearers were thick, rigid. The others were delicate, twitch-responsive, fine as breath. Built to sense and react, they gave in to the slightest pressure. Barbarthara moved between them, clinging to the rigid and avoiding the fine.
She moved with precision. And fear. Directly or indirectly, all threads were connected. A shift in one echoed through the rest. Pull wrong, and the whole net spoke. It did shift and speak — but only when Barbarthara moved.
No foreign weight.
No pulse.
No other body.
As far as her senses reached,
she was
still alone.
But the cold clawed deeper. And with it, dread returned — sharp, viscous, creeping under her bark like oil. It ate into her. Drained her reserves. Paralysed. She would not be able to walk the threads much longer. She strained to produce more secretions — barely enough to keep moving. Focus wavered. Motion turned erratic. Rushed. She had to move even faster. She climbed as if drowning in stone. As if the mountain was closing and collapsing around her —
inside her.
Barbarthara drove herself upward.
Always upward.
Toward the voice.
The only thing
she could still believe in.
Let. it. BE. HIM.
Let it be the ork.
Let escape still be real.
Let the swamplands still lie at the foot of this mountain prison, the realms she remembered so vaguely from her first sapling years — lands of warm rot and shifting mud, beyond reach of web or witch. Let them exist. Let them never have been taken. She needed to believe that.
The breathing above grew clearer.
Louder.
Closer.
More real.
She was so close.
She needed to claim him now.
She reached —
The DARK erupted.
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