The moment you and your strike team step into the clearing, the air goes cold.
Not cold like weather — cold like something is wrong, like the world has taken a breath and forgotten to exhale.
The well stands in the center, old stones cracked from age, tendrils of faint blue mist curling up its mouth like breath from a hidden lung. The villagers linger far behind, terrified, knowing what lives in the dark below.
Your team forms into position almost on instinct:
The Harper scouts notch arrows, scanning rooftops and tree lines.
The druidic twins circle their hands, the tattoos on their arms glowing faintly green.
The tiefling archer rolls her shoulders, breathing smoke as adrenaline hits her bloodstream.
The Myconid scout stiffens, spores vibrating in a subtle rhythm — its version of sharpening focus.
You take one step closer to the well—
That's all the invitation the spiders need.
⟡ The Ambush Explodes ⟡
They phase in, one by one, like tearing cloth in the air:
KRRRRRCH—FWOOM—SKREEEE—
Four, no, five of them at once — translucent bodies flickering between realms, claws clicking, eyes glowing.
They drop from trees.
They blink through shadows.
They spring from the lip of the well like arrows fired upward.
Your team doesn't panic.
They've trained for this.
⟡ Your Warriors Move as One ⟡
The Harper scouts split left and right, firing before their feet even settle — two arrows whistle through the air, pinning a spider's legs mid-phase. It stumbles, collapses, and dissolves into wavering blue motes.
The druid twins act like mirrors — one slams her hand to the dirt, roots exploding upward like spears; the other leaps over her sister, flipping forward to bury her twin knives in the softened joints of a phasing thorax.
The tiefling archer is poetry —
a single flaming arrow flies so straight through the air that it illuminates every mist-thread around it.
It hits a spider mid-blink.
The creature materializes for half a second — enough for it to scream — before its body burns from the inside out.
The Myconid releases a cloud of thick, shimmering spores. One spider inhales, its phase magic flickering like a dying candle. It tries to blink away — fails — and the Harpers finish it with two clean arrows.
Your team is ruthless. Efficient.
Exactly what a Warchief needs them to be.
And you?
You watch.
You measure.
Your arms folded behind your back, expression unreadable.
You aren't here to fight.
You're here to understand.
⟡ A Spider Appears Behind You ⟡
Its killing intent is unmistakable —
a sharp, predatory stab in the air.
It flickers into existence four feet from you, bigger than a horse, fangs dripping with paralytic venom. It lunges with everything it has, mandibles snapping—
And you don't even turn your head.
Your hand shoots up faster than sound.
One moment the spider exists —
the next moment, there is a wet CRACK and its skull is sludge between your fingers.
You drop the remains like it's nothing.
Wipe your palm on your thigh once.
And continue observing the strike team with the same calm you might give morning birdsong.
Your team doesn't even pause.
They're used to it.
⟡ Silence Falls — The First Wave Is Dead ⟡
Five spiders lie collapsed or evaporating into blue haze.
The air smells like ozone and venom.
The well hums faintly.
You can feel it:
The queen knows you're here now.
She felt the deaths.
She felt you.
And she is either retreating…
…or preparing something far worse.
Your team regroups around you, breathing hard but proud.
The tiefling archer wipes blood off her cheek with her thumb, eyes burning with adrenaline.
One Harper scout speaks first:
"Warchief… that was only the outer nest."
The druid twins nod grimly.
"The queen's brood is much deeper…"
"…and far more dangerous."
The Myconid tilts its head, spores forming a worried pattern.
You look down into the well.
Blackness. Too black.
A darkness that looks back.