Resurrection

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Countless colleagues and friends deserve my thanks, but one above all: Phil Athans. Thanks, my friend.

Eight legs, eight.

Clattering on the stones, ticking, ticking, tapping, tapping impatiently.

They were done with their battle, with their feasting, devouring their siblings, growing stronger with each juicy bite. Bloated and spent, they stood around the octagonal stone, myriad eyes staring into myriad eyes, eight legs eight tapping and clattering.

They could eat no more; they could fight no more. Exhaustion held them in place, as Lolth had desired from the beginning. The thousands became eight—the eight strongest, the eight smartest, the eight most devious, the eight most ruthless. One would fuse with the Yor’thae. One would assume the mantle of a goddess, the deity of Chaos.

Only one, whom the others would serve... if the One gave them that choice and that chance.

If not, then they, like their thousands of dead siblings, would be devoured.

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