#ph beast

Then came the beast. They tried to tame her, make her a princess. Instead she lashed out, pushing against them with claws too sharp. She would never grow old.

Then came the reaper, when there was nothing but death. The kingdom dying around her because her father failed, she had to kill. Kill or be killed...better her face it than the others.

Then the wanderer. When silence finally fell, and there was nothing but a corpse, the wanderer met it with stoic quiet. What choice did she have?

Then the architect. The ticking...the ticking and singing, the grinding of gears and clicking of plates, they embedded themself in them. They warped them, made them more automation than bug. And least they don't have to worry about the souls trapped in bronze...as they are the same.

The witch was born crying. Crying and screaming, ripped from its place with the whirr of blades and needles. It screams for comfort, screams for home, screams for warmth. A need it does not know...a need it will never truly sate.

But not today. She can think of ways to hunt them later. The pages rippled through her fingers as a different thought consumed her. She thought...she thought once she was better the pressure in her head would return. But she still felt so empty.

Her hand stopped and she pushed the pages past. Past all the creatures she had killed. The journal was too big for all the fights she had, so the latter half had become her own personal journal. She found the account of the parasite, the shaky writing, the fear as she scrambled for answers, jotting down everything anyone said. Two pages of it, ending with a single line. A line she would have called pitiful if it was not still raw in her.

I do not want to be alone.

She shook her head and flipped the page. A new day, a new page, new thoughts to-

There are already words here. She pulled her hand back. Only two lines...half in her hand writing, a formal flowing script taught to her by the white lady, the other scratchy and awkward, forcing the script of beetles to encode the words of a weaver. And neither she wrote.

You are never alone, Hunter, we are here. -W

Hi! Can hear us? -B

Hor- Hunter blinked at the words on the page, and spoke softly, hoping beyond that the words were only true for her.

- she/her

- little alter, second oldest chronologically, second youngest mentally

- Identifies more with her weaver heritage than wyrm

- Formed when the retainers of the white palace tried to make Hornet a more...appropriate princess, mostly a result of rebellion!

- Feral little thing, mostly communicates through growling, will chew your arm off for the hell of it.

- Where the impulse to attack things comes from, to 'test her aim' on things as Hornet put it once.

- Sleeper agent, activated when anyone says prize or reward.

Hunter sighed. "They are my siblings. The only kin I have left. I care for them, of course I do...its what family does. What I chose to do."

"No!"

"Hornet!" The spider jerked at her name, craning her head backward as she stayed on the pillar. The retainer who was her keeper this day had finally had enough. She knew that face, she had won!

Right?

The retainer stomped up to the pillar Hornet's tail was twitching against. "You are of wyrm blood," wait this is new... "you cannot be allowed to act as you please."

Hornet's eyes focused, her mask plates shifting slightly. "Yes I can! I am a weaver as well! We will not be tamed again!" That's what her teacher always said. No weaver shall ever be tamed!

The retainer stared up at the small spider, then grabbed the pillar...and shook it. Hornet jerked, trying to pull away from the sudden movement, only for her claws to lose their purchase.

She tumbled through the air, landed heavy in someone's arm...and her chest ached. Her chest ached and her head hurt. The hand on her arm is too tight...too much. Her fangs itched, her claws ached.

And the beast sank all she could into the arms of her captor. How dare they try to tame a weaver!

Hunter ran a claw along the binding of her journal. "I was good at being the princess, my father's daughter. I was good at seeing my kingdom...being in every part of it. To feel its beating heart."

Beast spun a pin as she hummed. "I'm good being Weaver! Being gendered child! Making Deep Nest beat with its heart.

Reaper's hand glided down her needle, searching for any imperfection. "I carved that heart free of myself. Its easy for me...to kill those bearing the faces of those we loved."

Wanderer didn't lift her head, still sitting on a bench, alone. ".....no heart beat once she was done...just dead...lonely nothing. The least I could do...was bear its silence with strength."

Hornet blinked through the haze. "...I have trouble deciding on how to care for my weapon..." She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath...before gripping her weapon far too tight.

Hunter sighed. "There isn't anyone here named Hornet. Not really..."

Wanderer chuckled. "The flowers in the shellwood and the march aren't difficult."

Reaper growled. "The blasted steps. People complain all the time about the blasted steps! It's not hard just commit!! Commit to the jump! Stop being afraid!"

Shaman just looked up. "Slow down in Bilewater. Just slow down."