Meatweaver was seated midair, legs crossed and every hand folded in her lap in what Harrin could only describe as a demure pose. Butcher was glaring rather noticeably at Harrin, and Senna was blindly staring ahead at nothing, stiffly kneeling on the hard ground of the hut.

“So, what do you think we are in need of?” Meatweaver suddenly asked, directing the question towards Senna.

Senna started, watching a spot approximately four feet to the left of Meatweaver’s head. “What you… need?”

Meatweaver nodded. “Yes. I’m sure you’ve noticed we don’t lack power. We have a roof over our heads, and we enjoy the comfort of each others’ presence. So what do you believe we need?”

Harrin could see the thoughts turning in Senna’s head as she tentatively ventured, “Money?”

Meatweaver frowned thoughtfully, the plates making up her forehead shifting with the barely audible scrape of chitin. “In a manner of speaking, yes. The greatest issue we face is that, frankly, everyone is terrified of us.”

“Good,” Harrin heard Butcher mutter. Meatweaver didn’t look at him, but a strand of blood emerged from the grate in the floor and flicked his shin.

“We are not invulnerable, but there are some who would rather face a dragon,” Meatweaver blithely continued. “The majority of the peoples of Hacarro consider us a monstrous and merciless species lacking in creativity or drive.”

Senna didn’t say anything to that, and Harrin could’ve sworn the very air stiffened. Meatweaver’s frown deepened. “Crude, yes,” She conceded, gently interlocked fingers tightening imperceptibly. “But not dumb.”

Still, no reply came, and Meatweaver sighed. “What do you think of us?”

Senna’s eyes widened at the frankly dangerous question, and she stammered for a moment. “Well, you’re-”

She paused, collecting herself. Not for the first time - or the fourth, for that matter - Harrin wished he could intercede on her behalf. But he couldn’t do anything more than hiss, and he had a feeling that hissing at grissials would not end well.

“You scare me,” She honestly replied, releasing her response in a heavy breath. “One of the ones who came to the camp bit through armor. I-I don’t know what you’re trying to do. With me and Harrin, I mean.”

Meatweaver smiled. It was a worrying expression. “You keep the skeleton alive, correct?”

“Harrin,” Senna corrected, but Meatweaver continued.

“Gnaws-On-Bones told me of how you brought one of the slain humans back, even if only briefly.”

Senna froze. “I didn’t mean to-”

“Please repeat it.”

All eyes turned to Meatweaver, and all of them were confused.

Butcher was almost glaring at Senna. “You can’t be serious.”

Meatweaver slowly turned her head towards him, and he fell silent. Senna’s voice filled the silence.

“But - who would I use it on?”

“Myself.”

Butcher instantly cut in, holding an arm between Senna and Meatweaver. “No.”

Meatweaver looked at him and said nothing for a moment. He refused to back down, and Harrin’s grip tightened on his sword again. He had no idea what was going on. He’d thought Butcher was in charge because of his name, but Meatweaver seemed to be his superior. Unless they were… married?

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

He dismissed the thought the moment it occurred to him. Grissials didn’t have marriage.

“Why not?” Meatweaver deliberately replied, and Butcher threw his hands in the air. It was, Harrin thought, a disturbingly human gesture.

“Why would you do let her do that? She could do anything to you!”

“Ah yes,” Meatweaver responded, pointedly aiming her eyeless gaze at Senna. The young girl was still very much blind, although she looked deeply concerned by the conversation taking place. “What a threatening little girl. I’m sure she’ll enslave me, soul and mind.”

“You speak casually for one who has not experienced it,” Butcher growled, and Meatweaver flinched as if she’d been slapped.

“That-” She paused, drawing herself together. The lines outlining her silhouette and the angles of her body hardened, blood darkening as it grew denser. The tension in the air cranked up a notch, and Harrin badly wished he wasn’t present.

Meatweaver sighed, and her shape loosened. “That was…” She glanced at Harrin and Senna, both of whom immediately looked anywhere except forward. She quietly continued a moment later. “...insensitive of me. You have my apologies.”

Butcher’s aggressive stance relaxed as he stared at the ground. “They are accepted.”

There was a moment of silence before they turned back to Harrin and Senna. “I am not planning to let you cast spells on me at random,” Meatweaver stated mildly, evidently pretending the entire previous conversation hadn’t happened. Harrin was fine with that. “I would like you to cast whatever spell you used to resurrect the soldier in the camp on a portion of myself.”

Senna looked surprised and more than a little worried. “I… don’t think that would… work? The Word I learned isn’t supposed to work on anything that’s been dead for too long. And it definitely doesn’t work on someone who’s alive. So-”

She clamped her mouth shut, to Harrin’s relief. He couldn’t imagine a worse idea than telling grissials anything about their abilities.

...Granted, it didn’t matter if one could raise the dead in the face of so many grissials. There needed to be bodies for that to work.

Meatweaver folded her hands. Harrin still couldn’t read her demeanor. “I’d still like you to try.”

Senna gaped for a moment, her eyes sliding over to the green glow where Harrin’s eyes were. He gave her a shrug, hoping she’d be able to at least figure the gesture out from the shake of the glow.

She swallowed, turning back to face the spot six feet to the left of Meatweaver’s head. “...I can try, if you want me to.”

“Good!” Meatweaver promptly replied, giving Senna a razor-sharp smile. “Proceed whenever you wish.”

Meatweaver’s hand morphed into a flat edge even as she raised it, and she cut her own arm off.

There was no shriek of pain or muffled whimper. She didn’t even flinch. Instead, she grabbed the detached limb out of the air, setting it on the ground in front of Senna. It bubbled a moment later, rippling as bone and muscle reformed into a mouthless creature lacking any and all features aside from a stubby pair of legs. The fragment of Meatweaver waddled up to Senna and dropped on its rump in front of her, patiently waiting.

Senna didn’t move.

Meatweaver frowned, and then a look of understanding dawned over her face. Harrin felt more than a little satisfaction that he’d identified the emotion. “You may cast the spell now,” She gently prodded, and Senna started.

“Right, sorry.” Taking a deep breath, Senna held one hand out, completely missing the detached grissial part. It grew an arm and lightly prodded her arm over to the right place. She squeaked at the contact, but didn’t react otherwise.

Harrin was feeling conflicted about that. On one hand, it was good that she hadn’t attacked the fragment, thereby extending their lives by a slight amount. On the other, it showed that Senna’s fight-or-flight response was skewed far into the latter’s domain. He inwardly promised to try and fix that at some point.

The violet glow of magic and the voided sound of an uttered Word distracted him from his thoughts, and he watched with no small amount of curiosity as she tried to raise something already alive from the dead. The Meatweaver fragment shivered, almost glittering for a moment as violet power flowed through it.

The spell ended. Senna didn’t collapse, but she bent slightly. A bit of power left her posture.

Meatweaver stared at the fragment, which stood for a few seconds before melting into its base parts. The heap of muscle and tendons flowed back across the ground, falling back into the grate with a wet slosh.

Butcher stared between them, eyes narrowed. “Weaver?”

She was motionless, staring off to the side for a long moment. Finally, she looked back at Senna and said, “The flesh decays slower. Not much, but… it is extended.”

Butcher’s eyes widened. “Is that so?” His gaze turned to Senna with interest this time. He was still wary, Harrin could tell, but no longer actively disliked them.

Meatweaver suddenly smiled. It was a horrifying expression. “Senna Falton, I have a deal for you.”