It was a hideous day.

Hideous was entirely relative to the observer though and the observer currently sat in a tree some fifty feet up in the air, laying on his back as a line of ants made its way across the sleeve of his jacket. In his haste to climb the tree he'd accidentally blocked access to their home carved into one of the topmost branches but they weren't rude enough insects to bite him but instead walked around to another entrance.

Not that there was a lot to walk around (though, again, from the relative position of an ant it probably wasn't a short walk). He was relatively shorter than most humans, lean and swimming in his big coat that had him sweating like a pig. His hair was pulled back into a tight, brown pony tail long enough that it would have fallen on his shoulders. He had a hawkish look about him, eyes sharp and always glancing around, swishing from word to word as he wrote, a nose that slanted down sharply like a beak.

He might have even moved had he noticed but he was deeply engrossed in the heavy book he held atop his belly, angled down to keep the sunlight off as he wrote. His pen dashed over the notes he'd written previously and he stopped to check them. Accuracy was the most important factor in documentation.

...weather has been sunny today, spilling through the leaves like rain until we barely had any light on the ground. The trees are dark and close together, making for prime ambush opportunities but there aren't any recorded Lizardfolk settlements in the area. It's not my business to tell these 'noble adventurers' that though. (The leader jumps at shadows a lot though, so I may imply it.)

He glanced up at the irritating sun and growled as it did what it did best, sapping his already low mood the longer he sat in the highest branches.

The swamp was wet and humid and the group stopped three times to rest. The heavy knights were overheated and sweating through the grill of their helmets and likely would have passed out without pouring fresh water in through the faceplate and arms like a reverse tea pot to cool them down.

The regular hired men, much like himself, hadn't been such bad types. They were friendly, rugged looking professionals that worked as a group, leading nobles on adventures to ruins to spice up the 'awful humdrum melancholy' of being rich. They certainly would have known better than to wear full plate into a swamp, and did know better, but the one and a half times the normal pay from the leader had tempted their greedy hearts after the first planned adventure.

Clarke flicked back through the pages to check on their esteemed party head.

...tall and chiseled, nose always up in the air so you could likely count his nose hairs if you were inclined. Talks a lot about training with the royal guards but I'm pretty sure getting put in jail for public nudity doesn't count as training...

Private notes, of course. He'd sort out what made it into the final copy when he got back. Which would be considerably sooner than he'd imagined with how the situation had turned out.

He'd finally sweated out the last bit of liquid he had and knew he had to either climb down out of the tree or fall out from dehydration.

Clarke closed the oddly large book and slipped the pen into its spine, pulling the strap around his head and tightening the clasp at his sternum so it was snug and flat on his back. He carefully climbed down the branches leaving grateful ants to their daily routine as he went as quietly as he could back down to the swamp.

He could make out the ruins now, fallen stone pillars barring the way to a grey pyramid covered over in ages of moss and vines. The group came into view as he lowered himself, slowing until he crouched on a thick, low branch.

One of the adventurers sat upright beneath him, body held in place by the webbing that wrapped round and round, preserving his meat for later. The spider hunching over him moved several of its legs back and forth in trained motions, swathing until there was little left to see of the dead man. The spider shook for a moment, like it were trying to wringing out the kinks of repetitive motion. Had it been a man Clarke imagined it would have sighed and made a crack about getting too old. Well, old or not, the arachnid was the size of a man itself and, also old or not, he didn't really want to nor did he think he could fight it. Fairly, at least.

The several other adventurers were being tended similarly by other, smaller spiders, only about the size of small dogs. Each one helping to drag the cocooned meals up into trees where they would hang and rot into themselves like some kind of spider soup. Some took the bodies into the old stone pyramid that marked the lizardfolk ruin, the clank-clunk of heavy armor fading down the stone stairs.

I'll likely be back in a month with another group looking for this groups stuff once word gets around that a noble died during an outing. I'll let Swampbelly know, maybe he can clear it up before then.

It was exactly what he expected of unplanned whim acting. Death. Changing his schedule was not something he did lightly but the money had even greased his palm regardless of how it set his teeth on edge. He hadn't known about the spiders but he'd had the feeling that something bad would happen and he'd been proven right. Again. Change, in all it's forms whether it be to schedules or shop inventory or roads taken, was bad.

The spider tapped the adventurer below him a few times, picking at the threads of its handiwork like a proud craftsman. If it were proud Clarke couldn't make out the emotion on its eight eyes but it stayed by the body, touching the lines and waiting for gods knew what.

Clarke had been up in the tree for an hour hoping this would all be done when he came down. His teeth ground slowly, clicking together impatiently as he watched the spider vainly admire its handiwork.

God dammit. Whatever. I want to go home.

He reached into his jacket, picking off one of the many vials fastened there by the loops. Amid the many colors this one was blue and cold to the touch. The innards swirled around the central core of an ice elemental shard, an expensive and very useful alchemical reagent he'd paid a lot for and deeply regretted having to throw away on spiders.

A whole lot of spiders though. You'd rather be webbed up for a snack?

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

His brain made a fair point and he aimed for a large rock jutting from the green swamp water and flung the vial out. The glass shattered and dozens upon dozens of eyes turned at the small sound to be squeezed tight against a raging blizzard wind that kicked up immediately. Ice shot across the surface of the water, trapping their legs, freezing their bodies over in a covering of ice as others scrambled into the trees and behind rocks.

Clarke stepped off the branch, heels of his boots pointed down to crunch the unprotected head of the largest spider, its legs thrashing as ichor sprayed out the sides and froze in mid air like black raindrops in the wind. Clarke's own sweat froze and flaked off as the wind hit him and he pulled up an arm to shield himself.

Well, I guess I deserve something else for the trouble.

He hauled the spider, with no little effort, behind a tree as whirling shards of ice wedged themselves in the bark and cold winds froze the water and chilled the blood of any present. He scanned the area and no spiders in sight though they were probably not far off.

Should be enough time.

He had a sharp little knife tucked in his belt for just these occasions. A solid black bit of obsidian he'd bought at his favorite glass shop. He pressed a knee into the spider's back, hacking into the pinched waist and ripping the abdomen off and up into his arms. It was roughly the size of a man's leg but wasn't too awkward to carry as ovaloid as it was. The furry hairs poked at him and he spit when one poked his lips but there wasn't a better way to carry it.

The whole area was a muddy sheet of ice, green hues left behind as the wind faded and vines shattered under their new weight. Frozen spiders tugged at their trapped legs, frantically struggling as the others came out of hiding and to glare at Clarke as best as not having eyelids or eyebrows allowed them.

He ran.

His first few steps almost slipped out from under him but the ice sheet ended several feet away and let him find purchase in the ankle deep water. The spiders didn't have as much luck, slipping and sliding until he was out of sight.

Despite the heat he kept jogging until the soggy ground dried up and he left the trees behind for tall grassland, a tree dotting the horizon here and there. A last look over his shoulder to make sure he was alone and, satisfied that eight legged predators weren't chasing him, he slowed to a steady walk. He spit again, the hairs on the abdomen brushing his face.

It was going to be a long trip back home to Deraforda.

“Hey!”

He turned to the familiar voice. Wading through the grass was a speck, followed by other, smaller specks that slowly became people. A half dozen Lizardfolk, some in scraps of metal and/or leather armor scavenged from some battlefield. Each had scales jutting across bare skin to form geometric patterns, some in triangles and others in symmetrical but nameless patterns of dark green and crème white. Tails swished the grass behind them and each bore a set of teeth that stood out on the tops and bottoms of their jaws in randomly positioned snaggleteeth.

Clarke nodded at the leader, a scaled associate he'd known for years. Swampbelly was a little shorter than the rest but broader, waddling side to side more like a hefty, pot bellied pigeon than the upright alligators the others looked like.

“How is it in there? The Reaper swoop down again?”

He scowled and shifted the abdomen to the other arm, shaking off something slimy and brown that had dripped onto him. He didn't like the reference but he'd let it go.

“They didn't make it, no.”

Swampbelly held up one hand, snapping his fingers and pointing to the swamps. The others hustled through the grass to leave them alone.

“Come friend, let's get you to our camp. Get your little bundle wrapped up before whatever you took it for leaks out.”

They'd stopped near where his first group had set up camp, a circle of tents around a fire pit which was currently cooking up something aromatic that drew Clarke closer. A cart sat outside the circle with a nervous looking horse still attached to the harness. The back was piled high with bits of armor, swords, axes, all of it sorted into piles and strapped down under leather blankets.

Swampbelly was certainly a scavenger but no thief however he didn't seem to to find anything wrong with rifling through another person's pockets so to speak as the camp had obviously been tossed around a bit, valuables left where they'd been found just in case the owners didn't come back.

“Nice haul.”

He grabbed a waterskin and took a long drink before plopping down by the fire and food within.

“May I have some of this?”

“Sure, that's what it's there for. We came across a few skirmishes while following your group. Some rich landowner trying to run out some ratlings, picked up the aftermath. Thought about taking the bodies back to the rats, see if they'd pay us anything but we were already full up on space.”

His voice was deep and guttural and he spoke with a thick accent that anyone who hadn't dealt with him year in and year out would have had a hell of a time parsing out. Clarke spoke as he flipped the abdomen over so the spinerettes were facing him and upright.

“They'll just find a whole lot of plate mail back there, probably some nicer stuff on the noble.”

He pulled his knife again, slicing along invisible lines on the underside of the abdomen. The flesh popped open as though stretched too tight and the gooey non-blood spilled out the sides.

Ah. There it was.

He cut a square, tossing the flesh aside and carefully dug the silk gland out, wiping his fingers on the grass.

“You want the rest?”

He rolled the unused bit of the spider closer and Swampbelly grabbed it in one massive, clawed hand.

“Sure. The wife can probably cook it up. She's a non-magical culinary wizard. Valerie!”

He yelled for her, a human woman's head popping out of the junk wagon where she'd been sorting the swords from axes.

“Yeah?”

“Got some meat for ya'.”

He winked at Clarke as he said it, a little dirty joke between friends but Clarke was quickly flipping through his book, finding the little section on Swampbelly and sliding his pen down the side as he read it over.

Not married.

He quickly scratched through it, huffing and writing out Married to the right.

“Got married did you?”

Clarke asked. Swampbelly shrugged.

“I felt it was time. I did always like ceremonies myself. Official and certified.”

Things changed in people's lives and there wasn't much you could do to stop it, though Clarke often wished everyone would just sit still and quit all that living life business. It irritated him that things changed, for any reason, and it used up ink.

“Well, that's good, so I've heard. I'm...happy for you.”

Everything had to be kept updated.

Valerie waved and came over, patting her oversized hubby on the head and smooching his scaly snout. He wrapped his hands around her waist, nuzzling her.

She was probably in her mid thirties, orange red hair that fell on her shoulders, muscular from no doubt lugging scrap. Everyone in his group pulled their weight. She nodded at Clarke.

“So you're the famous Clarke, huh? Swamp talks about you a lot. How good you are for business but also how you were one of the first nice humans he met.”

She held out a hand and Clarke shook it, trying to muster a smile and only managing a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth. He supplemented with an approving nod.

“I'm really not that exceptional...just seems like a lot of trouble I don't need, having to hate people on sight. I just like things to be calm and the best way to keep calm is to not cause trouble.”

Swampbelly picked up the spider meat in one hand,

“See, best human I ever met! So what do you think? Spider stew? Spider steaks? Spider pie?”

Their conversation turned to food and what was for lunch but Clarke had started in on his book, writing from crystal clear memory and finishing his observations of the swamp that he'd have to turn in when he got back. Probably another hefty sigh from his boss and another condolence letter.

“...and Darius the Younger was covered in spiders, wrapping him in silk and biting him the whole time. His screams were shrill and short, refreshed with each new bite until his mouth was stuffed and his muffled body dragged face down into swamp water where he drowned.”

Done.