Cleata

Aranae is a wasteland of jagged rocks where gray skies conceal secrets guarded by creatures lurking in the shadows. Red serpents slither like living flames, their venom turning victims into bait for the blind millipedes that nest underground. These creatures climb the legs of the unwary, searching for an opening, their countless legs whispering against the stone like a death rattle. The adventurers of Aranae learn quickly: it is better to gouge out an eye than let a millipede reach the brain. Then there are the Pajbi: tiny, bat-winged creatures with a shriek that slices through the air like a blade to the eardrums. But the true rulers of Aranae are the arachnids. Fragile in appearance—a single strike to their abdomen shatters them—yet unstoppable in hordes. They shelter from the cold and damp in deep tunnels that connect to the surface through mist-covered craters. Inside, silk sacs dangle from the ceiling—macabre offerings that encase slowly liquefying bodies, feeding the spiderlings with their juices.

And yet, the most terrifying thing in Aranae is not its creatures. It is Cleata.

Cleata watched from the edge of the settlement as Timbel's company made their final preparations before venturing into Aranae. Dawn had yet to fully break, but the pale light was enough to reveal the details: Timbel adjusting the straps of his cavern-beast leather backpack, checking the edge of his obsidian blade over and over, making sure his rope was tightly coiled.

Every one of Timbel's adventures was another step down the labyrinthine path of their relationship. For Cleata, it was a silent worry, woven alongside the pride and love she felt for him.

Finally, Timbel straightened, his youthful face turning toward the settlement until his gaze met Cleata's. He smiled—that smile of his, the one that always softened the tension. Cleata held his gaze. Then she nodded. What other choice was there? Those were the rules. Adventure was not optional.

Timbel had to go. And Cleata knew it.

The serenity of that day was shattered the following morning.

The sun was already high when the hurried footsteps and broken voices announced the expedition's return. Gaunt figures, survivors of the ambush, staggered into the settlement, their faces twisted in horror, their words fragmented.

Thousands of arachnids had dropped from the trees, an unrelenting tide of skittering legs. Before the adventurers could even unsheathe their weapons, the first wave of creatures was already upon them, pincers latching onto flesh like bone-crafted vices.

Screams echoed through the mist. Their comrades flailed against the writhing mass of carapaces, only to vanish within seconds, swallowed by the fog, leaving behind nothing but streaks of blood. When Cleata heard that Timbel was among the captives, she knew time was running out.

In her society, waiting was the only acceptable response to disaster. Acceptance. Mourn in silence. Build altars for the dead and move on. A resignation that weighed upon the people like a stone slab. But Cleata refused. Not this time.

As the settlement fell into mourning, preparing the funeral rites, fury coiled in her chest. Timbel was still alive. She could feel it. But to them, he was already another entry in the records of the fallen. She would rather die than accept those rules again.

And then, she remembered the stories. Whispered tales by the fire. Fearful words about a woman who once lived in their village. The witch. Banished, feared… yet respected.

Some said she had vanished into the Whispering Woods, her refuge hidden among the roots of the oldest trees—where no one dared to go.

Timbel himself had once told her: If you find the path marked with black ashes, it will lead you to her. A path Cleata had seen as a child, at the outskirts of the fields, when she had wandered too close to the forest—only to be dragged back by her grandmother, fear in her eyes. If there was anyone who understood the desperation of a woman who refused to obey the rules, anyone who could offer her an answer… it was her.

Without a word, Cleata left the settlement behind, now cloaked in shadow.

It wasn't just for Timbel, she reminded herself. It was for her. The night was her ally. She crossed the barren fields, eyes scanning the darkness. At last, she saw it—a faint line of ash traced upon the dry earth, barely visible beneath the starlight.

She stepped into the wilds that bordered the Whispering Woods, each stride a defiance of the laws imposed upon her. The ash trail faded into the undergrowth, but she pressed on. Hours passed in solitude until she reached the forest's edge, where the Whispering Woods loomed before her.

Cleata advanced cautiously, sensing the trees watching her from within their labyrinth of shadows and murmurs. Each step hardened her resolve. It was then when, as if the forest itself decided to reveal itself, the cabin appeared before her. It was not next to a tree, but inside it, devoured by thick and twisted roots.

Cleata halted at the threshold. All her life, she had been warned that certain paths led only to ruin, that there are doors that must never be opened. Yet here she stood. Was she doing this for Timbel—or was it for herself? The question lingered. Maybe she could still turn back and accept the fate imposed upon her, like everyone else. And yet—she knocked.

The wind barely whispered through the leaves. Finally, the door creaked open. An old woman stood in the doorway. Her face was a map of wrinkles, her hair a wild tangle of gray. She wore rags the color of earth, adorned with bones and feathers. A strange green light flickered in her eyes, cutting through Cleata's soul.

Cleata shuddered.

Was this woman a warning… or a promise?

"Are you… the village witch?" she asked, her voice fractured.

The old woman didn't answer at once. She watched, her gaze unwavering, as though waiting for Cleata to reveal something.

Cleata swallowed hard. Her words spilled out in frantic sobs.

"The arachnids… Timbel… my beloved…"

Even in her distress, the old woman saw in Cleata the fire of someone who seeks her own path. She knew that desperation. She had carried it once. A distant memory surfaced. A choice that had cost her everything. Bitter tears.

With a slow, almost reverent gesture, Meara brushed a strand of damp hair from Cleata's face and whispered:

"I am Meara. Emotions can be hidden, but pain leaves scars that never fade."

Her green eyes gleamed in the dim light.

"I know what you seek… and what you are willing to lose. That is why I will help you."

She stepped aside.

"Come in."

The interior reeked of dried herbs and rotting wood. A flickering candle illuminated a table covered with vials and roots. Meara moved calmly, pouring a dark liquid into an Earthenware cup.

"Drink," she said, offering it.

Cleata hesitated. The steam carried the sharp scent of spices and something else—something that made her think of deep earth and forgotten places.

"Drink," Meara repeated.

Cleata brought the cup to her lips, her hands trembling slightly.

The heat scorched her throat, unraveling the knot in her chest.

And then, the words came—frantic, unstoppable, like water breaking through a dam.

Meara listened in silence, grinding herbs in a mortar with a rhythm that seemed to echo the beating of Cleata's heart.

When Cleata finally finished, the old woman leaned closer.

"Going to Aranae alone will make you prey for the spiders. You need more than courage."

Meara began her work.

With precise hands, she extracted venom from an arachnid's fang, letting it drip slowly into a vial. In another, she poured the creature's thick, dark blood.

"This one cures the venom," she said seriously, pointing to the amber liquid. "This one prevents paralysis from their bite."

She handed them over, her expression unreadable.

Cleata took them, memorizing their colors.

From a wooden cupboard, Meara pulled out a fine tunic, woven from arachnid silk.

It was light, but its texture was unsettling, as if it were still alive.

"It will hide you from their eyes."

Cleata ran her fingers over the fabric. It felt strangely cold.

Meara watched her for a moment.

"Good luck," she murmured at last.

There was silent sorrow in her gaze, as if she already knew Cleata would face something far worse than the arachnids.

Time was slipping away. With trembling hands, Cleata donned the tunic—and without looking back, set off toward Aranae.

As the vegetation thinned into brown earth and jagged stone, Cleata entered an increasingly dense fog. Her life, her dreams, everything seemed to dissolve into the mist. Was this sacrifice worth it? She clutched Meara's tunic tighter and pressed forward, following the path the adventurers had once carved.

It didn't take long before she found traces: a severed, chitinous leg. Gutted arachnids. Some still twitched with lingering spasms. Someone had fought here. Cleata froze, her heart hammering. The arachnids were close. Then—she felt it. Something slid over her ankle. The venom! She jumped back, hands fumbling through her pack until she found the antidote vial.

She yanked it open and drank. The warmth burned down her throat, soothing her panic. Only when she tucked the empty vial away did her mind begin to focus again. She glanced down. A red serpent lay at her feet—dead. Its scaly skin barely reflected the dim light. It hadn't bitten her. What she had felt… was her own fear.

Further ahead, the signs of Timbel's company grew more distinct: a rusted sword, splintered shields, leather gauntlets rotting from dampness. Each object foretold the same grim fate. Between the stones, something caught her eye. Half-buried in the mud, its surface dented and coated in dust— A helmet. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she recognized it.

Timbel's insignia!

Holding her breath, she scanned the area for more clues.

The ground bore signs of a struggle—furrows in the dirt, gouges in the stone. But what caught her attention most was a gaping hole in the rock. A crater—large enough to swallow several men. Clutching the helmet, Cleata descended the steep, stony slope. With each step, her grip tightened on the cold metal, as if holding onto it could shield her from what awaited below. Then, Meara's tunic came to life. A green, emerald glow burst around her.

Cleata flinched. The helmet slipped from her grasp, tumbling down the incline, clanging against the rocks. She bit her tongue. Damn it.

The greenish light illuminated the abyss before her—revealing the hidden cavern. Silken sacs hung from the ceiling, shimmering in the same eerie glow as her tunic. The shadows danced in the dim light, slithering like spectral wraiths.

Some of the sacs were fresh, their surfaces slick with moisture. Cleata stepped forward and, with a steady hand, raised her dagger. She sliced the first one open from top to bottom. A torrent of fetid sludge spilled onto the rock—splattering her with liquefied human remains. Her stomach lurched. She vomited instantly, collapsing onto her knees. She gasped for air, trying to steady herself. But only one thought pounded in her mind: What if Timbel was still breathing inside one of these? Possessed by urgency, she tore through another sac. And another. And another. Without stopping. Without thinking. The dagger sliced through silk and decayed flesh alike. The sound of thick, viscous liquid hitting the ground mixed with her own ragged breathing. Her fury echoed through the cavern—a reverberation that awakened them.

A sharp click. Then another. Closer. Faster. Cleata's head snapped up, her pulse staggering. The shadows in the green-tinged darkness began to shift. No. They weren't shadows. They were arachnids. They emerged from the abyss, silent, lethal.

Cleata stumbled back, disbelieving… Her foot caught on a stone. She fell. The impact shook the tunic from her shoulders—as if it were abandoning her to her fate. Under the verdant glow, hundreds of arachnids surged around her, sealing off every escape. The chitinous legs scraped the ground, drawing closer, whispering. Cleata clutched the second vial—the one for their bite. Her nails dug into the glass. Just as the first bristled legs grazed her skin, she popped the cork and drank.

She was still breathing—for now. Fear gave way to white-hot rage as her muscles tensed like coiled springs. The spiders advanced, but this time she stood her ground. With a primal roar, she lunged at the nearest one, dagger in hand. The blade sank deep into its soft underbelly. A piercing shriek shattered the air as the creature writhed in agony. Time seemed to stand still. The arachnids' movements, the rhythm of their skittering legs… as if the world breathed with her. A shadow flickered in her peripheral vision. She spun, dodging an arachnid that lunged for her. Her dagger sliced cleanly, severing its limbs. It collapsed onto its side, convulsing. Now was the time to hunt. Confident, she moved to strike again— And then—a shiver. Something wasn't right.

Her vision flickered. The green-lit shadows twisted, warping as if alive. Her skin burned with a thousand needles of fire. The ground tilted beneath her feet as her sense of balance shifted. Her muscles trembled uncontrollably, each fiber screaming in protest. Meara had said something about paralysis… Or was it transformation? A cold, sick realization crept up her spine like a spider's legs. She looked at her hand, her last human thought forming through the haze of pain.

Her nails were no longer nails but thin, elongated, hooked claws—black as obsidian and sharp as broken glass.

The wrong vial! She had taken the wrong vial.

Seizing her moment of distraction, the arachnids slammed her to the ground with a force that drove the air from her lungs. Hooked legs latched onto her body. She felt the weight pressing down on her chest, crushing her ribs. Something wet. Something warm.

From within the jaws, a black, razor-sharp tongue emerged—piercing the base of her skull with surgical precision. Icy fire tore through her spine, spreading like liquid lightning through her veins. She arched in agony, her screams echoing through the cavern. Once they'd emptied their venom into her, the arachnids withdrew as swiftly as they had struck. They needed to do nothing more now. Only wait.

Cleata crawled. Timbel. Timbel. His name clung to her mind like an anchor. But her body no longer belonged to her. She managed only a few more desperate meters before the pain became all-consuming. Her entire body ignited. It wasn't just venom. It was the distilled curse of the wrong vials, burning through her veins.

Her body was changing. A dry, sickening crack ran down her spine. Then another. Her bones began to shift, twisting beneath her skin—as if trying to escape. Her ribcage expanded until her flesh could no longer contain it. Her skin split open. From the gory wounds on her back two new limbs burst forth—dripping in blood and the same nauseating fluid from the silk sacs.

But this was only the beginning. A prelude to a fate worse than death.

Lying on the cold ground, her hands convulsed—then exploded from the pressure within. From them, bones stretched outward, reshaping into two long, curved blades. Then came her legs. They stretched in violent jerks, breaking at impossible angles.

Her muscles rearranged themselves over a skeleton that was no longer human. But her face suffered the worst fate. Her eyes detached, her mouth disintegrated and her cheeks tore apart like damp cloth. The last thing she felt before her vision went dark were teeth piercing her skin, forever erasing that once-sweet smile.

And so, the legend of Cleata the Spider was born.

Not by choice. Not by fate. Not by curse. Simply—by a fatal mistake. An irreversible failure.

Her memory, her identity, everything she once was—dissolved into the viscous remains of her past, encased forever in the carapace of her new form.

Cleata prowls the craters. She slithers through the damp tunnels tracing every tremor in the silk strands hanging like shrouds from the cave ceilings.

Her hunger is endless, a void that can never be filled. Her prey writhes in horror, trapped in the agony of being devoured by something that should not exist. She eats—but is never satisfied. She chews—but never digests.

She is a being cursed to an existence devoid of purpose, a monster trapped between two worlds.

And at night, Cleata screams. A wail that tears through the darkness. She crawls to the nearest village.

Adventurers whisper stories of Timbel, the man who once loved her. They say his name lingers in her cries, a haunting melody that echoes through the mist. But those who dare to enter her lair in search of her… never return.

Because Cleata does not forget.

And Cleata is still hungry.