It was to a changed nest that my spore-puppets returned, lugging their venom-filled gift behind them. Where once there had been a whirl of activity, with bad-thing after bad-thing busy shoring up its defenses, there was silence; an air of hopelessness, almost, palpable in the air. Of hunger.

Many of the hunters had never returned, joining the ranks of my spore-puppets instead. Those that did came back with either nothing at all, or just enough to be snatched away by the strongest members of the nest.

It was like a new nest entirely, one fallen into the torpor of unmet necessities. My spore-puppets had helped me realize that the Darkweavers were even more vulnerable to starvation than I had first realized; the many-legged bad-things required not just energy to sustain their large bodies, but also to produce their threads. And I had taken away their food just after most of them had expended vast amounts of energy on quickly producing threads for the nest.

It was little wonder that they were suffering so quickly.

From a high vantage point on the wall, reached by carefully forming a wall-crack through which I could slither upwards with [The Golem’s Fading Heart] before poking back through again, I was able to watch. [Ambusher’s Vision] let me pick out the forms of my gathered puppets; for the most part, they surrounded the nest, positioning themselves - being positioned by me, really - all around the nest. It wouldn’t do to send so many back at once, especially not with the way that many of them were visibly beginning to fall apart.

There were even a few that I doubted would last longer than the coming struggle itself. Those would be the frontline of the assault, the first to give their lives for the Great Core. I sent out a thought-hiss to each of their number, having the spore-roots within them - and now, partly outside them - flex minutely. A few moved both less and more than I’d hoped, limbs twitching in a way that I hadn’t intended, and I mentally marked them.

They would be the first to go - but for the moment, I had them hold still. Their time would come. Hopefully before they fell apart; one of them in particular was about to lose a leg.

Then again, they had seven more, and I refused to mourn a lost leg on principle.

As the four spore-puppets that had been sent into the nest itself finally came closer to the interior of the many-legged bad-things’ lair, a few of their kin clambered from their homes; they moved with a placidity that had been lacking when I previously observed them, one that I knew was born not from calm, but from necessity.

There just wasn’t the energy to spare.

Despite that, their bodies visibly reacted at the sight of the corpse-sac that trailed behind my spore-puppets, tilting towards the messy threads like mana to water.

They were drawn to it. Wanted it. Needed it.

And it had been denied them.

Whether by scent-taste or something else, it wasn’t long before the largest of the bad-things had been roused from its slumber. From the greatest of the stone-spikes, it came, the dangerous many-legged bad-thing towering over those that surrounded it. Unlike most of the others, the largest of the Darkweavers seemed untouched by my efforts; its movements were nimble and swift, lacking the need to conserve energy that the others had.

Most.

Three more walked with nearly the same apparent health, trailing right behind the largest bad-thing. They, like the bad-thing they followed, were larger than the others. Not quite as large, but large enough that I could tell, even from a distance. The most dangerous bad-things of the nest.

Stopping before my spore-puppets, the lead bad-thing reared up on its back legs, lifting up its body as it raised forelimbs in a threat display. Dangerous jaws and wickedly-sharp forelimbs were exposed, each black enough that only the less light-dependent view of [Ambusher’s Vision] let me observe them. They hovered in place, as if more than ready to strike downwards if my puppets chose to challenge the larger bad-thing. A notable change from the cohesive-seeming structure of the nest only a little while earlier.

Without even a Lesser Core to guide them, the bad-things had fallen apart in the face of my challenge. It wasn’t something that would work against greater enemies, ones held together through misguided faith in their creators, but it had worked against the many-legged bad-things.

They were only what their Core had made them, after all. Too many legs. Too few thoughts. There was only one way this could have gone.

A thought-hiss later, my spore-puppets appeared to cower, falling back and ducking low before scurrying away.

The larger bad-things moved in to feast, leaning down and sinking their fangs into the corpse-sac. Beneath the assault of the four bad-things, the threads that bound it rippled and twisted. The flesh within was devoured - and, hopefully, my venom with it.

I held my breath, waiting.

I hadn’t used venom this way before, having always injected it into my enemies in the past, and wasn’t sure how effective it would be. But with my increased size increasing my venom stores in turn, I had my hopes.

One of the bad-things, the smallest of the four, suddenly stopped eating. It stood tall, then stumbled backwards on now-shaking legs. Another, smaller bad-thing, tried to take its place. The disoriented and dying bad-thing lunged, either as punishment or warning. I didn’t know which.

It didn’t matter.

A thought-hiss went out, calling to my spore-puppets. Those already inside the nest lurched forward, throwing themselves in the still-feeding bad-things’ direction. Already alerted by the scuffle between other bad-things, they were quick to react, and even quicker to show their dominance over the other members of the nest. My spore-puppets, so much smaller and already beginning to break down under [Spore Puppeteer]’s not-so-gentle touch, provided little challenge. Only two things allowed them to stand any chance at all - their complete and total disregard for their own lives, and the venom that had found a home in their enemies’ stomachs.

It still wasn’t enough. One by one, my three spore-puppets, once so much healthier than the others that served the Great Core, were reduced to fragmented limbs and bloody bodies; blue-gold roots began to reveal themselves through the gaps and chinks in their flesh, the splash of color prominent against the otherwise-dark creatures. I set them to move as best I could, sending out a thought-hiss that allowed a dodge here and a strike there.

But, in the end, they were just too weak. Of the many blows that my spore-puppets managed to land, hardly any managed to spread their spores. There wasn’t near enough to quickly take over the bad-things’ flesh, even with [Verdure Parasite] pulling on all my surrounding spore-roots.

Luckily, that was only part of the plan.

The other came just afterwards as, maddened by hunger, a fight, and the sight of unfinished food before their very eyes, the watching bad-things cast aside their fear of the strongest bad-things. They rushed for the corpse-sac, not knowing that it had been a trap all along. And if they had?

They might have done it anyway. To not eat was death. To eat was to live. It was an easy decision.

That didn’t make it a safe one, however, as there was something important they were ignoring. My spore-puppets, looking like kin save for the lines of blue and gold that traced down their wounds, had just betrayed the largest of the bad-things. Forced them to defend themselves. Forced them to fight.

And now, swaying and addled by consuming my venom, the strongest of the bad-things would be forced to think that it was happening again. They struck out, fangs and sharp-tipped limbs moving to intercept the newest arrivals.

As the slaughter commenced, my spore-puppets, waiting at the edges, finally began to move in.

Zendran

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