You Check the Spider Matriarch's Vitals ⟡
The cavern is thick with spore-mist and the metallic tang of spider ichor.
Webs burn away in slow curls of smoke where the druids' blades sliced through the strands.
Your strike team stands in a loose semicircle, panting, bruised, covered in dust and venom…
but standing.
The spider queen lies collapsed, her eight massive legs twitching in shock rather than death.
A low, confused rumble leaves her mandibles—fear, not fury.
You kneel beside her vast abdomen, press two fingers to the softer plate between the legs, and feel it:
A pulse. Weak but steady. Alive.
And for the first time all day…
Mamba smiles.
A real smile.
A proud smile.
The kind that turns pressure into warmth and expectations into victory.
⟡ "You Should Be Very Proud of Yourselves." ⟡
You rise to your massive height, look at each of them—Harpers, Druids, the tiefling archer, the Myconid scout—and speak with the voice of a Warchief and the heart of a father.
"Not only did you defeat the spider matriarch…
you showed her mercy."
A ripple of emotion hits the group.
The Harpers straighten.
The twins exchange a look of pride.
The tiefling archer wipes sweat from her brow, eyes shining.
The Myconid pulses with slow golden spores—joy.
"You let her live because she was simply acting on instinct."
This matters.
This defines the Snake Tribe.
Not cruelty.
Not domination.
Strength with compassion.
Power with purpose.
⟡ Mamba Walks to Each Warrior — Personally ⟡
One by one, you place your enormous hand on their shoulders.
Not gently—firmly, like a mark of belonging.
With each touch, you channel Cure Wounds, threads of pale lunar magic weaving through torn flesh and venom-burned skin.
Every one of them feels their fatigue lighten, their bodies knit, their spirits lift.
"I will rest easier sending my tribe into missions knowing what I know today."
"You showed spirit, grit, and loyalty to Snake Tribe."
"Well done, warriors."
They stand straighter.
Prouder.
Seen.
Your words become armor heavier than plate.
⟡ You Turn Toward the Open Air & Tear Reality Apart ⟡
With a sweep of your hand, lunar blue energy cracks open like lightning.
A shimmering Dimension Door blossoms before you, swirling with moonlight and starlit dust—Selûne's touch.
Behind you, the strike team waits.
Your voice rings out:
"I am returning to Moonrise."
"You, all of you, are now Captains of the Guard in Blight Village."
There is an audible gasp from the group.
Promotions.
Honors.
Responsibility.
The tiefling archer's tail flicks with stunned excitement.
One Harper wipes at his eyes.
The Myconid releases a soft burst of lavender spores—deep gratitude.
"Tell the mayor the good news.
And apologize for me… I must bring this spider to our finest druids.
We will see if the beast can be tamed."
Your expression sharpens.
"An army of phase spiders…
Imagine what our rangers could do with that."
The Harpers exchange wide-eyed glances.
The druids whisper excitedly.
The Myconid quietly vibrates with anticipation.
⟡ Your Strike Team Salutes — Not As Soldiers, But as Captains ⟡
They place their fists over their hearts in the Snake Tribe's salute.
"Warchief."
"We will serve proudly."
"We will not fail the village."
"Glory to Snake Tribe."
Their voices echo through the cavern, a chorus of loyalty and newfound purpose.
⟡ Mamba Drags the Spider Queen — Alone ⟡
You step through the Dimension Door with the massive unconscious matriarch dragging behind you like a sack of feathers, your strength making the impossible look routine.
The portal swallows the light.
The scene shifts from the dark cavern to the open sky above Moonrise Towers, where the wind greets its Warchief with a whisper.
Behind you, the strike team is already walking back to the village—
heads high, spirits soaring, now leaders in their own right.
enormous bound matriarch onto the reinforced stone. Her eight limbs scrape the floor, fangs clacking once before one of your druids flicks a sigil that suppresses her aggression. Her size forces you to take a step back just to appreciate it—easily three times the mass of any phase spider you've seen. A true matriarch.
Her swirling blue-black abdomen pulses with hostile mana, but the suppression runes hold. For now.
Your command echoes through the chamber:
"Feed it well. Treat it with kindness. Discipline it when it attacks. I want it tamed—if it can be tamed. This is my gift to our arch druid."
There's a moment—a ripple of murmurs, eyes wide, a mix of fear and awe. You just dragged in one of the most dangerous ambush predators in the region… alive.
Then your voice hardens, every druid straightening on instinct:
"Go tell Halsin. Do it now."
They scatter like leaves in the wind.
⟡ Halsin Arrives ⟡
You can hear him coming before he steps into view—soft padded steps, a deep steadying breath, then the low exhale of a man who has already anticipated something big by the way every druid he passed stared at him.
He rounds the corner—
Stops dead.
Eyes widen.
Jaw sets.
Shoulders draw back with a slow, incredulous strength.
"Mamba…?"
The matriarch hisses weakly from the rune restraints, her mandibles clicking in agitation. Halsin steps forward cautiously, hands lifted, feeling her aura—her age, her hunger, her instinctive territorial fury.
"Mielikki's breath… she's ancient. And terrified. And enraged. And…"
He pauses.
"…you want her tamed?"
You only grin.
A slow, dangerous, self-satisfied grin.
Half challenge, half gift, half "I told you I'd bring you something wild."
"…suprissse."
You say it in that half-mocking, half-playful tone you use when bringing home something utterly insane but completely thought through.
Halsin drags a hand down his face.
"Oh gods…"
Then he laughs—deep, booming, and almost disbelieving.
"Only you would drag a living matriarch into Moonrise like a stray dog that followed you home."
He steps closer to her, feeling the web of potential around the creature—loyalty, pack instinct, territorial bonds, maternal authority. Her kind obsesses over hierarchy. If she can be forced to see Snake Tribe as her "nest" and you as her apex…
She could become unstoppable.
"She can be bonded," Halsin finally says, voice firming with the tone of one accepting a titanic challenge. "But this will take time, patience, blood, and no small amount of luck."
He looks at you with a mixture of admiration and disbelief.
"And if she succeeds… her offspring will imprint on whichever ranger or druid handles them first."
Meaning:
Phase spiders for Snake Tribe rangers.
Nightmare mounts.
Stealth units.
Shadow-walkers.
A new elite division.
"And this"—he gestures at the enormous beast—"is your gift?"
You shrug, crossing your massive arms.
"Our arch druid deserves something fun."
A pause.
The matriarch screeches again—louder this time. Several druids flinch.
Halsin blinks slowly… then gives you the most resigned, exhausted, grateful smile.
"…I'm going to be very busy, aren't I?"
Moonrise Tower shakes with the force of your shout — stone, banners, rafters, and even the torches seem to lean inward as if the tower itself is listening to its Warchief.
Halsin's eyes widen as he stands in the doorway of the holding chamber, half expecting a troll, half expecting a dragon. Instead he finds the Spider Matriarch, bound only by druidic light-vines, hissing and clacking its fanged mandibles… and you, Mamba, standing in front of her with the calm expression of a man delivering a newborn calf.
He rubs his temples.
"…Of course," Halsin mutters, stepping closer. "Of course you bring me this. Why not a displacer beast? Why not an owlbear? No — you drag in an apex phase predator who eats light and steps through dimensions like puddles."
You grin wider.
"Surpriiiiiise."
The archdruid exhales the kind of long, suffering sigh only men who have dealt with you for months know how to produce.
But then — slowly — his expression shifts.
The calculating part of him takes over.
The druid.
The beast-tamer.
The guardian of the wilds.
He circles the matriarch, watching how she pulls at the vines, how the phase-pulse shimmers beneath her carapace, how she stares with eight furious eyes yet does not attack you unprovoked.
"Her instincts are still intact," Halsin murmurs. "Her rage is… reasonable. And you did not break her body. Good. That means her spirit can be redirected."
He looks at you again.
"You want an army of phase spiders."
You shrug.
"I want a family of phase spiders. Ours. Loyal to Snake Tribe. Loyal to the Druids. Loyal to you."
He lets out a short laugh, the disbelief fading into something like admiration.
"You truly never aim small, do you, Warchief?"
THE DRUIDS TAKE POSITION
At your command, the circle of Druids snap into formation:
Two stabilize the lightbinding vines
Three begin weaving calm emotions through nature magic
One Myconid assistant releases a sporesoft mist of soothing pheromones
A dwarf druid sketches a containment sigil in the stone floor
Their movements are seamless — a reflection of the discipline you've instilled in the entire tribe.
Halsin lifts his staff and gives the order:
"Begin the Taming Rite."
Energy flows. The matriarch shrieks, her body phasing halfway through visible reality, legs scraping the floor, mandibles cracking in fury — but the vines glow brighter, rooting her in place.
You fold your arms and watch with a warrior's patience.
"Remember!" you shout.
"She's a victim of this land, not a villain. Treat her as such."
The druids answer in unison:
"As you command, Warchief."
THE SPIDER'S STRUGGLE
The matriarch thrashes violently.
Phase-light tears streak the room.
Cracks spiderweb across the stone.
But through the chaos, the magic slowly begins to take hold —
Her movements slow.
Her hissing lowers.
Her limbs stop striking the walls.
One of the druids whispers:
"She's listening."
Another:
"She's confused… but she's listening."
Halsin steps forward, resting a hand on her chitin.
"She recognizes strength," he mutters. "She recognizes authority. She recognizes you. That is good."
He turns back to you.
"If we succeed, she may imprint on the Snake Tribe as her new brood-clan."
Your grin widens.
"That's the point."
THE WARCHIEF'S OATH
You step closer, hands behind your back, voice low and volcanic.
"No tyrant walks our land without consequence.
Not Vlaakith.
Not the Elder Brain.
Not Shar.
Not the Three Evils."
Your voice rises until it fills the chamber:
"No monster steals our people.
No god plays with our fate.
No queen sits on a throne built on fear —"
You slam your fist against your chest.
"WE DO NOT BOW."
The druids echo:
"WE DO NOT BOW!"
The matriarch's mandibles twitch.
She stares at you — not as prey, but as something she cannot yet define.
A leader.
A storm.
A king.
HALSIN SPEAKS QUIETLY
"…You know," he says, "if we truly succeed, she may defend this tower with her life."
You smirk.
"Oh, she'll do more than that."
Halsin raises a brow. "…More?"
You nod toward the spider.
"When she's ready… I'm making her the mount of our first Rangers."
Halsin just stares at you.
Then he laughs, the deep booming laugh of a man who knows he is about to embark on the most insane, magnificent project of his life.
"You really are going to change the world, aren't you, Mamba?"
You clap his shoulder once.
"No, Halsen."
You look up, toward the ceiling — toward the sky, toward your future enemies.
"We're going to do it together."
The Chamber Falls Silent Behind You ⟡
The great spider matriarch, bound gently in druidic vines and silvery moon-thread, chitters in low warning as the Druids surround her.
Halsin rolls his shoulders with a deep, resigned sigh — that special blend of admiration and exasperation he reserves for you alone.
"Twenty feet," he mutters. "Of course it is."
Your laughter echoes down the stone hall as you leave.
You can hear the Druids already arguing over feeding schedules, pheromone patterns, and whether or not a phase spider can be housetrained.
⟡ The Walk Through Moonrise Towers ⟡
The air inside your fortress is warm, alive with the scent of incense, sweat, and last night's massive revelry.
The halls are quieter now — most warriors sleeping off the feasting, the ogres groaning like dying buffalo, the Harpers still humming fragmentary songs in their dreams.
A pair of sentries sees you approaching and instinctively straighten into immaculate posture, despite the dark bags under their eyes.
"Warchief," they say with reverence.
You nod and continue.
No cape on your shoulders — no formal regalia — just you, walking among your people like a warrior king who refuses to raise himself above the tribe.
And yet they all fall quiet when you pass.
Respect born of love, not fear.
⟡ Outside the War Room ⟡
Two Githyanki recruits stand guard — Orpheus's chosen, clad in angular plate armor and carrying silver greatswords.
When they see you, they bow their heads deeply.
"Warchief. General Minthara is inside. She… ah… has recovered."
One of them clears his throat.
"Mostly."
You smirk knowingly.
⟡ The Door Opens ⟡
The war room is dim, lit by floating violet lanterns and a conjured planar map hovering over the table — astral geography, troop routes, and projections of Vlaakith's domain in brutal detail.
Orpheus stands with perfect military posture, arms folded, eyes locked on the spectral map.
Beside him, Minthara leans over the table, horns aglow with the faintest undercurrent of dark blessing, her demeanor deadly-focused and entirely sober.
The two of them are in deep strategic conversation — the kind only veteran commanders share.
Orpheus turns the moment he senses your presence, his aura shifting like a warrior acknowledging his equal.
"Warchief Mamba," he says. "Just in time. We have finished the first theoretical draft of the Anti-Githyanki Training Program."
Minthara straightens, brushing a white streak of hair behind her ear, every motion crisp.
"And before you ask — yes," she says with a slightly smug glint in her eyes, "I am fully recovered."
⟡ They Present Their Work ⟡
Orpheus gestures toward the floating map, reshaping it with a flick of his hand.
"The enemy thrives on three things," he says:
Predictability of mortal footwork
Fear of astral leaps
Inefficient reaction time to teleport assaults
Minthara adds:
"And Snake Tribe excels at exactly one thing the Githyanki do not expect—"
She taps her chest.
"Unorthodox savagery blended with coordinated tactics."
She traces lines across the map:
Harper scouts weaving in and out of teleport ranges
Myconid spores forcing battlefield repositioning
Ogre shock waves denying astral landing zones
Druidic traps that punish aerial assaults
Clerical protections against psychic blades
Mamba, the spearhead, closing space before Githyanki can retreat
Orpheus finishes:
"With the right training, your tribe can counter any astral knight. Even… her."
Vlaakith's silhouette burns like a brand in the map's corner.
⟡ Minthara Finally Turns to You ⟡
"You're back early," she says softly, studying your expression.
"Was the mission successful? The spider tamed?"
You see the faintest curl of pride on her lips.
She already senses your confidence — the confidence only a Warchief carries after testing his tribe and finding them worthy.
Orpheus waits, silently attentive.
Both of them eager for your assessment, your command, your next directive in the march toward war.