It had all started with a few simple words.
The week had been a long, restless one. It was a task of complete patience, that ritual -- by the third day, voice had fallen into hoarse, labored whispers, and his stomach was gargling relentlessly for the fine wines of his heritage. But still he wove, and still he spoke. With every pharse, though, he could feel the ritual's end coming just that much closer. They were assenting to him, agreeing to his terms, and harvesting their brethern masses at his will.
On the sixth sleepless day, the parasite was harboring his every function -- it was feeding him with its power, was renewing a weary mind through delerious promises. Numbers had grown from hundreds to millions, and still, he had been speaking. Questions and bartering would not end until the final day. .. If it did, progress would be shattered. He would be left to enact the summoning from its very beginning, and the dark elf would be loathe to reduce himself to such failure.
On the seventh day, however -- the versary of a week -- he had murmured that last word, and the earth above him shuttered with agreement.
Millions upon millions of them were rushing to the surface from where, over the course of the week, they had prepared themselves for their sacrificial flight. One moment, the night had been peaceful and serene -- holy, almost. The next, a storm of black was arising from the cracks in the soil and the niches in long-dead trees. Arachnid whirlwinds tore through Myrken Wood, were borne in the midst of forests and the flats of plains. A plague of arachnids revealed themselves from every nook and every crack, not pausing to bite or feed, but instead to converge upon the closest rendezvous -- it was there that, without hesitation, they were thrown into the sky, streaming streaks of webbing in their wake.
Not a droplet of rain fell during the storm, but it was almost unnatural, the way that those countless spiders were hurtled into the night sky.
Strands of threadbare filament were woven together thousands of feet above Myrken's fields and villages, and jagged legs were interlocked within one another. The art was impossibly perfect -- the numbers of the disgorged spiders were caught amidst their own webs, and a canopy of black soon stole away a glimpse of the moon and its loyal stars. There was no silver radiance, nor were there gossamer clouds to be seen against the halo of Luna herself. There was nothing -- the Mryken Wood firmament had been drowned in an organic, teeming shadow of black.
Daylight became the consistency of night -- there were
the vagrant streaks of sunlight here and there, but heat was exchanged for humid coolness. The flies were already starting to swarm in larger amounts, without their dreaded spider pursuers. Weevils and caterpillars began an uninterrupted feast upon crop-leaves and bushels.
Quincy, the paladin -- they had both been poisoned. Now, night had fallen, and blue skies did not rise -- it was the newest chapter, and Audmathus would turn its pages with blood-stained fingers, just to keep writing in that thick, morbid ink.