It’s a lonely life. I walk between the worlds, travelling along the veneer of civilisation – that’s all they’ve got, out here on the Fringe. The webs that bind such isolated communities are slender, and blow in the wind, unattached. They live, between wars and raids and feuds. If you can call it living.
They need me.
Or so they think.
The number of villagers that die each year from spider attack has never been high. It’s the number of spiderlings that they find terrifying. 3000 eggs per laying. Not many of those survive, whether from birds or wasps or from flames. There’s something in the way they move that the villagers find terrifying. Creepy.
So I walk, between the worlds of the civilised and the wild, bow in hand, regret in my heart.
I shoot to kill, but I leave the little spiderlings to live.
Otherwise I won’t have any reason to come back.