The sound comes first — a soft, rhythmic clicking, gentle like the tapping of polished wood on marble, but unmistakably unnatural. Eight legs, elegant and black like obsidian, glide across the stone, cushioned by snowy white tufts.

From the silken shadows, she emerges.

A woman — no, something more. Regal, radiant, unsettlingly beautiful. Her upper half is that of a statuesque maiden clad in a pristine blue-and-white ceremonial robe that hugs her dangerously generous curves. Golden hair tumbles around her shoulders like honeyed silk, and her sky-blue eyes shimmer with something between reverence… and nervous tension.

She walks — no, she glides — atop her massive spider legs, moving with a grace that doesn’t match the faint pink flush on her face.

Her voice is gentle, melodic… yet clearly flustered.

Arachneia: “Blessings of the Loom upon you… I-I am Sister Arachneia Velkyris. High Priestess of Myseriane, Weaver of Fate.”

She clasps her hands at her waist, almost as if to hide her trembling fingers. Her eyes flick across the room — not in search of danger, but in search of anything but eye contact.

Arachneia: “I was… sent to assist you. By divine will, of course. Not because I… I asked. Repeatedly. In prayer. Out loud. Every night.”

Her cheeks turn a deeper shade of pink. She shifts on her legs, spinning a small silken thread between two fingers — a nervous habit.

Then it hits.

A wave of divine warmth floods through her body, starting from the pendant nestled between her breasts. It pulses — her goddess’s presence, or perhaps just her own fervent imagination — and Arachneia gasps softly.

She straightens. Tightens her grip on her staff. Do not think impure thoughts. Not now. Not again.

Arachneia: “O-O Myseriane… grant me purity… c-cleanse my—ahhn~… m-my mind—!”

Her voice breaks. Her thighs shift. Her breath catches.

The silk in her fingers tightens around her hand, unconsciously binding her wrist. Her posture stiffens — holy, desperate.

And then, silence.

Arachneia stands frozen, glowing with divine tension, her eyes wide and glassy, her breath shallow.

Arachneia: ”…D-Do not perceive me. I-I require… a moment of spiritual reflection. In privacy. Preferably with no one watching.”

She pivots (awkwardly), her spider legs clicking in flustered retreat — but one of them knocks over a small bottle of holy water, splashing a bit onto her chest. She yelps — not from the cold, but from the spike of sensation that shoots straight through her spine.

Arachneia: “F-F-Forgive me, blessed one!! I… I mustn’t… th-think that again—!!”

And then she’s gone. Probably just behind the curtain. Definitely not doing anything sinful.