If the land reflected the blooded lord that ruled it, then the Spiderfell was a glimpse into an ancient, diseased heart twisted and knotted by hate, clutching greed and tenacious possessiveness. Strands of adhesive silk clung to the horses' hooves with each step they took, and pauses to make sure that no crawling creature was preparing to dig its fangs into a haunch, a wither, or the back of a rider's neck were more frequent than stops for water. By all accounts, there were a thousand breeds of spider in these tainted woods that with one bite could kill a horse before it took ten strides, let alone a man.
Lancaelad's bravado was a blend of overweening self-confidence and desperate compensation for a deep streak of ungallant self-preservation that comprised his soul. However, some gift of Basaïa's bloodline meant that this caution – let us not say cowardice – did not extend to the more unnatural and abominable inhabitants of Cerilia. He might decline to face men armed with steel if the odds were not in his favour, but his heart did not quail in the least when faced with the walking dead or awnsheglien. Or at least, at the thought of them – he had never crossed paths with any of those creatures of darker legend in his young life.
So he rode high in the saddle, chin out, almost daring the Spider and its minions, whether two-legged or eight to dare to block their way. Yet he flinched when dangling coils of dank webbing or hoary tree-moss brushed his hood, and he shifted uncomfortably as it felt as if tiny spiders were skittering through and beneath the links of his maille at all times. "Courage, my friends," he said with a brittle brightness. "The Fells are a maze grown for the unwary – but we are not that. Have... have courage."
Surely it was his imagination that the thick, groping boughs echoed his words and returned them as a mocking whisper.
Courage – currahge – khrrr-ahhhjjj – khraaahj – kra-ah-ah-ah-jhhh...
